How to Tame a Wild Fireman (28 page)

He put the accelerator to the floorboards. Lara gripped the door handle as the Hulk rocked and rolled at top speed down the highway.

Patrick barreled through
Loveless, where the streets were nearly empty and everything was coated with a light dusting of pale ash. So he’d made an ass out of himself with Lara. What else was new? She’d shot him down, even though he didn’t even know exactly what he was trying to say. The whole thing sat in his gut like a bad fishburger. But he couldn’t think about it anymore now. That fire was calling his name.

Smoky air filtered through the dashboard vents. He opened his glove compartment, brushing against Lara’s bare knee in the process. With savage satisfaction he noted the goose bumps that rose on her skin at his touch. Her khaki shorts stopped at mid-­thigh, and her smooth skin had been distracting him the whole trip. Maybe that’s why he’d fucked everything up.

He pulled two particle masks from his glove compartment and handed one to her. Using his knees to steer, he snapped one of them around his mouth, then gestured for her to do the same. Efficiently, she did so, then put all her hair back in a twist, anchoring it with a clip.

He nodded and gave her a thumbs-­up. They both faced forward, the lower half of their faces shielded by the thin white filters.

At least they couldn’t talk anymore. He couldn’t make a fool of himself, and she couldn’t hurt his pride.

Lights flashed behind them. A Loveless fire engine, sirens sounding, zoomed past. Patrick recognized Pedro in the front seat and waved. The firefighter beckoned to him to follow close.

Drafting off a fire engine—­not something any fire department normally encouraged. Patrick took it as either a sign of confidence or of how bad things stood at the ranch. Either way, he’d take them up on it. He fell in line behind the engine. Both vehicles flew down the last stretch of the main road. Together they took the sharp turn onto the long gravel driveway to the ranch house.

Just past the perimeter of the Callahan acreage, the wildfire squatted like a giant, belching toad. Even with the windows rolled up they could hear it roaring like a monster throwing a tantrum.

“I’m way ahead of you, asshole,” Patrick shouted, forgetting where he was for a moment. All those hours he’d spent knocking down brush had paid off. There was no doubt in his mind that if he hadn’t done it, the ranch house and all the outbuildings would be toast. At the very least, he’d bought them some time.

“Is it okay?” Lara shouted through her mask.

He shook his head. Hell no, it wasn’t okay. He’d slowed the fire down, but with flames the height of the Space Needle, it wouldn’t take much for them to jump to the nearest clump of brush, or the nearest ­outbuilding.

“Maybe, but we should get everyone out.”

“What about him?”

She pointed at the ranch house roof. A large figure kneeled on the asphalt shingles, braced at a precarious angle. He held a garden hose, which he sprayed across the roof, splashing himself as much as the asphalt.

“Lord love a duck,” breathed Patrick. “He’s even crazier than I thought.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

P
atrick brought the Hulk to a screeching halt a short distance from the fire engine. He jumped out and ran to intercept Farris, who was the first to descend from the rig.

“I’ll get my father off that roof.”

Farris didn’t look happy. “We shouldn’t even be here. I convinced the captain to swing by on our way out there.” He gestured to the smoking, billowing fire line. “Can’t let Big Dog Callahan do himself in, even if he’s making a damn good effort.”

“I got it from here. You guys do what you have to do.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’ll bring him down if it kills us both. Two fewer Callahans for you to worry about.” He winked with the bravado of a longtime firefighter.

“Your sister will be glad you’re here. She’s been going crazy.” He pointed across the yard to Megan, who was being comforted by the young firefighter Pedro. Patrick’s heart clenched at how terrified she looked. “You have your King, right?”

“Yes, sir.” His work radio was stashed in his rig.

Farris gave him the tactical frequency they were using. “Keep us posted. I don’t like the way that fire looks.”

“It looks hungry, that’s what.” Patrick shook his hand. “Appreciate the help. You may be hearing from me yet, but I’ll do all I can from this end.”

