From Winter's Ashes: Girl Next Door Crime Romance Series - Book Two (2 page)

Chapter 2

Joselyn Whyte

Time’s up. I am officially an old maid.

An intense, sweltering heat forced Joselyn to toss off her numerous covers. Not a normal occurrence, especially not in the dead of winter. Holy heat wave! At twenty-seven, wasn’t she still too young for a hot flash? Were her eggs expiring already? A depressing thought but the only one that seemed to make sense in her drowsy state. Something pricked in her throat, ripping a hacking protest from her lungs. Her head pounding, her skin fevered, she managed to sit up—step one in peeling her tired body out of bed to check on the erratic furnace. The thing was likely half as old as the one-hundred-year-old house. It was a marvel it could still cough out any heat at all, let alone keep it at the balmy seventy-eight degrees she preferred.

Times like these she wished she had a man in her life. But loneliness, it seemed, was her affliction.
Boy, there’s another cheerful thought.
And what was that smell?

The salty perspiration beading on her top lip released its hold and invaded her parched mouth. Joselyn swiped the moisture with the back of her hand and then propped her arm on the always empty side of the bed. But instead of being met with the chill of vacant linens, heat pressed against her palm.

Man, it’s hot!
She’d thought to utter the sentiment aloud, but the words hadn’t formed, another cough raked up her throat instead. Then again, it was so hot the scorching air barely touched her lungs before little bursts of fire zinged in her chest. That observation alone should have cut through the disorienting haze, instead she yawned, pulled down the sleep mask, scrubbed her hand over her face, and pressed her fist against the heartburn. Was she getting sick? She felt like she’d been trampled by a horse and dragged through a blistering desert.

Light teased her vision, but her eyelids remained unnaturally heavy. The mask was gone, so why were her eyelashes stuck together? And why did her brain feel so … fuzzy? She hadn’t even drank on her date. Had she?

She rubbed her eyes. Rubbed harder until the pounding in her skull intensified instead of lessened. Something was definitely wrong.

When she managed to coax her eyes open a scream tore loose but instantly dissolved like kindling in a bonfire. Her lungs ached, each burning breath seemingly laced with razor sharp fiber glass, and her vision hazed with a blinding ultraviolent hue to match her surroundings. “
Fff-Fire
.
Fire!
” She coughed up the words though she couldn’t hear them.

Somehow she stood on wobbly legs and plucked out her earplugs. The mask and plugs had lulled her into a coma while her home burned around her. She cursed the noises from the creaky, old house for driving her to use them.

Oh, not good.
Flames devoured the walls and danced across the floor to where she stood. The roar of the fire invaded the small shred of concentration she possessed, siphoning away her options faster than the breathable air. Ripping the comforter from the bed, she inched toward the only window in the room.

Desperation shoved back the drugging fatigue. But the fire only seemed to laugh at the futile attempts of her numb, shaking fingers fighting a losing battle against the ancient window latch. The drop from the second story wouldn’t be fun, but escaping through the window was the only option. Aside from burning alive.

Think. Think!

Joselyn scanned the blazing room, scrounging for something to smash the glass. The nightstand was caged by fire on the other side of the bed. Nothing but pillows were within reach.

The corners of her vision curled in like lit paper. Prickles of sensation grew to a quick boil beneath her where she felt her feet sizzle against the smoking planks of the wood floor. Stepping onto the edges of the comforter, she wrapped her arm in the rest and, with more power than she thought she could muster, thrust her elbow through the window.

Yanking free, the glass tore away the fabric and through to her skin. Before she’d gulped even one breath of fresh air, hungry white fire shot toward the new source of oxygen, engulfing her escape.

She stumbled away, the writhing mass of heat bending her equilibrium and pitching the room like a ship being tossed on waves of flames. Wheezing from the chokehold of the smoke, Joselyn pressed the sleep mask over her mouth and collapsed to the floor.

