How to Tame a Wild Fireman (2 page)

“Excuse me?”

Patrick gritted his teeth. For all his faults, no one had ever accused him of lacking balls. “Both a swimming pool on hot days and a hot tub on cool days.”

“Very ingenious.” Captain Brody bared his teeth.

Patrick inclined his head. One didn’t pass up a compliment from the captain even if it was sarcastically delivered. He decided to take the reins of this conversation—­or at least attempt to. It had never worked with Brody in the past. Patrick didn’t give a crap about most ­people’s judgments, but the captain was different. It genuinely bothered him that Captain Brody didn’t have a high opinion of him.

And this latest episode obviously hadn’t helped anything.

“I’m very sorry for my actions, Captain Brody,” he said stiffly. “They were very wrong. I’ve already apologized to Perini Construction for the temporary use of their excavator. I’ve replanted the sod I dug up. You have to water it every few hours, which I’ve been doing.”

“I noticed. We now have one lone patch of green on our lawn.”

“If you want, I can resod the rest of the yard.” He decided to reach even further into humility. “After all, station beautification was my original goal.”

Brody’s head snapped up, and Patrick knew he’d misstepped. Brody despised bullshit.

“I thought of that, but it’s too easy. I have a better idea.” Brody reached into the wastebasket, pulled out the morning paper, and plopped it on his desk.

Patrick stared at it. “You want me to write a letter to the editor? Apologize in writing?”

Brody glared at him. “The Waller Canyon Wildfire. Heard of it?”

Patrick looked again at the big color photo on the front page. It showed an SEAT—­a single engine air tanker—­dropping retardant on a forest of flaming trees. He swallowed hard. “Yes. I’ve heard of it.” It was impossible to ignore, with Channel Six doing twenty-­four-­hour coverage of the massive and growing fire that was eating its way across bone-­dry southwest hillsides. He’d been tracking its every move since it reached Nevada.

“Three states are now involved. Nearly four thousand firefighters are on the scene. They probably have room for one more.”

Patrick froze. He couldn’t be . . . was the captain getting rid of him . . . suspending him? He hadn’t screwed up that badly.

“I’m sending you to Nevada,” said the captain. “They’re not in our GACC, but the fire’s big enough so they’re requesting help from outside the GACC.”

GACC meant Geographical Area Coordination something, or so Patrick recalled. Sometimes it was hard to keep track of all the acronyms in the fire ser­vice.

“So, you’re volunteering me?” he ventured.

“Yep. An old friend of mine’s the incident commander out there. Seems they’re in need of heli-­rappellers. How long have you had your red card?”

“Six years.” A red card certified that a firefighter had gone through enough training to tackle wildfires. Only a few of the San Gabriel crew had one, since they mostly dealt with structure fires, but Patrick was a glutton for training. “I worked on a rappel crew for a ­couple of years.”

“I know that. I also know your certification is current. I’m not pulling this idea out of my ass. You seem a little . . . bored here in San Gabriel.”

“I’m not bored, Captain, I was just letting off a little steam.”

“Well, now you can let off steam in Nevada.”

Patrick stared at him, his throat working. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to go to Nevada. He
couldn’t
go to Nevada. “Can’t you just write me up?”

Brody’s face tightened and his eyes narrowed. “You’re passing up a chance to throw yourself out of a helicopter and hang out with the hotshots?”

Patrick stared stonily at his superior.

“Unless you can give me a good reason why not, you’re going, Psycho. You’re a good firefighter. Smart, on the ball, strong, extremely proficient technically. But you make me nervous.”

“I’ve never fucked up on a fire.”

“You’ve come close.”

Patrick dropped his head. Yeah, he’d come close to the edge. That’s where he liked it. He liked the high-­wire act, the adrenaline, the death-­defying thrill. But he knew the odds, and never went too far.

Of course, getting into a battle with Captain Brody carried no good odds at all.

“You have until next shift,” said Brody.

Patrick wheeled around and stalked from the office. Everyone ignored him as he stormed through the training room and headed for the lockers. He passed Sabina and the battalion chief chatting near the TV, which, of course, was now tuned to the fire in question.

“Still trying to decide on lilies versus baby’s breath?” he muttered, just to get under Sabina’s skin. “Personally, I vote for tulips. They really make a statement.” She shot him a glare, which didn’t bother him one bit.

When he reached the lockers, an old school minicam loomed in his face.

“Inquiring minds want to know how it feels to have your ass handed to you,” said Vader from behind the lens. “Here’s Patrick Callahan with a full report.”

“Fuck off.”