Farris clapped him on the shoulder, called to Pedro, and a minute later the fire engine pulled out.

From the roof, Big Dog yelled, “Go on, then, you yellow-­bellied sons of bitches!”

Oh, Christ. His father was in a full-­throttle rage. Patrick ran to Megan and gave her a quick hug, trying to infuse his strength into her. “It’s all right, Meggie. I’m on it. Where’s Mom?”

Tears had left a trail of dirty streaks across Megan’s freckled face. “She’s around. She’s with that really tall woman, Janey? I think they decided to get the animals out of the barn and stables just in case.”

“That’s a great idea. Why don’t you go help them?” A horrible thought struck him. “Where’s Goldie?”

“I don’t know.” Megan looked around helplessly. “I’ve been so worried about Dad I haven’t paid attention to anything else.”

“Well, you did the right thing. You did great, Megan, don’t worry about Dad. I’ll take care of it. Go help Mom and Janey.” He beckoned to Lara, who was shading her eyes to look up at his father, who had forgotten about the hose and was still brandishing his fist at the departing fire engine.

“Lara, can you help Megan find Goldie and get the other animals out?”

She nodded and jogged toward them. Patrick saw the exact moment she switched into doctor mode and swept Megan with an assessing look. Taking his sister by the arm, she murmured, “First things first. Let’s get some water going out here. We can’t let anyone get dehydrated. Megan, can you point me to some bottled water?”

Lara put an arm around his sister and firmly steered her toward the house. Patrick let out a sigh of relief. It was nice to know a smart, capable, compassionate doctor was on his side. Even if she did laugh at the very thought of marrying him.

He hurried to the ladder his father had used to climb to the roof. It was wildly askew, with one leg barely on the ground. He corrected it, made sure it was securely anchored, and scrambled to the roof. A blast of water hit him right in the face.

“Aim it somewhere else, Dad!” he shouted.

“Donkey’s balls! I’m tired of everyone telling me what to do!” He swished the stream of water back and forth across Patrick’s face.

Oh Lord. Big Dog had totally lost it. Patrick hurried back down the ladder, located the spigot and turned it off. As the water stopped flowing, he heard a bellow of outrage from the roof. He raced back up the ladder. At the top, Big Dog balanced precariously, fists ready to let fly, completely oblivious to the fact that he was one wrong half step from tumbling to the ground.

He had to get his dad to come down before Big Dog killed one or both of them.

“Truce, Dad! I’m on your side. We don’t need to wet down the house yet. The sun will just dry it out. It’s better to save the water for when the fire’s on top of us.”

A look of deep-­seated suspicion creased Big Dog’s face. “Save the water?”

“Yes, save it for when, or if, the fire gets this far. If the power goes out, we won’t have any well water. We need to fill some buckets up.”

Big Dog still refused to budge. “The firemen told me to evacuate. Not going to leave my property undefended. And there ain’t no law that can make me.”

“You’re right. There isn’t. And I’m right here with you, Dad. Come down and help me get ready.”

Big Dog squinted at him, almost as if struggling to recognize his own son. “What are you up to?” he asked in an ugly voice. “Some kind of sabotage?” His foot slipped on the slippery roof and he staggered.

“Dad, I’ve got no hidden agenda. I want to help you save the place. But you can’t do it if you go splat. Now, come on.” He reached up a hand, only to have it swatted away with the end of the hose.

Damn it to hell.
If he got his father any more upset, anything could happen. Maybe he should just climb back down the ladder and start filling buckets himself. Without water, his father wouldn’t have much to do on the roof. He’d seen plenty of crazy behavior on fire scenes, but something about Big Dog seemed off. Had he been drinking? Smoked the wrong kind of cigar?

“Okay, Dad. I’m going down. Join in whenever you’re ready. We’ll take care of this thing, all right?” He took a step backward down the ladder.

An uncertain look crossed his father’s face. God, he looked old. So old. And, for one crucial second, confused.

