Just Kate: His Only Wife (Bestselling Author Collection) (32 page)

At the main gate leading into the Raintree Ranch he met up with Hannah who was returning from the college. He debated stopping to chat with her and decided he had thirty seconds, and thirty seconds only, to spare.

She shoved open the gate, the rusty mechanism objecting with a high-pitched squeal. “You were going fast enough.” She walked over to lean on Gage’s open window. “Where’s the fire?”

“Northwest of Saddle Horn Butte.”

“Oh, wow!” Her face registered shock. “I was just kidding.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Sorry to dump everything on you.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“Dad’s in a bitch of a mood.”

“What else is new?”

“He’s mad because the tractor’s still not working.”

“I’ll get Kenny Junior to look at it when he comes out tomorrow.”

He had no doubt Kenny Junior would move a mountain for her if she so much as batted an eyelash at him.

She rapped the side of his truck. “You get a move on. We’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, sis.” Some of the weight on his shoulders lifted. “I appreciate you taking care of things while I’m gone.”

“Hey, it’s cool. That’s what family’s for.” She waved him off. “You be careful, you hear?”

Gage hit the gas. A glance in his rearview mirror told him Hannah was already in her car and on her way home. Good. If anyone could cajole their dad out of his bad mood, it would be her.

He didn’t realize until he reached the highway that Hannah had never before offered to handle things for him while he was at a fire. She was usually too caught up in her own little world to think beyond personal wants and wishes.

Maybe his younger sister was finally growing up.

And if that were the case, his life might have just become a tiny bit easier.

* * *

“You should really have that looked at by a doctor.” Aubrey laid an ice pack on the Hotshot’s knee. The joint was swollen to half again its normal size. She’d had to cut a hole in his pants to get at it. “You probably tore a ligament.”

He lifted the ice pack and inspected the soft bulge where his kneecap should be. “I’ll be fine.”

Aubrey had insisted he elevate the injured leg and used one of the metal folding chairs in the community center as a prop. She handed him two ibuprofen and a bottle of water.

“Take these.”

“You have anything stronger?”

He
was
in pain, she thought, and not nearly as tough as he tried to appear. “Not here and not without a doctor’s orders.”

“It’s okay.” He downed the tablets. “I want to be clearheaded if they call us for another shift.”

She gave him a wet washcloth, and he used it to clean his face and hands. The rest of him would have to wait. With one bathroom and twenty Hotshots wanting to shower, he had a good two hours to kill before his turn came.

“You’re not thinking of going back to the fire?” Aubrey asked, not quite believing her ears.

He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.

“Put too much pressure on that knee and you could cause permanent damage to the ligament.”

“It’s just a sprain.” He dismissed her concern in favor of a plate of spaghetti, courtesy of another volunteer.

Aubrey shook her head in dismay.

She’d treated a dozen Hotshots for minor to moderately serious injuries in the last two days and not one of them even remotely considered calling it quits. They were either raving lunatics or the bravest individuals she’d ever met.

“Hey, Aubrey,” her friend Eleanor called. “Can you run next door to the Wash-o-matic and pick up that last load of laundry?”

“Sure.” It would be her fourth trip of the day. Aubrey would hate to count the number of bath towels, dishtowels, bedsheets, rags, tablecloths and assorted clothing she’d washed and folded.

As she crossed the large room to the main door, her gaze gravitated toward the TV, where a reporter was broadcasting live a few miles from the fire. Smoke filled the sky behind her, a swirling, billowing mixture of white and gray. The news, however, was encouraging. At last report, the fire was sixty-five percent contained. Experts predicted it would be ninety-five percent contained by morning.

So, why hasn’t anyone heard from Gage?

When Aubrey showed up at the community center the day before with a food donation, she told herself it was the neighborly thing to do. It was the same excuse she used when she returned that morning and then stayed all day. In truth, she’d been hoping for information on Gage, who’d been gone three days without a single word.

She tried not to concern herself. After all, Gage was an experienced firefighter, and they’d been receiving regular updates on his crew via radio transmission. At least, that’s what Kenny Junior told Aubrey earlier when he dropped off some planks to finish the handicap ramp.

