Dallas Fire & Rescue: Brave Hearts (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Maddy Barone

  The medic who had saved her life in Iraq came after her. “Wait. Isabel, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I have to go to work.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Dusty offered.

  “No!” she said, horrified by the high pitched wobble in her voice.

  Jorge stood up, scowling at the other man. “Is this one bothering you?” he asked in Spanish.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I just need to leave now. Inez is waiting for me.” She gave Dusty a little wave, and hurried out with all the speed she could muster. A glance through the window as she rushed along the sidewalk showed her that Jorge was standing solidly in Dusty’s path. She felt a quick welling of gratitude to Jorge mixed with shame for brushing Dusty off.

  The further away from the coffee shop she got, the more ashamed she felt. Why had she run away from him as though he were an ax murderer? He had asked her out. A man who looked like some Native American god had asked her to the ballet, and did she politely refuse? No, she went crazy. No wonder she was still single at thirty-three. Her prosthetic leg, normally comfortable, rubbed almost painfully against her stump as she all but ran up the street, the weight of her laptop bag dragging on her shoulder. She was crazy and she had only one leg. As Carmen pointed out, Isabel had never been pretty. It was hard enough for a one-legged woman who woke screaming from nightmares to find a husband. A one-legged, crazy veteran who wasn’t even pretty had no chance at all.

  Some days she hated Carmen even more than she hated herself.

  Two blocks away, she paused for a moment to catch her breath. Ballet? She smothered a half-hysterical giggle. He liked the ballet? Dusty Wolfe looked like the kind of man who would be more comfortable at home on a couch with a beer and a bag of chips. No, that wasn’t true. She shook her head, remembering the way his T-shirt stretched over a chest and belly so perfectly honed he could have been a model. If he could guzzle beer, shovel in chips, lay around, and still look like that, she would have to hate him.

  She continued on for the last block at a slightly slower pace, but she was still sweaty and winded when she closed the jangling door of the shop behind her. It was empty of customers.

  “Isa? Where have you been?” her sister demanded, coming out of the tiny office behind the checkout counter. The frown of annoyance shifted subtly to one of concern. “Niña, are you alright?”

  She wiped her forehead. “Yes. I lost track of time and hurried to get back.”

  “On your leg? You shouldn’t run,” her sister scolded. “Look at you, red in the face and sweating.”

  Isabel tried to hide how winded she was when she moved to set her laptop behind the counter. “It’s not so bad. It’s just so warm today.”

  “Hm.” Inez didn’t look convinced. She plucked some tissues out of the box and extended them. “It’s only the beginning of May. It’s not more than eighty degrees.”

  Isabel dabbed at her forehead and upper lip. Inez was only eight years older than she was, but after their parents had died in a car crash, she had been more like a mother than a sister. Like any other mother, Inez could smell a lie at a hundred paces.

  “You better go eat your supper now,” Isabel suggested. “I’ll watch the store until you’re done.”

  After Inez left, Isabel busied herself straightening the yarn on the shelves, readying the classroom for tonight’s class, and helping a couple of customers. It seemed no matter how busy she kept herself, she couldn’t get Dusty out of her thoughts. That skein of sock yarn that had fallen on the floor was the same navy blue as his T-shirt. The large wall calendar in the classroom had a parade of images from Texas history running along the top edge. The Native American chief at the left corner looked a little like him. And there was the metal bar that ran from her knee to the shoe in place of the leg she’d lost in Iraq. That reminded her of him most of all.

  She sat in the chair at the head of the classroom table, staring blindly at her prosthesis. It didn’t seem strange anymore. In the past decade, she’d learned to accept the loss, and rarely even thought of it. People often stared, but it didn’t bother her now as it had in that first awful year. She tended to wear pants and long skirts, but that was to make others comfortable, not to hide her leg.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the jangling of the bell on the door, and Ana Gonzalez, one of the women in her class, came in with a smile, and a big sparkly bag over her arm.

