by Abigail Owen
The door. Crawl dummy.
Sayings she’d heard all her life—in grade school or on TV, and meant more for children—scrolled through her head like a ticker tape parade: Don’t delay, get out of fire’s way. Small fire will be tall soon. Never hide, get outside. Stay low and crawl like a baby.
Why hasn’t the damn sprinkler system gone off? The barn had been converted into a modern winery storage facility. Surely there was some sort of fire suppression system in place.
A frantic mewling caught her attention over the sizzling of the flames. Was that an animal? Arm over her mouth and nose to try to filter the smoke, and eyes watering like a son of a bitch, Delaney paused and searched for the source.
There, ten feet away. The damn cat that hung around this place. Probably feral.
Moving faster, Delaney crawled her way over to the animal that had frozen in fear behind a stack of empty wine barrels. At least he didn’t run from her.
She wrapped her arm under the animal’s belly, then yelped as the thing went bat shit crazy. It clawed and bit her as though she was the most dangerous thing in its world.
“I’m trying to save you.” The words came out husky, strained. Immediately a hacking cough racked her body.
Teeth clenched and determined not to let go, no matter how much the cat bit and scratched, Delaney crawled with one hand while trying to hold the flailing animal away from her face with the other. She grunted as its claws sank deeper.
Her lungs did not thank her for inhaling that much smoke.
Finally, she managed to get to the barn doors, tumbling out on limbs weak with relief when they opened at her push. The brightness of the day had her squinting. Once she cleared the building, she stumbled to her feet, shaky from her near miss, and ran across the gravel drive to the winery tasting room, still holding the damn cat. She scared the shit out of the smattering of customers when she burst inside, if one lady’s scream was any indication.
“The barn’s on fire. Call 9-1-1,” she wheezed at her new boss and friend, Sera, who was serving behind the bar.
She stumbled past the counters to shove the cat into the closest back office, locking it in, and then dashed back outside. Plumes of smoke seeped out the door she’d left open, but the flames were still hiding inside.
Oh God, I have to fix this.
Delaney had thought she’d be safe here. She’d thought the fires that had plagued her in Vermont wouldn’t follow her across the country.
She’d been horribly wrong.
She ran to the water faucet that stuck out of the ground about twenty feet from the barn. A long hose lay coiled beside it, already attached. With a twist, she turned the water on full force and dragged the hose toward the barn.
I can’t let Sera’s wine burn.
That reason, more than her own safety, drove her actions.
Carefully, she moved closer to the building. Her aching eyes and fuzzy vision didn’t help, but she kept going. She inched inside until she glimpsed flame, then she aimed her hose at the spot and sprayed, using her thumb to focus the water. The fire appeared to laugh at her pitiful effort like a crazed, caged animal. Flames receded in fizzling, smoldering protest before lunging for her with renewed vigor.
I’m not even making a dent.
Delaney stepped forward, not giving up, dousing more of the blaze.
A snap of sound was the only warning she had before the beams above her crumbled. With a scream, Delaney jumped, feet scrambling as she tripped and fell backwards. Luckily the beam didn’t land on her, but it lay so close, heat singed her skin. Grabbing the hose, she crawled back to her feet and turned the spray on the beam.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a deep male voice thundered in her ear a second before a strong arm banded around her waist.
Delaney found herself hoisted over a shoulder, the air punching from her lungs with a whoosh as her middle connected with a broad shoulder, and she was bodily carried from the burning structure.
She didn’t struggle.
She also didn’t think to let go of the hose.
Her rescuer stumbled over the line and jerked to a halt.
“Damn,” the same deep voice swore and he yanked the hose from her hands.
Realization sank in that she’d been dousing the firefighter who’d “rescued” her, and a completely inappropriate giggle escaped her.
He took off again, not letting her go, jostling her none too gently as he ran across the gravel drive to plonk her on a boulder beside the main winery building. Delaney lifted her gaze up, way up, over his green flame-resistant pants, yellow long-sleeved shirt, and white helmet. A firefighter, but not any kind she’d dealt with before, not based on the clothing. He pinned her to the rock she sat on with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Delaney blinked.
