Fan the Flames (8 page)

“Huh.” That one syllable was loaded with meaning.

Narrowing her eyes, Rory turned her head to look at his profile as he studied his plate. “What?”

His gaze met hers. “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

Her blush returned. She kept holding eye contact, but it was hard. She forced a shrug, hoping it appeared casual. “Not really.”

“Not really?”

Rory answered with another shrug. She turned back to her plate, stabbing her fork into a piece of meat.

After a short silence, he asked, “Have you been on a date before?”

The unchewed food went down with her panicked gulp, painfully scraping her esophagus and making her choke. Ian slapped her on the back with enough force to shove her toward the table and almost plant her face in her plate of food. Coughing, she turned her head to glare at him.

“Is that what you consider first aid, Mr. Fireman?” she rasped between coughs.

He lifted one shoulder. “It worked. You're not choking anymore.”

“No thanks to the body blow,” she said, taking a drink of water. Her throat still ached, but the positive part of almost choking to death was that it had changed the topic, and she didn't have to answer his humiliating question.

“So,
is
this your first date?” he asked, and she almost growled.

“You okay, Rory?” For the second time that evening, she was tempted to kiss someone who'd interrupted them. This time, it was Winston Early, the fire chief, standing by their table. The lines on his usually cheery face drooped a little with concern.

“Fine, Chief,” she told him with a smile. It was impossible to be rude to Chief Early. It'd be like kicking a puppy.

After a close scrutiny of her face, he returned to his normal jolly self. “Good. How've you been? I heard you had an unwelcome visitor a few nights ago.”

Her molars clamped together. Everyone in town seemed to have a direct line into the details of her life. Still, this was the kindly chief, so she tried to sound as nonannoyed as possible. Rory thought she probably partially succeeded. “Yes. I think that's over with, though.” She ignored the quiet scoffing noise from Ian. “Stop into the shop when you get a chance. The Mossberg is ready to be picked up, and I just got in a Colt Peacemaker I think you might like.”

His eyes lit with interest even as he winced. “If I bring home one more, I'll be sleeping on the couch indefinitely. Doris called me a gun hoarder the other day.”

“Okay.” Rory held back a smile. “Feel free to stop in and just look at it, though. It's really pretty. Ivory grips.”

Squeezing his eyes closed as if he were in pain, Early groaned. “You're the devil, Rory Sorenson.” Pivoting around, he took three steps away from their booth before tossing over his shoulder, “I'll be in tomorrow.” Then he stomped back to his table, where Doris was waiting.

Ian huffed a laugh. “You're like the antimarriage counselor.”

“Not really. Doris is okay.” She gave Mrs. Early a little wave. “She doesn't really hate his guns. Doris just knows she's the only thing keeping his addiction in check. If she didn't fuss over every gun he bought, there'd be no holding him back. They'd end up living in a tent in the yard, because their house would be so packed there'd be no room to even move.”

He didn't laugh at that like she'd expected. Instead, his gaze turned distant. “There are worse addictions than gun collecting.”

It was clear where—or to whom—his mind had gone. “Julius isn't doing any better, huh?”

“No.”

Rory grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Has he been in the shop this week?” When she shook her head, he turned back to his food, jabbing at his meat as if it had offended him. “Figured. Don't think he's left his armchair for days. Someone's supplying him with booze.” A muscle in his cheek flexed as he poked at his food some more.

Completely at a loss about what she should do, Rory reached out to pat his forearm awkwardly. He went still under her touch, and she wondered if he felt the same surge of awareness she did whenever he touched her. The moment stretched as they stared at each other. His focus on her was so complete, so intense, it felt like the imaginary spotlight that followed Ian had turned its beam on her. For a short time, she believed that she was the center of Ian Walsh's universe, and it felt wonderful—and terrifying. The clatter of a dish broke the spell, and she pulled back her hand, returning it to her lap. Heavy silence covered their table, and she looked anywhere but at Ian. For some reason, people had been interrupting them for the entire meal. Why had everyone chosen
now
to leave them in peace?

“Dessert?”

