How to Tame a Wild Fireman (8 page)

Patrick felt his eyebrows climb toward his forehead. “
You’ll
make it okay. Have you forgotten how much he hates me? Has he forgotten?”

“He doesn’t hate . . . well, anyway, please, please come.”

Stubbornly, he shook his head. “I’m not here for a family reunion. I’m here to fight a fire. I won’t have time for one of those cozy Callahan dinners in which I get verbally eviscerated. I need to keep my strength up.”

“After the fire’s out. Before you go back to . . . California, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’ll come?”

“What are you, a politician’s daughter? Yes, I live in California.”

He scowled, hoping to forestall more questions.

“But will you come?”

God, he wanted to say no. But there was that hopeful look in her eyes. He’d seen that same look in the eyes of a girl when he’d used the Jaws of Life to extract her from a wrecked Miata.
You’ll save me, right? I’m not stuck here forever. My life isn’t destroyed because of someone else’s wrong turn.

Besides, he’d come here, to Loveless, Nevada. In the back of his mind hadn’t he imagined seeing the ranch again? Maybe even his family?

“I’ll think about it. But only after we get the fire contained. And anyone at my firehouse can tell you I take a lot of crazy risks, so don’t count on anything.”

She went pale. “That’s not funny.”

It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. He’d forgotten how to talk to normal ­people, non-­firefighting, non-­death-­defying ­people. “Sorry.”

She got up and gave him a little shove on the shoulder. “Just for that, you owe me dinner.”

As he watched, jaw agape, she stuck her tongue out at him and walked away.

Had his little sister just played him? Man, he was out of practice.

He spent the
next day with about twenty ground pounders in the heart of the Loveless National Forest, hacking at scrub until his shoulders burned and his hands blistered. He ran through three cans of fuel for his chainsaw. The three others on his crew had been spending the nights on the line, so he decided to do the same. He hadn’t had time to track down Goldie’s owners, and no reports of missing baby llamas, apparently known as crias, had come through. Feeling responsible for the poor animal, he’d asked the Haven “Goddesses” to keep an eye on her in between massages.

When it got dark he set up his fire shelter in the black—­the already charred, safe zone—­and slept under the stars. It was so hot he didn’t even need a sleeping bag.

He tried not to think about the disturbing news that his brother Liam had left the nest. How could his parents have let Liam just walk away, as if there weren’t a million things that could hurt someone like him? Patrick had always been Liam’s self-­designated protector, but he knew he’d failed horribly that night. He’d let Liam get hurt; the guilt, as much as his father’s orders, had chased him out of Loveless. He’d assumed that Liam was better off without him, better off in the care of his parents.

But what if he’d been wrong?

Of course, he had no right to criticize. He’d been off in San Gabriel. Fighting fires, jumping off helicopters, getting more ink, living on the borderline between crazy and stupid.

If he hadn’t found a career in firefighting, he’d either be dead or a criminal by now. Firefighting had saved his sorry ass. It gave him a sense of doing something important. Something that mattered. But did he need the adrenaline even more than the sense of purpose? And was it all just a way to make himself feel better about what he’d done?

If he saved a million lives, it wouldn’t make up for how he’d let Liam down. But all he knew how to do was keep trying.

The next day was more of the same. Chainsaw work, clearing scrub, lighting fusees, hacking at dirt with Pulaskis. From the tactical channel, they knew the wind had changed direction and was nudging the fire closer to them. They didn’t have much time before they had to hike out.

The chopper dropped off a new guy, Gary, some gas cans, a sack of water bottles and MREs, and some news.

“One of the choppers landed wrong and started to roll off the cliff. Just crumbled away beneath it,” shouted Gary over the whine of chainsaws and the thunder of the flames in the near distance. “They tied it off, but now they have to divert another chopper to help out. Deitch was pissed as hell. We need to head that way when we’re done here.”

“Wouldn’t want to be that pilot.”

“Hell, no. Or the pilot who took a wrong turn while he was dropping retardant. Saw that pink shit coming through the air, never hit the ground so fast in my life.”

“Anyone get hurt?”

“Gonzalez. I think he was faking it to get to the hot doctor babe.”

Patrick felt his hackles rise. “No kidding.”

“Have you seen her? Blond, with a body like Scarlett Johanssen. Hot stuff, man. Next time I’m at the I.C., I’m asking her out. Hey, watch that chainsaw.”