“Nice, Psycho. You just gave me an R rating.” Vader lowered the camera. “You don’t look so good. What’d the captain say?”

“He said the station doesn’t currently have a need for a hot tub, but if circumstances should change, he’ll let me know.”

Vader snorted. “Yeah right. What else?”

Patrick wanted to talk about it. He really did. And if he could talk about it with anyone, it would be Vader. They’d started hanging out after Sabina got together with the former chief, Roman. Vader liked having a buddy, and Patrick didn’t mind. It was like having an eager puppy follow you around. A six-­foot, 200-­pound puppy who could bench-­press you and your whole family.

Vader shrugged. “Interview’s over, I guess.”

The station’s resident muscleman stashed his minicam back in its case, stuffed it into his locker, and extracted his helmet. He dropped a kiss on top of it and murmured, “You been good while I’ve been gone?”

Patrick smothered a smile. Besides his qualities as a friend, Vader was always entertaining. Something in him softened. He blurted out, “Why doesn’t the captain like me?”

“Dude. Are you kidding? You just carjacked an excavator and tried to dig a hot tub behind the station.”

“Before that.”

“Before that you put superglue on the free weights in the workout room.” Vader glared, a frown denting his strong forehead. “That hurt.” His brow cleared. “ER nurses were cute, though.”

“Before that.”

“Before that you put soap suds on the floor of the handball court. And ‘borrowed’ a news chopper to convince the weather girl to go out with you.”

“That was my first year here. I don’t do that crazy shit any more. Not as much,” he added quickly. “I work my ass off. I pick the hardest jobs. I always come through. I volunteer for extra shifts. When I’m not here, I’m training. Or signing up for some charity event. You know I bring in more money for charity than anyone else at this station. Hell, in this city.”

Vader shrugged. “Brody thinks you’re a loose cannon.”

Patrick slammed his fist into his locker. Who was he kidding? Vader was right. The all-­seeing captain knew the truth about him. Maybe Brody had magic powers and saw right to the bottom of his no-­good soul. He slowly banged his head against the strip of metal separating the lockers.

Fuck it. Only one thing to do. Get through the shift. Do the job. Go back to his apartment and catch up on his sleep. Not that it was much of an apartment. Mattress on the floor. A couch, a TV he never watched, a refrigerator stocked with Red Bulls, protein drinks, and not much else. Truth was, he avoided going home as much as possible. He preferred to stay busy. But he’d just finished a triathlon a few days ago, and his next rock climbing trip wasn’t until next month. The thought of his empty apartment was, quite frankly, depressing. It still didn’t feel like “home,” even though he’d lived in San Gabriel for the past four years. Home was . . .

He forced back a wave of nausea. No more drinking for a while. He’d focus on getting ready for the climbing trip. That would keep him busy. That would keep him from thinking about the Callahan Ranch in the crosshairs of a wildfire. About his family forced to evacuate, or worse, refusing to evacuate. Did they still have horses? What about the chickens? Who was taking care of things there?

Hell.
He slammed a fist against his locker, making the entire row rattle. Vader held his helmet protectively and glared at him.

“Gotta talk to the captain,” Patrick muttered. He hurried back toward Brody’s office. Stan blocked his way, as he’d recently gotten in the habit of doing—­like some kind of toll keeper. Patrick dug in his pocket for a treat and came up with a mint slightly furred with lint.

Stan didn’t mind. He jumped for it, gulped it down, and removed himself from Patrick’s path.

Brody looked up as Patrick walked in. “Think it over?”

“The thing is,” said Patrick, “my family’s from Nevada.”

“I know.”

“My father was even governor when I was a kid.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t been back in ten years.”

“I know.”

Patrick didn’t bother to ask how the hell Brody knew all that shit. Brody knew everything. “The fire’s getting close to Loveless, which is where the Callahan Ranch is. The Incident Command Post is actually located on the outskirts of Loveless.”

“I know.”

Patrick took a deep breath and launched himself into the kicker. “When I was nineteen, my father kicked me out and told me never to come back to Loveless. He had a pretty good reason.” Nearly getting your little brother killed definitely qualified as a good reason, but the hell if he’d explain it to the captain.

This time Brody was silent. Finally, he’d surprised the captain. A sort of stillness settled around them. From outside the office came the low murmur of the TV reporters talking about the Waller Canyon Fire, the shouts of the guys as they gave Truck 1 its morning hose-­off, the snuffling of Stan as he wolfed down another treat. The familiar, beloved sounds of Fire Station 1.

“Well, I guess you have a choice to make,” said Brody eventually.