  “Sit, sit,” Ana said when Isabel began to get up. “I’m early. Now that I know how to make socks, I’m going to buy more yarn and knit lots of them. Do you see what my grandsons gave me? Isn’t it beautiful?”

  With a proud smile, the woman plopped the sparkly bag on the table. Isabel was sure she’d never seen anything gaudier. Sunflowers, or something that vaguely resembled sunflowers, made of bright rhinestones glittered against the orange leather of the bag. It bordered on hideous.

  “Alvaro and Antonio are such good boys,” Isabel said, neatly avoiding a lie about the bag’s beauty.

  “Eighteen now, and earning their own money.” The older woman smoothed a loving hand over the bag. “And they know how much I love to knit, so they bought me this to carrying my knitting in. And they gave me some money to buy more yarn.”

  Beauty was in the eye of the beholder. “Such good boys,” Isabel murmured.

  “Now, you just sit back,” Ana said. “I know where the yarn is. I’ll just do a little browsing until class begins.”

  Class went well that evening. Isabel loved teaching knitting. It gave her satisfaction to see how the students had progressed. Some students did better than others. Some students gave up and never came back. Knitting was a joy for Isabel, and she felt like a failure when students didn’t find joy in it too. This class had been small, only five students, but every one of them had faithfully attended every class, and all had completed a sock. As she ushered them out, she felt both a pang of regret that it was over.

  “My dear,” said Ana Gonzalez. “What is the next class you are teaching?”

  Isabel didn’t have to look at the schedule. “Well, tomorrow I’ll be starting a beginning knitting cycle. Knitting 101, Knitting 102, and Knitting 103.”

  “Yes, yes, my granddaughter will be attending. I know she’ll like that.”

  Isabel hoped the girl would. At thirteen, Anita was beginning to notice boys. Learning to knit might not be as much fun for the girl as Ana expected. “I’m looking forward to having her in class.”

  “What else are you teaching?”

  “That’s all for the summer. Of course, we still have Knit Night on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and open knitting times whenever anyone wants to drop in. Inez will be teaching a Shetland lace class starting in late September, and later in the fall she will be doing a Fair Isle sweater knit along.”

  Ana considered. “Maybe I’d like to try the lace class. I won’t know for sure until later.”

  Inez nodded at the older woman. “I’ll be happy to save you a spot.”

  After the door was closed and locked, Isabel started cleaning while Inez counted the till. The familiar ritual of unplugging and cleaning the coffee pot, dusting, and vacuuming went quickly. The sisters met at the front door, but when Isabel reached for the knob, Inez held her hand out to stop her.

  “Not so fast, Isa,” Inez said. “There’s something on your mind. I saw it every time I looked in on the class. Anything you want to share? You know my shoulder’s always available for you.”

  Isabel let her hand drop. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You always know, don’t you? It’s nothing, really.” The brass doorknob needed a good cleaning. Isabel focused on that to avoid her sister’s eyes. “The medic in Iraq? The one who patched me up enough for medevac?”

  “Si. What of him?”

  The words were the merest breath, so quiet Isabel had to guess what she said. Isabel shot her sister a quick glance and saw concern deepen the lines around Inez’s eyes and mouth. She gave her a quick, reassuring smile, but her lips felt cold
and trembled. She pressed them together hard before continuing.

  “I saw him tonight while I was eating supper.’

  There was a long silence while Inez searched her face with anxious eyes. “It was the same man? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. We spoke.”

  Concern turned to protective anger. “Did he do something to upset you?”

  “No, no. Of course not.” Isabel shook her head. “It was nothing like that.”

  “Then what?”

  Isabel shrugged, looking at the doorknob again. “I guess seeing him reminded me of… I don’t know. Everything, I guess. I thought I had put it behind me, but when I saw him I remembered the pain, and the blood, and everything I lost.”

  “Oh, niña.” Inez squeezed her upper arm. “That’s normal. Of course you would remember those things. But don’t think of it. Leave the past in the past.” The sympathetic smile turned playful. “So, is he as handsome as you remembered?”