“Oops.” Patrick’s lip curled as he yanked the chainsaw back so it didn’t spit wood chips in Gary’s face.

“Yup, beer, burgers, and a hot blonde. Just gotta put this little fire out first. They say it should be ten percent contained by tomorrow.”

Ten percent contained. That meant that before long he probably wouldn’t be needed. His presence at dinner would be requested by his persistent little sister. And there would be no way out.

But—­maybe he could make an excruciating family encounter a little more bearable with the addition of a certain blond doctor babe.

Chapter Seven

I
t was two days before Lara saw Patrick again. But she heard about him, in his new identity of “Psycho.” Apparently his legend had preceded him. Everyone agreed that he was an unpredictable, death-­defying madman who never met a risk he wouldn’t take.

But that didn’t appear to bother his sister, who still seemed to adore him.

“Make him say yes,” Megan pleaded over the phone as Lara spread ointment over a nasty burn on a fireman’s forearm. “I can’t reach him at all.”

“That’s because he’s at the fire line. The cell ser­vice is very unreliable out there.”

“He’s got to come back sometime. If you see him, pounce on him and make him say yes.”

“Pouncing is not my style. I’m not a wildcat. Besides, why would he care what I say? Psycho—­I mean, Patrick—­always did his own thing. He never listens to anyone.”

She had to admit, his new nickname suited him.

“Please, just . . . try, okay? It’s really important.”

Lara thought helping the men and women injured while battling the fire trying to incinerate Nevada rated higher in importance. And when that was done, she had an embarrassing family legacy to deal with. She heaved a sigh and pulled her cell phone away from her ear.

“Keep soaking for the next fifteen minutes,” she told the firefighter, a young kid who looked about twenty, with the worst blisters she’d ever seen. She could relate, since she herself had developed blisters after her first day out here. After that she’d switched to rubber-­soled hiking boots and felt much more comfortable.

“These firefighters are awfully cute,” she told Megan, after she moved out of earshot.

Silence, then a nearly inaudible sigh.

Lara refused to pry. She’d fought tooth and nail for her privacy growing up, and she hated intruding on other ­people’s.

“I have to go, Meggie. If I see Psycho, I’ll remind him about the invitation.”

“Do you really have to call him that?”

She laughed. “If the shoe fits . . .”

Stuffing her phone back in her pocket, she heard the whirring of a helicopter’s blades. She straightened up, feeling her lower back complain. This was the chopper that had gone to help the helicopter that got stuck. The original mission had been to pick up an injured medic, who was still out there. As the “medium”—­she’d heard it called that—­hovered over the heli-­spot, she saw Donnell and a ­couple other guys rushing toward it with a gurney.

It must be something serious, which meant it was something they wouldn’t let her assist on. They passed the minor wounds on to her, claiming the big stuff—­broken limbs, head injuries—­for themselves. It made sense, since she didn’t work for the fire ser­vice. But her competitive nature didn’t like getting relegated to the background.

Just then Donnell, who was in deep consultation with the pilot, beckoned her over. She ran to join them.

“Mind being deputized?”

“What does that mean?”

“Means we temporarily hire you. You’re covered by our insurance so we can stuff you in a chopper and fly you into the flames.”

Her jaw dropped. She’d had to sign a waiver when she first arrived, but this was even more involved.

“I’ve been watching you. You do a good job. We got a broken chopper and an injured medic out there. He needs to get checked before we load him into the chopper. Right now I got no one else besides you.”

Desperation. That explained it. She pushed her sweat-­drenched hair behind her ears. “Of course I’ll go. What’ll I need?”

“Everything’s on the bird already. Sign here. Social security number there. X on that line. After that, we have to get your PPE on. Personal protective equipment. You got boots? . . . Good, we can set you up with everything else.”

And just like that, she found herself employed by the United States Forest Ser­vice. She hadn’t even asked about pay or benefits. Did they offer much vacation time?

Wait a minute, this
was
her vacation. Just what she’d always wanted to do on her off-­time, fly into fires and take over sexual healing centers.

At the supply cache, someone found her an olive drab flight suit. They asked if she was wearing cotton. She had to check the labels, but her Bermuda shorts and T-­shirt did turn out to be cotton. Apparently that was enough to pass the regulations, as they told her to put the flight suit on over her clothes.

Then she ran back toward the heli-­spot, where Donnell waited with another firefighter, who was putting a white flight helmet on his head, his expression unreadable. He handed her a similar helmet.