And it wasn’t like she and Gage had a relationship or anything. They were friends. Period. Friends and former spouses.

So, did former spouses go around kissing each other like they were crazy in lust?

No point denying it. She
had
kissed him,
wanted
to and
did
it. Gage might have egged her on, but he hadn’t coerced her. Not by a long shot. What must he be thinking? One minute she’d told him they needed distance in order to avoid problems when she left town. The next minute she was kissing him like she couldn’t wait to jump naked into bed with him.

Aubrey grabbed the empty laundry basket and trudged out the door into the deepening light of early evening. The Wash-o-matic was a short hop, skip and jump from the community center. Just far enough to work up a sweat.

While dumping clean laundry from the dryer into the basket, she asked herself, not for the first time, why she’d returned to the community center, not once but twice, and why she was doing exactly what she’d told the Sierra Nevada captain she wouldn’t—namely, help out.

The answer, she knew, had as much to do with being useful as it did with finding information on Gage. Aubrey missed her job, plain and simple. Though an entirely different environment, there were similarities between a busy E.R. and the community center.

Both hummed with excitement and energy, not to mention that they both existed in a state of constant tension. The highly trained and dedicated staff members were united in a common purpose: bringing comfort and relief to the people who walked through the door. Aubrey may have been a stranger to most people in the room, but she felt right at home, and they sensed that about her.

Was that the reason Gage and the other Hotshots fought fires? Did they have the same desire—no, compulsion—to help those in need as Aubrey and her coworkers?

Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she did understand what motivated Gage. But nursing didn’t usually require one to risk their life on a regular basis as firefighting did.

She stood, slamming the dryer door shut. Where was Gage? Why didn’t he call? Balancing the basket of clean laundry on her hip, she made her way back to the community center.

In her absence, a mud-splattered minibus had parked near the front entrance of the community center. The last of its occupants, a man wearing brown pants and a navy blue T-shirt, slipped through the door. Aubrey’s step faltered. Those were the colors of the Blue Ridge Hotshots. Had Gage’s crew finally returned?

Running while carrying a full laundry basket proved cumbersome, but Aubrey didn’t drop so much as a sock. Not that she would have stopped to pick it up.

Inside the community center, she quickly scanned the new arrivals, searching for Gage. Her chest heaved, and her temples pounded. From the back and side, all the Hotshots looked alike; their damp hair mussed, their clothes rumpled and every inch of them streaked with grime and soot.

Aubrey wove her way through the large room, her eyes going from one to the other. Smiles greeted her. Not one, however, belonged to a familiar face. Damn! Where was Gage? The emblems on the navy blue T-shirts identified the firefighters as Blue Ridge Hotshots. His crew. He had to be with them, didn’t he?

She went up to the nearest one, moving the laundry basket to her other hip. “Excuse me. Did Gage Raintree come back with you?”

He gave her a curious and then appreciative once-over. “Are you Aubrey Stuart?”

“Yes.” How did he know her name?

A smile lit his sun-burned and wind-reddened face. “Nice to meet you. I’m Marty Paxton, Gage’s captain. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” She shook the hand he offered, more interested in news of Gage than social pleasantries. “Can you tell me where Gage is?”

“I can do better than that.” His smile grew. “I can show you.”

Relief swept through Aubrey, followed by anticipation. The one-two punch left her wobbly in the knees. “Okay.”

Marty raised an arm and pointed at the open doorway leading to the kitchen. “In there.”

The laundry basket hit the floor with a thud. Deep laughter followed Aubrey as she darted through the maze of folding tables and chairs blocking her route to the kitchen. She assumed the laughter was Marty’s. The hell with him. He could think what he wanted, she didn’t care. So long as she confirmed with her own eyes that Gage was safe and in one piece.

He was standing at the sink, his right hand under the faucet, water running full blast. Eleanor stood beside him and stared at his hand, her lips thinned in concentration.

They both glanced up as she skittered to a stop. Gage’s expression conveyed surprise. Eleanor’s didn’t. In fact, her eyes twinkled with an I-thought-so mirth.