Fiery blades licked at her flesh, each wicked lash leaving the bite of a burn. She pulled her knees in tighter, huddling in a tiny ring of fire, awaiting death. She tried to scream, but the air, charred and lifeless, evaporated before it hit her throat.

Please
.
Take me now
. She didn’t know who she was pleading to, but she closed her burning eyes and envisioned the words as a prayer. If anyone was listening.

Inexplicably, sorrow and resignation gave way to a renewed determination. With strength she knew she didn’t have left, she managed to stand back up and encase herself in the comforter from head to toe. Struggling to hold onto consciousness, she ran blindly through the wall of fire toward the door until she smacked into something hard. Her legs gave out. Arms surrounded her. Weightlessness and relief invaded her body, drenching down to the bleakness in her soul. And without a final thought, poetic or otherwise, she surrendered to the end.

Beep …

The scream of squealing tires on slick pavement …

Beep …

Phantom drifts of burnt rubber and gasoline …

Beep … Beep …

“No.” She whimpered.
The sharp, relentless pelt of hail … the cutting cold … the sting on her exposed skin …

Beep … Beep … Beep …

“Run, Joselyn. Do you understand me? Stop crying and run!”
The voice a mere wisp of pale smoke in the darkness.

Beep … Beep … Beep … Beep …

“No!”

“She’s tachycardic.”

Is someone there?

“Get me—”

“Wait! It’s slowing down,” another voice interrupted. “It looks like she’s having a nightmare. Miss Whyte. Miss Whyte, wake up.”

The voices jumbled. A cold touch. A quick flash of white in each eye. Her stomach crimped.

“Joselyn, can you hear me?” The voice pleaded.

“Please s-save h-her.” Joselyn’s breath caught on a hiccup. Stiff cotton brushed her cheeks, and antiseptic-scented air pooled in her nostrils. She blinked her eyes open, and the strange beeping noise slowed. “Wha—” She wheezed, the razor sharp air cutting off the word. “Where is … where am …?” Violent coughing shredded the rest.

A blur of blue scrubs and bright lights came into focus before her brain could construct a full question. “Shh. Good morning, Joselyn.” The nurse soothed as if speaking to a traumatized child. “It’s all right. You’re in the hospital, you’re fine. There was a—”

“A fire … I remember.” Splintered pieces of memory cut through her mind. The heat. The pain. The hopelessness. She squeezed her eyes tight—felt tears burn behind her eyelids as she relived the tortured moments before her death.

Only … she wasn’t dead.

She braved a glance down to inspect the damage. All she saw was a long white bandage on her right forearm.
That can’t be right.

The nurse touched her shoulder. “Joselyn, dear, you are a living, breathing miracle. When the firefighters got to your home it was engulfed in flames. The young man that found you said your clothes were nearly burned off and every square inch of your house was consumed. Somehow, by the grace of God, there’s not a burn to be found on ya. All you got is a bit of smoke inhalation and sixteen stitches in your arm. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“What?” She croaked.
Impossible
. She’d felt the fire, remembered the wicked touch of the flames as she’d prepared to die.

Kicking off the covers, she bent a leg and pulled her foot into her hand. Nothing but pale unbroken skin. As if all evidence of the fire had been washed away. Her vision blurred, her nose prickled like a pin cushion, and the haze of tears and disbelief made the room swim around her.

A pager sounded, and one of the nurses excused herself.

“You musta had some angels watching out for you, girlie. Well, that, plus that large hunk of hero who rode in like a white knight and rescued you.” The silver-haired nurse with deep laugh lines bracketing her wistful smile sighed dramatically, patting her chest.

White knight? Joselyn’s mind raced back to the last semi-lucid moment she could remember. Powerful arms surrounded her as she collapsed into his embrace. And then, in the split second before she’d surrendered to the darkness, she’d felt relief so deep that it lingered now—stronger than the fear from the fire, more powerful than any emotion she’d ever carried.

“… still in the waiting room.”

She shook her head, blinking away the encroaching tears. “Huh?” Perhaps the potent combination of smoke and fear had brought on a hallucination. “I’m sorry, is my father here?”

