Holiday in Your Heart (35 page)

Smoke still choked his nose and filled his lungs, and he coughed again, struggling to expel it. “There's no smoke. I'm not in Afghanistan. It was a nightmare.” Except . . .

Oh, fuck, that smoke was no dream; it was real. So was the roar and crackle of flames. The house was on fire.

And had been for some time, he realized, while his fucked-up brain had been back in Afghanistan.

Damn it, he'd left his phone downstairs in the kitchen. Besides, from the noise and smell, he wasn't sure the Caribou Crossing fire department would be able to reach the remote farmhouse in time. Might any distant neighbors be awake in the middle of the night and have seen the glow of flames in the sky? He sure as hell wasn't going to wait around and see if rescue came.

Disoriented by the darkness, smoke, and the lingering effects of the flashback, he tried to get his bearings. Reaching out, he found the side of the bed. He'd thrashed around so much in his sleep that he'd fallen out on the side farthest from the door.

His T-shirt was at the foot of the bed, where he'd tossed it when he racked out. He grabbed it and held it to his face, trying to block the smoke. He'd already inhaled so much while caught up in his flashback that his burning lungs and throat kept him coughing, and his eyes watered.

He did a quick situation analysis. The bedroom was on the second floor. If he shut the door—that sturdy wooden door—it'd hold the fire back. But there was no fire escape outside the window. Though the bedroom was on the second floor, the way the house was situated atop a hill meant that it was a three-story drop from the window to a concrete patio. He was strong enough to pull himself up onto the roof, but the fire could trap him there if rescue didn't arrive soon. If he donned his prosthesis, maybe he could find a way to climb down, or he could take his chances on jumping. No, wait. Shit. The batteries that operated his high-tech leg were in the charger.

He was running out of time.

The only other exit was down the hall and stairs to the front door—if the fire didn't block his path. Deciding on that course of action, Eric crawled lopsidedly around the bed, using his good knee, his stump, and one hand. Clad only in cotton boxer briefs, he kept his head low, using his other hand to hold his tee to his nose, but smoke filtered through the cotton. Deep, wrenching coughs racked his body. There was crap in this house, toxic crap. Smoke inhalation messed with your body and your brain. He didn't have a moment to spare.

He made it to the door into the hall. The smoke was even thicker, and orangey-yellow flames engulfed the end of the hall directly above the kitchen. How the hell had the fire started? Faulty wiring in the kitchen, maybe? It was an old house; when he rented it, he hadn't cared that it was run-down.

The fire ate its way toward him, but didn't cut off his escape route to the top of the staircase. Coughing into his T-shirt, he crawled as fast as he could. His coordination was getting worse, a side effect of smoke inhalation.

Stairs were good exercise. He'd been drilling himself running up and down them, getting used to his fancy prosthesis, building his strength, striving for a balanced gait. Improving every day. Now, without that leg, he'd have to “bum it down” as patients referred to it in rehab—plopping on his ass and bumping down step by step the way a toddler would. It'd only take a few seconds, and then the door would be right in front of him.

He forced himself onward. Both his legs—the one that had been seriously injured and the missing one—hurt fiercely. What with the smoke and his coughing, he could barely catch his breath. His head ached so badly he had trouble thinking, and he was dizzy, disoriented, and nauseous. Did he hear a siren, or was he hallucinating?

At the top of the stairs, a coughing fit brought him to a stop. It was so severe he couldn't catch his breath.

Peering downstairs through burning, watering eyes, he saw that it was less smoky there, but that flames and smoke were spreading down the hallway from the kitchen. He'd left the heavy kitchen door closed and it had blocked the fire for a while, but now the monster had breached it. He had to get to the first floor before fire blocked the front door.

Goddamn it, he'd survived an IED in Afghanistan. He wasn't going to die in a house fire out in the middle of the Cariboo. Dizzy, fighting nausea, he struggled to stop coughing, to breathe shallowly through the protective barrier of his cotton tee, to focus, to push onward.

Downstairs, there was a crash. Breaking glass. Had the fire blown out a window? An instant later, the front door slammed open and two firefighters dashed into the smoky hallway. “Fire Department,” a voice yelled. “Call out!”

He tried to respond, but instead coughed like he was hacking up a lung. A haze swam across his eyes, through his brain. He was fading, losing consciousness.

But one of them had seen him. A figure clad in bulky turnout gear raced up the stairs. The other manned a hose, aiming a powerful stream of water down the hallway, attempting to hold back the fire.

The first firefighter knelt beside Eric, reaching for something in the pocket of his turnout pants. “You're okay,” he said, his voice muffled and distorted by the face mask. “Is there anyone else in the house? Nod or shake your head.”