Aubrey dismissed her as she had Marty. What did they know anyway?

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Eleanor reached around Gage and shut off the water. “Titillating as this conversation is, I’m afraid I simply must tear myself away.”

“Huh?” Gage turned to look at her. “Sure. Thanks, Eleanor.”

“You’re welcome.” She smirked at Aubrey on her way out. “To both of you.”

Aubrey didn’t remember deciding to throw herself at Gage the second Eleanor left the kitchen, yet somehow she wound up in his arms.

“Thank God you’re all right.” Her voice hitched with emotion. “I got worried when no one heard from you.”

Gage could have gloated, she supposed. He could have told her he knew all along she was lying and still had feelings for him no matter what she said, but he didn’t. Instead, he squeezed her tight as if he couldn’t bear to be parted from her ever again. Aubrey’s heart sang.

“I was worried about you, too,” he murmured into her hair.

Though she would have gladly let him, he didn’t attempt to kiss her.

“Why didn’t you call?” she demanded when they finally broke apart.

“Sorry. I would have if I’d known you wanted to hear from me. Did you want to hear from me, Aubrey?”

“Yes.” The admission came out softer than she intended.

“Seems to me you made it pretty clear the other night at your grandmother’s house you wanted to put some distance between us.”

How could she explain her reasons to him when she didn’t understand them herself?

“I talked with your mother this morning at the real estate office,” she said, avoiding his question. “You haven’t checked in with your family, either.”

“They know where I am.”

“But they don’t know you’re safe.”

“I’ll call later.”

She’d obviously struck a sore spot with him and let the subject drop. “How’s the fire? I heard earlier it was sixty-five percent contained.”

“It’s closer to eighty now.”

“Wow. That’s great news. When do you report back?”

“We may not have to. We’re supposed to stick around here for the next few hours just in case.” He cradled his left hand inside his right one.

Aubrey’s nurse’s eyes zeroed right in. “What happened to your hand?”

“Just a small burn.”

“Let me see.”

He obediently placed his hand in hers, and she gently uncurled his fingers. His palm was bright red. Blisters the size of dimes covered the pads of each finger, including his thumb. A single large blister an inch long cut across the center of his palm. Charred particles were imbedded in the skin alongside the blisters. It had probably looked worse before he washed it.

Aubrey took a second to compose herself. “How did this happen?”

“I got a sticker or some damn thing inside my glove. It hurt like a son of a bitch. I took the glove off for just a second to get whatever it was out. Right about the same time this burning log decided to roll down the hill at us.”

“And you had to stop it,” she said, turning the cold water back on and sticking his hand under the flow. She didn’t release his wrist.

“Actually, Ernesto stopped the log. Not intentionally. He tried to jump clear of it but tripped and was knocked flat on his butt. The log rolled onto his legs.”

“Oh, my God, Gage.”

“I didn’t think and just reached down to shove it off him.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yeah. They took him to Pineville hospital. He may need plastic surgery.” Gage indicated his injured hand with a nod. “This is a scratch compared to him.”

“This is hardly a scratch. You have second-degree burns.”

Aubrey pictured a burning log rolling down a hill toward Gage and went ice cold, inside and out. She had to fight the debilitating numbness threatening to turn her limbs into deadweights and reminded herself she wasn’t in Tucson General’s E.R. No one’s life hung by a thread, depending on her quick responses to save them.

She clenched her jaw and tried to concentrate on the present. Enough was enough, she chided herself. This ridiculous nonsense had to end, and soon. She was a nurse. A professional. Someone who—

“Aubrey? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t look very good.”

“I’m fine,” she said, drawing deep, even breaths. The infusion of extra oxygen helped warm her frigid blood. “Just tired.”

“Me, too.”

“I bet you are.” Feeling a little better, Aubrey shut off the water and wrapped Gage’s hand in a clean towel. “Let’s dress this for you.”

She led him out of the kitchen and toward the folding table that served as the first-aid station.

“Why are you here?” he asked as they walked.