Seriously
, Rory thought, smiling at the expectant waitress,
the people in this town have the
best
timing
.

Dinner at Levi's had been awkward. Entering Station One was its own special brand of uncomfortable.

“Uh…” Rory's feet stopped a few steps inside the door. The whole idea of her volunteering to be a firefighter seemed outlandish now. “I think I'll wait in the Bronco.”

Ian's eyebrows shot up. “For two hours?”

“Sure. I'm a patient person.” She turned to face the door, but Ian grabbed her arm.

“You'll like volunteering. Just try it. If you hate it, I won't push it anymore.” He didn't listen to any of her objections, but just dragged her into the main training room.

“Hey, Beauty!” Soup called from across the room. His name was actually Mercer Warhol, but no one called him that. “You bring us a new recruit?”

Before Ian could answer—or Rory could pull her arm free and make a run for it—Junior Higgins said, “Rory! What are you doing outside the compound?”

Steve Springfield gave Junior's shoulder a shove. Since Steve was a burly monster of a man, and Junior, at five feet, six inches, lived up to his name, he stumbled back several feet before catching his balance.

“What?” Junior asked plaintively.

Steve gave him a stern look. “Don't be rude.”

“Rory.” The chief walked toward them, smiling. “Thinking of volunteering?”

Feeling uncomfortable under the curious stares of a dozen pairs of eyes, Rory gave Early a tight shrug, trying to return his smile. “Ian invited me to training. I thought maybe I'd give it a trial run.”

“Great!” The chief gave her a boisterous pat on the upper arm. Rory had to firm her stance so she didn't go flying like Junior had. “For tonight, I just have a waiver for you to sign. Then give it a few training sessions and see if it's for you. We could use some women in the ranks.”

“Yeah.” Junior's eyes lit. “Feel free to recruit any friends. Especially the hot ones.”

This time, Ian cuffed the back of Junior's head. “Knock it off.”

As Junior rubbed the back of his skull and sulked, Steve nodded at Rory and gave her one of his rare, sweet smiles that were usually directed only at his kids. Despite his size and normally serious expression, Steve had a gentle way about him and an old-fashioned sense of gallantry. It was impossible not to like him. “Good to see you.”

“You, too.” She racked her brain for a conversational topic and seized, as always, on guns. “How's that Kimber rifle working for you?”

Steve grimaced. “Haven't been able to touch it. Brady, my thirteen-year-old, used it on our elk hunt last fall. He liked it so much, he's claimed it as his.”

Smiling, Rory relaxed a little. “Come in sometime, and we'll find you a replacement.”

Before Steve could reply, the chief handed Rory a clipboard holding a release waiver and called for everyone's attention. “Got a new portable tank we need to get wet. A couple of people”—he eyed Junior, who dropped his gaze to his boots—“need a refresher in how to operate the trucks, especially where to find the tank-to-pump switch. Steve, you're heading up training tonight. Soup, get the lights. Go.”

As the firefighters scattered, Rory signed the form and handed it back to the chief. After that, she just tried to stay out of the way, but Ian gestured for her to join him. She climbed into the cab of the truck he'd just started, and she eyed the unfamiliar controls with interest. He drove into the parking lot, joining two other trucks.

“This is one of our tenders,” Ian explained as he backed the truck toward the portable tank some of the other guys were setting up. The tank looked kind of like a large kiddie swimming pool. “It carries water to the scene.”

“Not many places out here with hydrants, I suppose,” she said, and he shook his head.

“Exactly. We're going to set up the portable tank and draft water from that to the engine.”

Rory frowned. “Why not just hook the tender to the engine and skip a step?”

“Sometimes we do,” he agreed. “With the tank, though, we can dump the water and then take the tender back for more. That works the best when we're a ways from the nearest water source.”

“Do you get the water from the reservoirs, then?”

“Reservoirs, creeks, rivers, plus we have underground tanks scattered around the district.” Ian opened his door, and the noise of the truck engines made it impossible to hear anything quieter than a yell.