Then he slipped, as if on a banana peel.

The hose snaked up into the air, then came whipping past the ladder. The metal fitting at the end slashed across Patrick’s cheek. He felt blood but didn’t have time to worry about it because his father came next, skidding down the roof, windmilling his arms and legs.

Patrick lunged to the side, managing to wedge his body under his father’s. He wrapped one arm around Big Dog’s chest and dragged him sideways, so the ladder took both their weights. The thin aluminum shook beneath him but stayed steady. Big Dog twisted one way, then another; he seemed completely disoriented.

Patrick’s arm muscles burned and shook with the effort of keeping a 200-­plus pound man propped in midair. “Dad! Calm down. I can’t keep hold of you if you keep squirming around like that.”

“Patrick? Is that you?”

“Yes, I’m here.” Sweat poured off his face. “We have a little situation here, but I’m not going to let you go. I’m a firefighter, remember? I do this kind of thing all the time. You’re going to be fine, but you have to do exactly what I say. Understand?”

He took his father’s short grunt as an affirmative.

“I want you to try to get one foot onto the ladder.” With the way his father’s legs were swinging back and forth, he had a very good chance of knocking both of them off the ladder. “Do you think you can do that?”

“I don’t know. Don’t let me go.”

Patrick’s heart skittered at the frightened tone of his father’s voice. Though he’d phrased it more as an order, the undertone of panic was loud and clear. “I got you, Dad. I promise. If you can get at least one leg hooked onto the ladder, you’ll feel a lot better. Try the left leg. Nice and easy.”

Slowly, in short fits of movement, Big Dog slid his foot toward the ladder. It hit a rung with a clang that seemed to startle him.

“That’s good, Dad. Just like that. Now make sure you’re on it, good and steady.” Patrick shifted his head and took a gulp of smoky air. His father stank of fear and sweat, and with his big body crowding close to the ladder, there was no escape. He hadn’t been this close to his father in twenty years.

Big Dog grunted. “Got my foot.”

“Way to go. Now, nice and slow, shift your weight onto the ladder. That’s right. You’re doing great, Dad. You’d never know you weren’t a fireman yourself. Now I’m going to help you turn so you can get your hands on the ladder.” He shifted his own body to the side to give his father room. Big Dog inched over. Patrick guided his father’s left hand onto the side of the ladder. He latched onto it with a desperate lunge.

“Perfect. Are you ready for me to let you go? I’m going to climb down a few rungs, then you can turn your body to face the ladder and come after me. Got it?”

Big Dog nodded.

“I’m letting go on three. One . . . two . . . three.” He released his grip on his father but kept his hands hovering close until he was sure Big Dog wasn’t going to somersault off the ladder. Then he slowly extracted himself and took the next rung, then the next. As soon as his father had made his way down the ladder, Patrick slumped against the warm aluminum, the release from tension nearly capsizing him.

Images shot through his mind: his father landing on his back on the gravel, his head splitting open, the life draining out of his eyes. His father
could have died
. He gave a silent prayer of thanks that he’d been quick enough to stop his tumble.

A shout of terror roused him. Someone was running from the direction of the barn. Lara.

“The barn’s on fire! The hayloft is smoking!”

Patrick scrambled down a few more steps, then jumped the rest of the way to the ground. He grabbed the hose and dashed toward the barn. But the hose only reached halfway. He flung it aside.

“I think there’s a spigot in the barn, but it might not be working. Just in case I can’t get to it, get some buckets from that shed and fill them at the hose,” he ordered Lara, who was right on his heels.

“What about your father?”

He looked over his shoulder to see Big Dog reach the ground. “If he’ll help you, great. See if you can keep him out of my way.”

“I’ll do what I can. Oh, wait, Patrick! Your father has barrels of drinking water in the barn. The spigot in there must be working.”

She turned away, but he grabbed her hand and swung her close to him for a fast, hard kiss on the lips. “You’re a gem. Thanks for being here. Get the buckets anyway, it can’t hurt.” Then he ran toward the smoking building.