Patrick stared at him, taken aback. He’d been expecting condemnation, as if he’d just confirmed all of Brody’s worst suspicions. Instead, he caught the captain’s level, measuring glance.

“And you’re the one who has to make it. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” Brody finished cryptically.

But for some reason, in that mysterious way the captain had, his words made perfect sense to Patrick.

He nodded once, twice, making up his mind. “I’ll go.”

“You want to go to Nevada?”

“Yes. I want to go.” It was the last thing he wanted to do, and yet, suddenly, the
only
thing he wanted to do. “I’ll do it on my own time. You don’t have to pay me.”

Brody raised an eyebrow. “No need for that.”

“Yes there is. I mean it, Cap.” He managed a smile, though the thought of going back to Loveless was already making him tense. “In the words of the master, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

Chapter Two

O
utside Room 1176 of the pediatric ward of San Diego Hospital, Lara checked the corridors for signs of the chief resident, attending physician, or the nurse who hated her guts. Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the murmur of voices at the nurse’s station and the constant ring of the phone. Breaking hospital rules could not only get her in major trouble, but it was definitely not her style.

The coast was clear. Slipping into the room, she gave ten-­year-­old Naomi Bly a thumbs-­up. The girl dropped her book, her face lighting up like Christmas in September.

“Dr. Nelson! You got her?” she whispered.

“I got her. But she can’t make a peep. And you only have a few moments.” She hurried toward Naomi’s bed. The poor girl, who had a flair for the dramatic, was going through the worst week of her life, as she’d announced to the entire staff. After a week of tests she’d finally been diagnosed with a blood disorder so rare, it didn’t even have a real name. The only thing that could possibly provide even the remotest, smallest tidbit of comfort, she claimed, was Gigi le FouFou.

Who was at this moment scrambling out of the tote bag in which Lara had stashed her.

The tiny, raggedy mop of a bichon frise scampered across the covers into Naomi’s arms, where she proceeded to lick every inch of the girl’s face she could reach. Lara winced, even though she’d insisted that Naomi’s mom wash her thoroughly before bringing her to the hospital. The prospect of breaking the rule against animals in the hospital had made her stomach cramp with anxiety, but the blissful look on Naomi’s face made it worth every stress-­filled moment.

“Thank you, Dr. B. You’re the bestest ever. Isn’t she, Gigi? Oh yes, she is.” Naomi buried her face in the dog’s fur. Gigi yipped and squealed. Even from a few steps away Lara could see the tiny dog vibrating.

“Shhh.” She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t get her too excited.”

“She’s never been away from me for a whole week before. Come here, pet her head, right here on top. She’s so soft. Doesn’t she smell like watermelon? My signature scent is watermelon, you know. My mom must have given her a bath with my shampoo.” She inhaled blissfully. Gigi gave a sharp, happy bark.

Lara groaned. How soundproof were the walls? What would she say if she got busted?
I’m as surprised as you are. That dog must have scaled the walls and climbed in the fourth floor window.

“Naomi, please keep her quiet. Someone’s bound to hear, and if it’s—­”

“Me, for instance?” A dry voice behind her made her spin around. Adam Dennison, Chief Resident, stood in the open doorway, along with a man in a business suit Lara had never seen before.

“Um . . .” Lara shifted to block their view of the bed. “Naomi and I were just . . . um . . .”

Adam pinned her with one of his devastating, skeptical raised-­eyebrow looks. A brilliant chief resident, he was also a bit on the neurotic side. He’d earned the nickname Dr. OCD for a reason. He and Lara had always gotten along well—­she had a soft spot for offbeat ­people—­but lately he’d tried to ask her out a few times. So far she’d managed to dodge the question.

“We’ll talk about this later, Dr. Nelson.“ Adam gestured to the man still standing quietly behind him. “This is Mr. Standish. He’s a lawyer and he says he’s been trying to reach you for a few days now. You can use my office.”

Lara’s gaze slid to the other man. In his late fifties, he wore a gray suit and gave off a definite undertaker vibe. She suddenly realized who he must be. “No.” She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m busy. I have three patients waiting and—­”

“Please,” said the man, adjusting his horn-­rimmed glasses. He cleared his throat. “Don’t you owe it to your aunt?”

He’d said the magic words. Not only were they true, but she didn’t want him spilling any more details about her outrageous, recently departed aunt in front of Adam Dennison. Or Naomi, for that matter.

“Fine,” she said faintly. “But I should take care of this . . . um, situation.” She stepped aside to reveal Naomi huddling with Gigi le FouFou as if the Secret Ser­vice was about to tear them apart.