Eric, still hacking, shook his head while the firefighter pulled out a strap.

“Got an adult male,” the firefighter reported to someone. “He says that's all.”

Through the visor of the mask, dark brown eyes stared into Eric's. “We'll get you out,” the man said. Despite his wonky vision, Eric read confidence and reassurance. A sense of peace stole over him. The hand that held the tee to his nose dropped away. He began to fade . . . His last conscious thought was,
I'm safe
.

His lapse in consciousness didn't last long. When he came to, he was being pulled headfirst down the stairs. The firefighter had wrapped the strap under his armpits and was tugging him, supporting his head and neck. Eric's lower body bumped each step. Pain jabbed him. His body struggled to expel smoke, but he tried to hold still, to not make the rescue more difficult. He hated being helpless, being somebody's burden. Making this other man risk his life to rescue him. Eric was the soldier, the one who was supposed to be tough and self-sufficient.

He was aware of the second firefighter still spraying water, and then his rescuer was pulling him through the open front door. Other hands were there, ready to take him. Fresh air touched his skin. Red and blue lights swirled; water arced from a hose pointed at the house; voices called out.

He was on a stretcher, an oxygen mask being hooked over his face. Needily but cautiously, he sucked air through his scorched airway. Someone draped a blanket over him and fingers checked his pulse. Paramedics, he realized. A man and a woman in blue uniforms.

His rescuer was still there, too, addressing him. “You said there's no one else in the house. Nod if that's correct.”

He nodded confirmation.

“Any pets?”

He shook his head. Damn it, his prosthesis was in there. The high-tech one designed for soldiers to help them be fully functional—and to return to active service if they chose to do so. It was his mobility, his freedom; it was his chance to reclaim his career, his life. But he couldn't ask firefighters to risk their own lives for a damned leg. The prosthetist would make him a new one, but it would take time. Another setback. It was the fucking story of his life these days.

Dimly, he was aware that his rescuer was relaying Eric's report to the other firefighters. Oddly, the man's confident voice had an almost feminine sound.

Eric wanted to lift the oxygen mask and thank the guy, but the firefighter was hurrying away to help the others who were trying to control the blaze.

“You're going to be okay,” the female paramedic, youngish, with blond hair pulled back from her face, said calmly. “We'll get you to the hospital and they'll treat you for smoke inhalation.”

He nodded his understanding.

She glanced toward the house. “It's fully involved. You're a lucky man. Lark got you just in time.”

Lark? An unusual name, especially for a guy.

The other paramedic, a stocky guy with graying hair, said, “Caribou Crossing's sure lucky to have her.”

Her? Well, shit. He'd been rescued by a woman.

He had nothing against women. He'd served with a few; they were as capable as the men. But now, for whatever reason, discovering that he'd been saved by a woman felt like the final blow to his ego. Grateful as he was to be alive, could he be any more humiliated?

Award-winning, international bestselling author Susan Fox (who also writes as Savanna Fox and Susan Lyons) is a Pacific Northwester with homes in Victoria and Vancouver, British Columbia. She has degrees in law and psychology, and has had a variety of careers, including perennial student, computer consultant, and legal editor. Fiction writer is by far her favorite, giving her an outlet to demonstrate her belief in the power of love, friendship, and a sense of humor. Visit her Web site at
www.susanfox.ca
.

 

For Evan Kincaid, the best thing about his dusty hometown was watching it fade into the distance. Jessica Bly was the only one who didn't treat him like an outsider, and their friendship ended with one mind-blowing night of young passion. Now they've both got the lives they planned—Evan in New York, Jess with her beloved horses in Caribou Crossing. But business has brought Evan back to Jess's Crazy Horse ranch on a mission that could destroy whatever's left of her trust.

 

Ten years ago, Jess wanted one perfect night to remember Evan by. What she got was a broken heart and a secret that's kept them strangers ever since. The boy she knew was sexy and sweet; the man he's become leaves her breathless. And no matter how much she tells herself that country girl and city boy don't belong together, in her heart she wants to believe his home has been right here all along...

 

Also features the full-length prequel novella “Caribou Crossing.”

 

Brooke Kincaid knows second chances don't come cheap. She's spent five years repairing past mistakes and making her life in Caribou Crossing steady and predictable. But now a stranger's Harley has shattered her fence and her peace of mind in one swoop. Because Brooke is drawn to everything about wounded undercover cop Jake Brannon . . .

 

By rights, Brooke should curse Jake for complicating her life. Instead she's offered him a place to heal and a cover story as he searches for a wanted man. Jake knows she's vulnerable, but she's also strong, kind, and hotter than hellfire. It's a combination that could make even a die-hard loner long to put up his boots and put down roots at last, and show her just how good a second chance can get . . .