He knows what
he’s doing
, Lara told herself sternly as she watched Patrick disappear inside the barn.
He does this sort of thing all the time. He’s a stud. An expert. Don’t freak out.
But still, it scared the crap out of her to realize he planned to tackle the smoking hayloft with no gear and no backup other than a few civilians and a llama.

She jogged toward Big Dog. He was swinging his head from side to side with a disoriented expression. Something about the way he held himself, a little jerky, a little threatening, jogged something in her memory. One of her patients, maybe?

Dismissing the thought, she stepped in front of him. “Mr. Callahan, Patrick asked if we’d fill some buckets with water. Can you help me?”

It took a moment for his eyes to focus on her. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I’m here to help with the fire,” she said, enunciating every word clearly, the way she did with her elderly patients. Big Dog wasn’t quite that old, but he was acting so strange at the moment. Maybe he was suffering from post-­traumatic shock. She decided to keep a close eye on him. “We need all the hands we can get. Just like the old days, we’re going to do a bucket brigade.”

“Bucket brigade?”

“Yes. You with me?”

A shout from the direction of the barn made her swing around. A flock of chickens came charging out, followed by Janey, shooing them with big sweeps of her arms. From the stables beyond the barn, Candy Callahan led a lively piebald mustang by a rope halter. The horse reared nervously against the restraint of the rope. Candy whispered to him and stroked his neck.

Along with her came Megan, dragging an extremely reluctant Goldie by a collar around her neck. The white llama kept digging her heels into the dirt, trying desperately to stop their forward progress. Megan shouted, “Patrick’s fine! He wants you to leave, you dumb llama! Why are you so stubborn?”

Lara ran forward to help her. “Obviously she and Patrick are a match made in heaven.”

Megan was on the verge of tears—­or maybe way beyond tears. “Do you have the buckets? Where are the buckets?”

“I was with your father. I’ll get them.”

Then two things happened in quick succession. Goldie yanked the collar out of Megan’s grasp and wheeled around, quickly following Patrick inside the barn. And, like a gaseous Jack-­in-­the-­box, a flame popped from the old structure’s roof.

A slow smolder had transformed into a live blaze.

Megan turned to chase down Goldie, but Lara grabbed her arm. “No. We have to get water, remember?
Water
.”

“But Patrick’s inside there.”

“Where he needs water. Never mind. Stay with your father, okay? He’s acting strange. I’ll get the buckets.”

Candy and Janey were now running back to the stables. Lara dashed into the toolshed and grabbed a pile of plastic five-­gallon buckets. She dumped them next to the end of the hose, then ran to open the spigot.

“Start filling those buckets,” she shouted to Megan and Big Dog. They did as she said—­surprise, surprise—­Big Dog aiming the hose at the bucket, Megan holding it steady. When it was nearly filled, Lara yelled, “That’s enough. Don’t make it too heavy.” They filled another one, then she and Megan each took one and ran across the yard with them.

“Patrick?” she called into the interior of the barn, where smoke swirled in a wild gray hurricane. “Are you in here?”

“Don’t come in!” he yelled from deep inside the barn.

“We brought water!”

“Put it down next to the door, then go.” As her eyes adjusted to the crazy whirlwind of smoke, she saw him in the middle of the barn, aiming a stream of water at the hayloft. He must have found the spigot. An ominous crackling emanated from above, the sound a campfire makes when it finally catches. Goldie cowered behind Patrick, whimpering and quivering.

“Grab Goldie too.” With the back of his hand, he swiped sweat off his forehead. “What kind of llama trots right back into a burning building?”

Lara and Megan left the buckets at the entrance to the barn, where the big double doors stood wide open, and hurried past an old tractor and stacks of hay bales. Patrick kept a hose aimed squarely on the hayloft while he spoke over his shoulder. “Quick as you can. If she won’t go, she won’t go. I don’t want you guys in here.”