“This fellow here is going to take you out there. Name’s Grant. Let him help you. He’s a trained paramedic.”

She nodded to Grant and took the helmet. Donnell hurried off, with a final, “Stay safe.” Nervous, she fumbled with the helmet until finally Grant reached over and settled it on her head. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Hell, no. “Absolutely.”

“Let’s go, then,” he said.

Following his lead, she climbed into the chopper, as she’d watched so many of the firefighters do, and entered an utterly male world of equipment, gear, and sweat. An empty gurney took up a corridor down the middle of the chopper. Grant pulled two seats down from the wall and sat in one. She gingerly settled into the other and buckled herself in.

“Before we take off, I have to give you the safety briefing,” Grant said. “Ready?”

At her nod, he launched into a rapid-­fire explanation of what type of helicopter it was, where the fire extinguishers were located, how the doors operated, where the first aid kit was, and the fact that the ELT was in the nose of the aircraft. He finished with “Briefing done, let’s move,” which was obviously aimed at the pilot, not her. She was still wrestling with the ELT thing. Weren’t those the black boxes that were supposed to survive a crash and explain what happened?

Somehow, the safety briefing didn’t make her feel any safer.

“What’s the patient’s condition?” she asked into the helmet mic as the chopper lurched into the air. Out the window the grubby tents of the command post were replaced by the rustling leaves of treetops, then a carpet of gray-­brown vegetation interspersed with vast stretches of scorched black fields.

“Broken bones, for sure. A tree fell on him. Some dude carried him on his back up the cliff to the crashed chopper. Crazy, but he saved his life.”

A sneaking suspicion filtered into Lara’s thoughts.

“What are their names?”

The pilot shook his head. “We didn’t get that far. I had to transport the other injured. No room for anyone else. There’s the fire.”

He pointed ahead. Lara twisted around to peer out the front of the chopper. A churning, flickering mass of destruction stretched ahead. Even though she knew the fire didn’t have an individual identity, it sure looked like it meant business, creeping across the landscape, devouring every tree, every blade of grass, every home it encountered. Surely it would get full at some point and slink back to its cave like a satisfied monster?

Then she sucked in a breath as she spotted the disabled chopper. It lay on top of a rise at the edge of a sandstone cliff. The fire was licking at it, as if trying to leap up the cliff. The chopper sprawled sideways at an improbable angle, like a broken child’s toy. Amazing that it hadn’t tumbled off the cliff by now; they must have done a good job tying it off.

“Looks like we got here just in time,” said Grant.

She squinted, peering closer, and spotted two small figures near the chopper. One lay on the ground, the other waved his arms at the chopper.

“I estimate we’ll have about six minutes to land, assess the patient, and get him on board.”

“What? I can’t do that. What if he has a broken neck? Moving him could . . .” She trailed off. Not moving him would almost definitely kill him. She’d just have to do her best.

“Hang on,” said the pilot abruptly. “Lots of air currents from those flames.”

So that’s what was making the chopper wobble back and forth. Lara squeezed her eyes shut as they tilted to one side then the other, as if they were trapped inside a drunken elevator going down. But the darkness made her too nervous, so she opened her eyes and stared at the floor of the chopper as it lurched violently back and forth.

Don’t get sick, don’t get sick
.
Don’t throw up all over a Fire Ser­vice helicopter and an unfriendly firefighter.

She managed to get a grip on her queasiness as the chopper settled onto the flat surface of the cliff.

Thank God
.

But she didn’t have much time for prayers of gratitude. The chopper door opened, hot air rushed around her like ten thousand blow dryers, and Patrick, wild blue eyes blazing from a face nearly black with soot and grime, reached into the chopper to help her out.

“You stalking me?” he yelled over the steady beat of the chopper blades.

“Screw you,” she shouted back, in no mood to banter. “Where’s the patient?”

He grabbed her arm and ran, ducking under the blades, toward the man lying on the ground. “I’ve been checking his pulse, it fluctuates between eighty and ninety.”

“Has he regained consciousness at all?”

“Nope.”

“You carried an unconscious man up this hill?”

He grinned at her. “You want me, don’t you?”

She made a face at him and set to work. The injured medic was older than she’d expected, and looked vaguely familiar. The tree must have struck his upper body. His breathing was shallow, his face pale. Shock. She quickly located a fractured left arm, three broken ribs, and swelling around his neck. With Patrick hovering over her, she gingerly felt the vertebrae on the back of his neck. Nothing seemed obviously out of place, but even a hairline fracture could be trouble.