  “What?” Isabel’s mouth fell open. “Whoever said he was handsome?”

  “You did. When you were in the hospital in San Antonio you told me about the handsome medic who saved your life on the road in Iraq.”

  The memory of it to came back to her. She had been in the hospital bed trying to ignore the phantom pain in her missing leg. Pain would not ruin a precious visit from family. Poor Inez had been so horrified by the sight of her that Isabel had done her best to distract her by telling her of the handsome medic who’d been assigned to accompany the convoy.

  “Well, was he?”

  She couldn’t help it. Isabel laughed. “As handsome? No. More handsome. I think he’s one of those men who looks better with age. Back then, he had a soft, pretty, baby face. Now his face is strong. I would certainly say he’s more handsome now than he was then.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.” Inez’s eyebrows tilted playfully. “And what did you and your even-more-handsome-now savior talk about?”

  Words popped out without her meaning for them to. “He asked me out.”

  “Really?” Inez beamed. “Wonderful! Where are you going? When?”

  Isabel watched her hand fiddling with the laptop case shoulder strap. She made herself look up. “I’m not.”

  “What?” It was almost comical, the way the delight drained from her sister’s face. “But why not?” she wailed.

  Settling the laptop more securely over her shoulder, Isabel opened the door. “He had tickets to the ballet tonight. I had to tell him I was busy.”

  “Oh.” Inez followed her out of the shop and waited while she turned the key to lock it. “Maybe another time.”

  She gave Inez what she hoped was a cheerful smile. “Maybe. Good night.”

  As she walked around the building to the entrance to her apartment above the shop, she muttered, “After the way I ran out, I bet he never wants to see me again.”

  Chapter Three

  The morning sun sifted through the half open blinds onto his face. His clock said it was after nine in the morning. He never slept that late. Dusty rolled onto his back and scrubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could scrub the nightmares out of his mind the same way. It had been a long time since he’d dreamed about Iraq. This dream was familiar, although he hadn’t had it in years.

  It was funny, what came back to the sleeping mind in dreams. The smell of dust and blood, and the weight of the ungodly heat that turned his uniform into a hot, wet blanket clinging to his back -- it had been as real in the dream as it had been that day in Iraq. He could still feel the clutch of horror stopping his heart when his dream-self realized that he was the one who would have to treat the poor MP whose lower leg had sailed over his head into the scrubby brush beside the road.

  Oh, God.

  Dusty sat up in bed and wiped a shaking hand over his sweaty forehead. He had just turned nineteen when he treated his first major casualty in Iraq. Every convoy had been sent out with guards and a medic. It hadn’t been his first convoy, but it was the first one where he had had to exercise his medical training. Every soldier, Marine, and airman knew that IEDs were a fact of life in Iraq. Any patrol or convoy risked rolling over an explosive device. Isabel Ybarra was the first victim he had treated, but not the last.

  He pushed the sheet back and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Not all of the casualties he’d treated survived. Some had died while he was still working to save them. Others had died en route to a field hospital, others died at the hospital. Some, he had learned, had taken their own lives after they returned home. Those deaths weren’t his fault, but sometimes it was hard to believe that. Dreams like this sank like lead into his heart, and he dragged the weight of it around for days before he recovered his good spirits. He could feel it starting now. So much blood and so much death left its mark on him, just like it had on everyone who had gone to Iraq and returned.

  His head lifted. Isabel Ybarra had lived. That was something to comfort himself with. She was alive and well, with a business that she seemed to enjoy, and the support of family. He wanted to see her again. He needed a reminder that this one victim had truly survived and thrived. Maybe he wouldn’t need to talk to her again. Maybe if he just found her and watched her for a little while to see how well she was doing, that would be enough to relieve the heaviness in his heart. How hard could it be to find a woman named Isabel Ybarra?