Rory climbed out of the cab, jumping from the bottom step to the ground. Her feet slipped on the packed snow when she landed, and she had to grab the open door to catch her balance. As soon as she was stable again, she glanced around to make sure no one had seen her almost bite it. To her relief, everyone was focused on setting up the tank or connecting hoses to valves on the trucks.

She carefully made her way to the rear of the tender, just as Ian opened up the back, allowing water to pour into the portable tank.

“We'll be pumping the water from the tank to the engine,” he yelled over the noise. “Then pumping it from the engine to the tender.”

Eyeing the setup, Rory frowned. “That seems…pointless.”

He flashed his single dimple. “At a real call, we'd send the water from the engine to the fire, but there's no point in wasting water on an exercise.”

Opening her mouth, Rory was about to ask another question, when a sharp whistle from the chief interrupted her. He was trotting toward them across the parking lot.

“Got a call,” he shouted. “Pickup versus elk on Highway Six, mile marker one-seven-four. Unknown injuries, unknown damage. Higgins and Lowe, stay here for cleanup. The rest of you, it's go time!”

“Come on,” Ian said, jerking his head at Rory as he and all but two guys hurried back toward the station.

“Me?” she asked, but obviously not loudly enough, since his quick strides didn't pause. She rushed after him, catching up when he reached the door. Ian held it open, and she ducked inside. “You want me to go?”

“Yes. Grab one of those blue helmets from that shelf and meet me at Rescue Two.” He pointed at one of the smaller trucks.

Once again, her childhood drill training had her hurrying to grab a helmet and rush to the passenger side of the truck he'd indicated. Steve joined her, so she slid to the middle seat and buckled her seat belt.

“Ready for your first call?” Ian asked.

“No.”

He laughed as he eased the truck through the open overhead door. “The blue helmet means you're new. The scene commander won't ask you to do anything hard.”

Suddenly feeling fond of the blue hard hat she was clutching in her lap, she pulled off her stocking cap and exchanged it for the helmet, buckling the strap under her chin. As Ian fell in behind the chief's SUV, Steve reached in front of her and flicked a few switches, turning on the overhead lights and the siren.

The sudden wail made Rory jump, and Ian turned his head to grin at her before returning his attention to the road in front of them. She eyed him with interest. This was a different Ian from the one she'd thought she'd known. It was as if one of the switches on the truck's instrument panel had turned a light on inside him. Ian looked more alive than she'd ever seen him.

Once they turned onto the highway, the truck picked up speed—a lot of speed. Rory was tempted to grab something and hold on, but the only things close enough were Ian and Steve's thighs. She flattened her gloved hands over the tops of her own legs.

“Fun, huh?” Ian sent her another smile, and she could only blink at him, too focused on how they were hurtling through the darkness to think of an answer.

Steve reached in front of her again, this time to grab the radio mic. There had been almost constant chatter coming from the radio, but Rory could catch only the fifth or sixth word. She wondered if interpreting radio-speak was an acquired skill.

As Steve gave their location, the brake lights on the chief's SUV lit. Ian slowed the rescue truck, and Rory got her first glimpse of the scene. A light-colored pickup with a crumpled front end and cobweb-cracked windshield sat diagonally across both lanes, and the carcass of an elk cow was stretched out on the road in front and to the right of the vehicle. Although it was hard to see through the broken windshield, Rory could tell there were two people in the cab.

The chief's voice came through on the radio. “Fire 201 on scene and establishing 174 Command.”

“Copy,” the dispatcher answered.

Ian parked the truck, killing the siren but keeping the overheads flashing. He and Steve hopped out of the truck while Rory fumbled to unlatch her seat belt.

She finally won the battle and wrestled free. Steve had left the passenger-side door open for her, so she slid along the seat and climbed out. As soon as she rounded the front of the truck, the chief bellowed at her.

“Rory! Grab the battery kit. Left side, top left section.”

“Yes, Chief!” she yelled back over the engine noise and the approaching sirens. Hurrying to the driver's side, she continued to the first top storage section. It took a few seconds for her to figure out how to unlatch the door, and then to realize that it opened upward, rolling into the top like a garage door.