Grant had already brought the gurney from the chopper and waited impatiently for instructions.

“Grab me the C collar,” she told him. “We’re just going to have to go for it.” Grant hurried back to the chopper.

“The ride’s going to be brutal,” said Patrick.

“No kidding.” She winced just thinking about it. “It couldn’t be worse than being carried on your back, though. If there’s damage, it’s probably already done.”

“Now there’s optimism.”

Grant returned with the C collar. “Pilot says we have one minute or he’s going to leave without us.”

“Can you lift his head while I put on the collar? Very, very carefully?”

Grant nodded and knelt on the other side of the fallen medic. Together they maneuvered the injured man’s limp head into the stabilizing collar.

“Let’s get him on the gurney. On two,” she said. “One, two.” Gently the three of them rolled the patient onto the stretcher.

“Hurry,” yelled Patrick. “I think the chopper’s about to light up.” He grabbed the handles at the foot of the gurney and Lara hurried to the patient’s head. “Careful now.”

As fast as they could, without bobbling the man too much, they trotted toward the chopper. Grant climbed in first, while Patrick and Lara helped guide the loaded stretcher after him. Grant immediately set to work securing the patient. Patrick jumped in after him, then put out a hand to help Lara board. As soon as she grabbed it, his grip switched to her wrist.

“Gotta go!” The pilot yelled.

“Go! Go!” Patrick yelled back at him. “We’re good!”

“What?”
She was certainly not good, seeing as she was half in, half out of the chopper. She scrambled to get both legs on board. Something metal scraped her shin. The chopper began to lift into the air.

“I’m not letting go of you,” Patrick said calmly, his fist still wrapped around her wrist. She could practically feel the bruises forming. “Take your time. Get one leg in, then the other.”

She heaved one leg onto the floor of the helicopter. A rush of heat tried to gobble up her other leg. She yelped. Had she just been burned?

“You’re okay,” urged Patrick. “If you panic I’ll kick your ass. Now the other leg. That’s right. I gotta say, I like this angle, Lulu.”

“You’re a pig!”

“Nice move, insulting the guy holding you above a raging wildfire.” He laughed maniacally. He was enjoying this, the jerk. Loving every second. He really was “Psycho.”

“Come on,” he yelled. “You can do it. You’re flexible. Didn’t you do all that tantric yoga with the Goddesses? Yeah, I admit. I spied once or twice.”

“What?”
Fury carried her the rest of the way into the belly of the chopper. As she rolled onto the steel floor, warm from the flames still only a few yards beneath the helicopter, Patrick reached over and pulled the door shut.

Immediately the terrible roar of the wind and flames lessened. Lara lay panting on the floor until Patrick hauled her into one of the pull-­down seats. “I hate you, Patrick Callahan IV.”

“If I had a nickel for every time I heard that from a woman whose life I just saved, I’d . . . well, I’d have a nickel. Most women want to kiss me.”

“You didn’t save my life,” she ground out. She checked the gash on her shin. Sure enough, blood dripped onto her boots.

From the chair next to her, Patrick fixed his vivid blue gaze on her.

“Fine. Thanks for that part,” she said grudgingly. “But I’m really pissed about the rest of it. You had no right to come onto Haven property and—­”

He shrugged, grabbing two water bottles and tossing one to her. “I couldn’t have if I wanted to. Your aunt was pretty strict with her security.”

“You mean . . .” She gaped at him. The water bottle felt cool in her hands. She pressed it against her hot cheek.

“I lied. I was trying to piss you off. You always moved faster when you were fired up.”

He gave her a diabolical wink. God, she wanted to rip his head off. Smash his face in. Scratch his eyes out. It took her right back to her teenage years, before she’d claimed her life as a rational med student.

“Congratulations,” she gritted. “I didn’t think I could hate you more, but I do.”

“What’s that they say about the thin line?” He toasted her with his water bottle, then glugged from it. She watched his Adam’s apple move under the stubbly, tanned, filthy skin of his neck. Dirt and sweat shouldn’t be this sexy, should it? Her gaze traveled to the other side of the chopper, where Grant sat opposite them, head tilted back, eyes shut. Even though he too was handsome—­and almost as dirty as Patrick—­he didn’t have a fraction of Patrick’s impact on her.