  Actually, it wasn’t easy to find her. The Dallas phone book was loaded with people named Ybarra. None of them was named Isabel. That didn’t mean anything, since many people had cell phones and weren’t in the phone book. Had she said anything about where she lived? No, he was sure she hadn’t. All she had said was that she and her sister owed a yarn shop. So, all he needed to do was visit her yarn shop. He could always use the excuse of buying his mom a birthday present. Of course, his mom didn’t knit, but he could buy a little yarn.

  He called up a list of Dallas yarn stores on his phone. There were less than a dozen. It wouldn’t take too long to find her. He would take them in the order of nearest to his place to farthest from his place. Dressed in a pair of comfortably worn out jeans and a T-shirt, he headed out to the first shop.

  Never in his life had Dusty Wolfe been inside a yarn store. This place, called Me and Ewe, was in a little strip mall that looked boring on the outside. Inside, the gray, industrial-type pegboard walls were mostly hidden behind a brilliant kaleidoscope of color that dazzled him. There was yarn in bushel baskets mounted on the walls. There was yarn in open bookshelves, yarn hanging from hooks in the pegboard walls, and yarn in baskets on the floor. There was even a glass case with little twisted bunches of yarn displayed like they were fine gems. The price of one tiny little ball of yarn made his eyes pop.

  There was more than just yarn here. Racks of books flanked a long table, and cards of jewelry were hung like fruit on the branches of a wrought iron tree at the checkout counter. Mannequins wearing sweaters, hats, scarves, and shawls were posed around the store. It was overwhelming and oddly fascinating.

  It was empty of patrons, but the saleswoman, a well-dressed older lady with a modern hair style, came forward to greet him. She looked like a well-preserved fashion model, not a grandmotherly knitter type. She kept a polite smile on her thin red lips as she looked him up and down, but Dusty was sure she wondered what on earth a man in jeans and cowboy boots were doing in her yarn store.

  No, she said, there was no Isabel Ybarra there. No, she had never heard of anyone named Isabel Ybarra. Dusty was glad to escape.

  The next store was in an old Victorian home that had been divided into several small businesses that were probably aimed at women. At least, Dusty couldn’t imagine too many of the guys at the station shopping for scarves, handmade jewelry, and perfumed lotions. All those candles and perfumes gave him a headache. It was a relief to go into the yarn shop and close the door behind him.

  The first thing he noticed about this store was the faces of a dozen women turned to stare at him. They were all sitting
on fancy little chairs or floral sofas around a low coffee table, with colorful bits of …something in their hands. Knitting. Yeah, it must be knitting. He scanned their faces quickly, looking for Isabel, but she wasn’t there. The variety of faces surprised him. There was a girl probably in her mid-teens next to a woman who had to be in her eighties, and the other women were anywhere in between. But one wasn’t a woman at all. Dusty closed his mouth, staring at the guy on one of the little couches. With his massive shoulders, tight sleeveless T-shirt, and shaved head, he should have been a bouncer. Tats ran up his bare arms.

  The guy noticed his stare. He held up his blue knitting with a hard, challenging grin. “Like it?”

  “Uh, what is it?”

  The guy stood up, revealing thick hairy legs between a leather kilt and a pair of motorcycle boots. Dusty hoped he wasn’t gaping like a kid. This guy is a knitter? He does it in public? Then again, who was going to say anything to the guy’s face? He made Brutus look delicate. “A sock. See? Here’s the cuff and the heel. I’m working on the foot now.”

  Dusty could see it, now that he had pointed it out. A bunch of tiny sticks were at the end of the sock, with a thin strand of blue running from one stick to a ball of yarn on the couch. “Wow. You are making socks?”

  The awe in Dusty’s voice must have been obvious because the challenge faded into a chuckle. “What can I say? I like hand knit socks. They’re the most comfortable socks I’ve ever worn. If I want ’em, I have to make them myself. My wife refuses to knit any more socks for my dainty little feet.” He tucked the sock under his arm and waggled a booted foot before holding out his hand. “Jeremy Ulmer.”

  Dusty shook automatically. “Dusty Wolfe.”