“I’ve already called Mrs. Bly,” said Adam. “Give her one last hug, Naomi.”

Lara couldn’t bear the tragic look on Naomi’s face. She brushed past Adam on her way out the door.

“Come see me as soon as you’re done,” Adam called after her.

Mr. Standish wasted no time. As soon as Lara had closed the door of the chief resident’s office, he whipped out a laptop and placed it on the desk. “Ms. Tamera Baumgartner made a video intended for you. I barely managed to dissuade her from putting it on YouTube, but it’s my job to make sure you watch it.”

Lara mustered a smile. “Fine. I haven’t been avoiding your calls, I promise. I’ve just been busy.”

The lawyer waved away her explanation and pressed the Play button. Lara watched the screen as the clip loaded. Her heart jumped into her throat as her aunt appeared, a vibrant splash of color against the gray institutional background of a hospital in Guatemala. Her short hair was Kool-­Aid purple, her lipstick bright fuchsia, and she wore a gold lamé cloak over her hospital gown. “Hello there down on planet Earth, this is your Aunt Tam Baumgartner coming at you from the Great Beyond. How’s tricks, Lulu?” She laughed, the great, hearty sound filled with a phlegmy rattle. “By the time you see this, I’ll be dead, but don’t you worry, I’ll still look fabulous.”

Lara let out a hysterical bubble of laughter. “You really do, Aunt Tam, I have to hand it to you . . .”

Aunt Tam was ignoring her, which was her prerogative, since she’d died a few days ago. “I’ve had a marvelous time roaming the world searching for a cure. But you can’t run from that bastard known as karma, toots. And you’ve been much on my mind, little Lulu. I know I put you in some awkward, maybe even mortifying situations while you lived with me. I want to make it up to you, my pumpkin seed, if it’s the last thing I do. And what do you know—­it is!”

The dying woman threw her head back with a delighted laugh that rippled through the dreary, textbook-­lined office like a breeze through a set of chimes. Eyes blurring, Lara fisted her hands against her thighs, determined not to cry in front of the lawyer.

Then Aunt Tam dropped her bombshell.

Lara was still
sitting on the floor of Adam’s office, alone and shell-­shocked, when Adam appeared. He took off his scrubs coat, loosened his tie, and sank into his ergonomic chair. Adam prided himself on the tidiness of his desk, and now he made a microadjustment to a small pile of paperwork. “I really ought to report your little stunt.”

Lara shook herself out of the stupor caused by Aunt Tam’s announcement. Just because her life had just been thrown a major curveball didn’t mean she could neglect her patients. “How’s Naomi?”

Adam ignored her question. “What were you thinking, Lara? This is so unlike you.” Two vertical lines of judgment appeared between his eyebrows. Had the man never bent the rules in his life?

“Come on, Adam. She needed her puppy, that’s all. Ser­vice animals are allowed. Gigi provided a ser­vice. She didn’t come into contact with anyone else on the ward and I made sure she was clean.”

“Gigi?” Adam snorted. “Let me guess. The parents let the kid name the dog. Rules are rules, Lara. Not even third-­years get to break them at will.”

Her sense of annoyance increased. “Save it, Adam. If you want to report me, go ahead. Just tell me how Naomi’s doing.”

“Sure. But first why don’t you tell me what the lawyer wanted.”

Lara gritted her teeth. If she hadn’t been so gobsmacked by her conversation with the lawyer, maybe she would have had a little more patience for Adam’s power games. “You really want to know?”

“Of course.”

“He wanted to inform me that my aunt left me some property.”

Brightening, Adam leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. “So you’re an heiress of sorts. That’s great news. What sort of property is it?”

“Well, Adam, it’s not something you would understand. It’s probably better if we don’t discuss it.” Considering that she’d spent the last few years not discussing anything about her past, this seemed the best policy. Especially because at the moment she was very much afraid that discussing Aunt Tam would make her burst into tears and ruin her reputation as the resident who never lost her cool.

“Lara, Lara. I think I know you well enough that nothing is going to change my opinion of you. Is that what you’re worried about?”

She bit the inside of her mouth to keep her sarcastic comeback to herself—­it would have been something along the lines of:
Of course, because your good opinion is the only thing in the world that matters to me.

“Thanks, Adam, but—­”

“I thought you wanted to know about your patient and her little bundle of allergens?”

Lara scrambled to her feet. “Do you have to be such a dick?” She clapped her hand over her mouth, just as shocked by her words as Adam was. His jaw dropped and his chair nearly tipped over backward.