Anger and frustration pulled his brows down in an intimidating glower. “Are you hurt?” he asked. Yelled more like, his voice a harsh growl.
Delaney blinked at him again, shock taking over and slowing her brain way down—like molasses in the winter.
When she didn’t answer, his severe expression softened. “Are you hurt?” he repeated, no less urgently, but more gently.
Pull yourself together. Delaney shook her head.
“Is anyone else in there?”
“No.”
“Any animals?”
“No.” At least, she assumed the cat she’d saved was the only creature in there. “It’s for wine. State of the art with temperature control.” No way should fires be happening in the building.
He nodded. “I’ve got this now. Don’t go back in there. Wait here for the paramedics.” He straightened and anything soft about him disappeared behind granite determination. “Aidan?” he called out to someone she couldn’t see. “Take care of her.”
The flicker of annoyance that her rescuer was leaving her, dumping her on someone else, was completely ridiculous. He had a job to do.
A serious-looking individual stepped up, took off his helmet, and gave her a nod. “Ma’am.”
She blinked up at him. As tall as her rescuer, the younger man had dark Middle Eastern good looks, which made his light blue eyes that much more striking.
Jeez, two sexy firefighters with amazing eyes. What are the odds?
Only, unlike the zing of awareness still tingling through her thanks to firefighter number one, nothing happened with this guy. And the fact that she reacted to her rescuer at all irritated the hell out of her. She shoved that thought away and searched for something, anything, else to focus on. “I need to get the cat out of the office.”
The guy named Aidan frowned and he cleared his throat. “Sorry. The cat?”
Delaney pushed to her feet, determined now. “I don’t want it messing up Sera’s office.”
Aidan glanced over her head.
She half turned to see where he was looking only to find her firefighter had stopped to watch their interaction. He gave a small nod then turned away. She spied a word stenciled on the side of his helmet: Boss. She’d been rescued by the guy in charge? Or was that a nickname because he was bossy?
She flicked a glance at Aidan. Probably a bit of both.
The boss and several other similarly dressed men—though most of them wore yellow helmets instead of white, and one wore red—assembled off to the side. The firefighters had gotten here fast, faster than she’d expected given where the winery was situated on the gentle western slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
Except…
“Um. Don’t you need a fire truck?” she asked Aidan.
He shook his head. “No ma’am. We’re a hotshot crew, not structure. But we were close by and saw the smoke, figured we could help until the Placerville boys can get their asses out here.” He cringed. “Excuse me. Get out here.”
Oh. That explained her not r
ecognizing the uniform. She’d heard of hotshot crews—teams of firefighters whose sole purpose was to fight the massive wildland fires that regularly devastated entire forests, especially here out west.
She turned her gaze back to the boss who barked out orders, total confidence radiating from those broad shoulders and the calm set of his expression.
These guys had it.
Relief surged through her followed immediately by the prick of tears that had nothing to do with the smoke.
Why does this keep happening to me?
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About the Author
Award-winning paranormal romance author Abigail Owen grew up consuming books and exploring the world through her writing. She loves to write witty, feisty heroines, sexy heroes who deserve them, and a cast of lovable characters to surround them (and maybe get their own stories). She currently resides in Austin, Texas, with her own personal hero, her husband, and their two children, who are growing up way too fast.
AbigailOwen.com
Also by Abigail Owen
Fire’s Edge series
The Mate
The Boss
The Rookie
Inferno Rising series
The Blood King
Writing as Kadie Scott
The Wrong Kind of Compatible
The Attraction Equation
Saving the Sheriff
Resisting the Rancher
Taming the Troublemaker
Other Books by Abigail Owen
Her Demigod Complex
The Worse for Were
A Ghost of a Chance
Psyched
Bait N’ Witch
Hannah’s Fate
Andromeda’s Fall
Sarai’s Fortune
Tieryn’s Fury
Seneca’s Faith
Blue Violet
Hyacinth
Crimson Dahlia
Black Orchid
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Northern Exposure meets Two Weeks Notice in
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