The area was lit, and Rory quickly spotted the tool bag marked “Battery Kit.” She grabbed it and a flashlight hooked to the other side of the section. When she hurried back to the chief, she held up the kit.

“Soup!” the chief yelled. “Battery!”

One of the guys clustered around the open driver's side door of the pickup turned his head at the chief's shout and hurried to the smashed front of the vehicle. Even though he'd been in her shop numerous times, it took her a few seconds to recognize him. At night with the disorienting flashing lights, all the firefighters looked alike in their bunker gear.

When she got close to Soup's side, she held up the battery kit.

“Got to get it open first,” he said, taking the kit and setting it on a semiflat portion of the ruined bumper. “Grab me a crowbar.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Rear of the rescue. Bottom left, unless someone didn't put it back right last time.” His voice was calm, raised just enough so she could hear him. In contrast, her heart was pounding in double-time. She'd drilled for a lot of emergency situations, but this was a whole new experience for her. This was real.

She found the crowbar where Soup had told her it would be. As she headed back to the pickup, an ambulance passed the parked fire trucks in reverse. She moved aside so it could back up close to the damaged pickup.

With the help of the crowbar, Soup pried open the hood. It took him only a short time to disconnect the battery.

“Is that so the truck doesn't blow up?” Rory asked, holding the flashlight so Soup could see what he was doing.

“That, and so the airbag doesn't deploy while we're working on the patients in there.”

Once the battery had been disconnected, Soup returned to the rescue workers clustered around the pickup doors. Rory glanced at the chief for any further instructions, but he was focused on the two victims in the truck, as well. She moved closer to the chief's SUV, well out of the way of the rescue work.

She watched as both the driver and the passenger were fitted with cervical collars and strapped to long spine boards. It was impressive how quickly they were removed from the smashed pickup and loaded into the ambulance.

Once the injured couple were headed to the Connor Springs hospital, all the rescue workers seemed to lose some of their urgency. Although they still moved efficiently, it felt as if everyone had released a breath, and a good portion of the tension had seeped out of the atmosphere.

A state trooper took pictures of the scene before using spray paint to bracket the beginning and ends of the skid marks left by the pickup's tires. He measured the marks as Rory watched, curious.

“He can use those to figure out how fast the pickup was traveling when the driver started to brake.” Ian's voice next to her made Rory jump.

“Oh.” She glanced at him and then back at the trooper. Ian was front and center in her thoughts way too much already. Seeing him in his bunker gear, glowing from cold air and leftover adrenaline, was just overkill. “Will the couple from the truck be okay, do you think?”

“Should be. From the quick assessment we did, it looked like they both had just minor injuries.”

Something inside Rory that had been twisted into a tight knot since she'd gotten her first glimpse of the smashed truck relaxed. “Good.”

A couple of firemen were dragging the elk to the side of the road. “I'm going to go help,” Ian said.

“Will someone get a tag for that?” she asked, following him. Moving an elk carcass was one of the skill-less tasks she felt confident she couldn't mess up.

“Already called it.” Steve looked up from the carcass and grinned at her. “You going to fight me for it?”

“Nope,” Rory said. “I'm not crazy about elk. It just seems like a waste of a hundred and fifty or so pounds of meat.”

“I've got four growing kids,” Steve said. “It definitely won't be wasted.”

Ian waved her away when she bent toward the elk. “We've got this.”

As she watched the others drag the elk to the side of the road, an odd feeling curled in her belly. Growing up as an only child, she'd never been excused from any task because she was a girl. At the gun store, most of her customers treated her as one of the guys. She felt like she should be offended, that she should insist she was just as capable as the guys. In actuality, though, she was kind of pleased. Ian respected her abilities, but he also went out of his way to help her. That kind of old-fashioned chivalry was nice. Rory couldn't stop a smile as her gaze followed Ian.

The arrival of a tow truck interrupted her musings, and she hurried to retrieve the battery kit, flashlight, and crowbar from in front of the wrecked pickup. She returned them to their original locations and then circled the truck to make sure that all the compartments were closed and latched.