“What is going on with you, Lara?” he asked when he’d stabilized his chair. “You’re not acting like yourself at all.”

She shifted her hand away from her mouth enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. I’m going to assume it’s the grief talking.”

The grief. True, the grief was there, lurking in her chest like a wildcat she didn’t want to let out. Especially not in front of Dr. OCD.

“Maybe you should just tell me the rest of it, get it off your chest,” he said soothingly. “I aced my psychiatry rotation.”

“Of course you did,” she murmured. What else would an obsessive compulsive do?

Adam got to his feet and walked around the desk to stand next to her. He put a hand on her shoulder and lowered his voice intimately. “You should give me a chance to be there for you. A sign of things to come, you might say.”

A shudder went through her, and she fought the urge to step back. The thought of being close to Adam held no appeal. But that was her problem, not his. Brilliant and ambitious, highly eligible Adam had no trouble attracting women, despite his quirks.

She remembered something Aunt Tam had always preached: true intimacy kept no secrets. Maybe that was the key. Maybe if she shared something personal with Adam she’d be more interested in him.

“Okay,” she said slowly, fixing her gaze on the gray tile of the floor. “My aunt was Dr. Tam Baumgartner. She used to have a radio show about . . . well, sex. The show was called
Ask the Sex Guru.
” She didn’t dare look at Adam yet, but felt him stiffen in surprise. “She ran a sort of center, a counseling center. Like a retreat. It was called . . . is called . . . the Haven for Sexual and Spiritual Healing. She left it to me. I used to live there, you see, after my parents died in a car accident.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Now that she’d started, she couldn’t shut up.

“She left me the Haven, with the recommendation that I sell it to pay off my med school bills. She knew how much the place embarrassed me.”

“I can see why.” He squeezed her shoulder sympathetically.

That comment made her bristle. “She also asked me to make sure the Goddesses are taken care of first.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re not really goddesses, of course, they’re her workshop leaders. She called them Goddesses to encourage participants to connect with their inner divine nature. She hired all of them except Janey, who came with the place when she bought it. It used to be a brothel, you see. In Nevada. Loveless, Nevada.”

Finally the flow of words trailed off. Adam’s hand seemed to be frozen in place on her shoulder. She raised an eyebrow at him. He was staring at her as if she’d suddenly turned into a bichon frise.

“You used to live in a brothel with your aunt the sex guru?
You?
”

“Well, it wasn’t a brothel when I lived there, it was a . . . what do you mean,
me
?”

“No offense, but even though you’re very attractive, you’re on the uptight side. Conservative. Focused.”

Lara flinched. Those words shouldn’t hurt, since she’d worked so hard to fit that description. She should be glad Adam saw her that way.

Maybe it was even true, after all this time.

She cleared her throat. “I’m going to take some vacation time and go back to Loveless. I have a clinic rotation coming up, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re going back to the brothel?”

She could swear she heard a snicker in his voice. Pressing her lips together, she spun toward the door. “Yes, and I have a million things to do before I go.” First on the list, check on Naomi.

But then a hand on her arm stopped her. She turned to meet Adam’s contrite gaze. “I’m sorry, Lara. I shouldn’t be teasing you at a time like this. Can I help? Do you need someone to go with you?”

“No, thanks,” she said politely, although the thought of meticulous Dr. Adam Dennison showing up in tumbledown Loveless made her want to laugh out loud. “I’ll be fine.”

“Naomi’s sleeping, by the way,” he said gently. “I let the dog stay until her mother came. It was a nice thing you did, though completely against the rules, not to mention out of character. I’ll let it go this time.”

“Thanks, Adam.” She gave him a wobbly smile. If he was going to be nice, she might lose her battle with the tears. “I’ll call you from Loveless.”

He made a jerky motion toward her, as if he weren’t sure whether a hug would be welcome. The gesture made her soften, and she stepped forward. The citrusy scent of his aftershave surrounded her, along with an overlay of antiseptic. She pressed a quick kiss on his cheek.

Mistake. As soon as she pulled away, she spotted
that look
on his face.
That look
was a hypocritical mixture of disapproval and lascivious speculation. She’d seen it a thousand times in Loveless as soon as ­people figured out whose niece she was and where she lived.

With barely a wave good-­bye, she fled to the women’s locker room, which was empty at the moment—­her first stroke of good luck that day. As she dialed the combination of her lock, she cursed her moment of weakness. Why had she told Adam all that stuff?
Why?
Things would never be the same between them. And she hadn’t even told him to keep it to himself. It might be all over the hospital by morning.