“That’s right, someone said you’re Declan Whyte’s daughter.”

Joselyn could only nod her confirmation as the nurse continued. “I’m sorry, dear. That cutie-patootie firefighter got ahold of him, but unfortunately your father is out of town on business. Said he’d be back the day after tomorrow, I think.”

Joselyn hardened her jaw; ground her molars with enough force to shave away enamel. But that only intensified the pain spearing through each temple, so she tried to massage the ache except the heart-rate-finger-clip-thingy jabbed awkwardly against the tender spot on one side. Giving up, she let her head fall back against the hospital bed and closed her eyes to try to hide the hurt, both physical and emotional. “Uhh, you said the firefighter called my dad?” The words scraped like sandpaper.

“Yeah, he seemed to know how to get through to him. You were out cold when you were admitted. We didn’t have the emergency contact information, and your father is one difficult man to get in touch with.”

“You have no idea,” Joselyn mumbled.

“Well, the doctor will be by in a little while to go over a few things. Your call button is here on the bed. Do you need anything before I go?”

It all felt like a bad dream. One she couldn’t fully remember. The slivers of surviving memory only served to revisit her pain and panic yet leave her with more unanswered questions. Was there anything left of her house? Where would she go? How could her dad not be here? Did anyone else know she was here? Did anyone care? How had the fire start—

“Sugar, you okay?”

Joselyn glanced at her name badge. Shelby. She looked like a Shelby. Sort of sweet and southern, with soft, caring eyes. Digging deep, she recited the familiar words. “I’m fine. Thank you, Shelby.”

With a reassuring pat of her hand, Shelby turned to make her way out. She paused by the door, and Joselyn released the breath she’d been holding.
I lied. I’m not fine. Please, don’t leave me all alone
.

“By the way, your hero is still here. Been waitin’ to see you.”

So
not
what Joselyn had expected her to say. And as if her body knew something she didn’t, Joselyn’s heart set off at a gallop. A series of escalating beeps exposed the silly flutter zipping through her veins. Shelby cast a knowing smirk at the screen.

Stupid heart-rate monitor!

“Oh, my. This is better than my programs. Shall I send him in?” She raised a puckish eyebrow.

“Umm, y-yeah. I guess that’d be okay.” Joselyn cringed. If she couldn’t play it cool with the nurse, how big of a mess was she going to be for the supposedly hot firefighter guy?
Hmm … hot firefighter. Such dramatic irony.

Shelby set off in her plotting, and Joselyn tried to calm her fraying nerves. Didn’t the nurse say that when her rescuer got to her all her clothes had burned off?

Great! So he’s already seen me naked!
And not like standing or attractively posed—not that it would have occurred that way anyhow; exhibitionist ventures, so not her thing—but slumped and unconscious in his arms.
Oy vey!

And any moment now her “Whyte knight,” as he would probably be dubbed, would waltz in to discover her all crusty and scraggly in nothing but a limp, mint green hospital gown.

There was no explaining the sudden bout of self-consciousness. She didn’t even know the guy. Yes, she was lonely, but she wasn’t desperate. So it didn’t matter what she looked like, she assured herself. It didn’t even matter what
he
looked like. He was her hero. She owed him her deepest gratitude. And even though Shelby’s high praise of his appearance chimed back through Joselyn’s ears, what intrigued her were the feelings her rescuer had stirred when he’d held her. Had he felt it too? Was that why he’d stayed? More likely he’d recognized her and was looking for a reward.

Calm down, Joss. You survived a fire. You can do this.

A gentle knock put an end to her internal pep talk. Aiming to soothe the raspy sound of her newly acquired smoker’s lung, she cleared her throat. “Come in.” Sadly, a guttural cough spewed forth, turning her voice box into something akin to a trash compactor. Lovely.

The doorway was set back and wasn’t well lit, but she saw wide shoulders tapering to a strong, trim waist, and a value pack of thick muscles all wrapped around well over six feet of hard man.