The Night Belongs to Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  “Thanks for filling in my father,” she told him as she poured him a cup of coffee. She added a dollop of cream and a healthy scoop of sugar, just the way he liked it.

  He shrugged. “Seemed like he already knew.”

  “Sometimes I think he has spy satellites on a direct feed to his brain.”

  Marsden hmphed, sitting on one of the bar stools at her kitchen island and taking a long swallow of his coffee. “Nice brew. Thanks.”

  She eyed him carefully, debating her next question. Marsden had been in the Marines for a long time before her father had hired him. He’d raised a family. He knew much more about the real world than she did.

  “What do firefighters like?” she blurted. It had occurred to her that she ought to thank Fred the Fireman in some way.

  Marsden barely raised an eyebrow. “Depends on the firefighter, I’d say.”

  “Okay, well, a young firefighter.” A very attractive one. “Very . . . um . . . good at his job.” She pondered for a moment. “I was thinking maybe a fruit basket, like the ones Kessler Tech sends to clients.”

  Marsden seemed to choke a little on his coffee.

  “Or a spa basket,” she added quickly. “Mineral salts and so forth. Enzyme masks.”

  Marsden put his mug down carefully. He definitely seemed to be trying not to laugh. Her face heated. Was it her fault that she’d never met a firefighter before? She had no idea what sort of person became a fireman and what they might like. Signing up for a job that made you run toward danger instead of away from it made no sense to her.

  “You could bake something,” he suggested.

  She cast her eyes toward the intimidating six-burner Viking stove that dominated the kitchen. It scared her and, quite frankly, the last time she’d used it, it had seemed to be mocking her. “Like a cake?”

  “Cookies. Brownies. Something they can pop in their mouth without dirtying a dish.”

  She grinned, delighted. “That’s clever, Marsden. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Thank you.”

  He stood up. “Better go check the perimeter.” That was code for toss the ball with Greta in the park around the corner. Rachel whistled for the dog, who came running, her leash already in her mouth.

  “Take your time. I don’t have any clients until later. I’ll text you.”

  Marsden nodded and headed out the door, Greta practically running circles around him as he went.

  Rachel thought for a moment about his suggestion of baked goods, then carried her cup of coffee to her desk and turned on her computer. She was a Kessler, after all. Why not use the Internet to figure out what kind of gift to get for a kind, heroic fireman to whom you were sort of attracted?

  More than “sort of,” she had to admit. “Extremely” would be closer to the mark. Was he really as good-looking as she remembered? She recalled a dimple in his cheek, or maybe not so much a dimple as a dent that appeared whenever he smiled. But maybe she’d imagined it. If she watched the links her father had sent, she could find out how much of Fred’s sexiness was real, how much she’d imagined.

  She opened her e-mail and clicked the first link, gasping at the horrifying sight of the crane sprawled atop the limousine. How the hell had anyone survived? Let alone all of them?

  And then there was Fred, addressing someone holding a microphone to his face. His hair was tousled with sweat. She hadn’t taken much note of its color before. It was a luxurious brown, the color of a sable coat. He spoke with a charming sort of humility, coming across as cheerfully down-to-earth and not at all accustomed to speaking to the media. “Sometimes you just get lucky, and this is one of those times. Not to say that it’s lucky to have a crane fall on top of you. That part was unlucky. But it could have been so much worse. Maybe God has a romantic streak and didn’t want to ruin the wedding.”

  From off camera, the reporter laughed. “Don’t you think you had something to do with saving all those lives? They’re calling you the Bachelor Hero of San Gabriel.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We know you’re a modest man, so maybe you don’t—”

  “You don’t understand. I was just doing my job.”

  The camera shifted to aim at the reporter, who turned out to be the glamorous anchorwoman, Ella Joy. “And so the legend grows. Don’t let Fred Breen’s humble manner fool you. He’s a hero, through and through. You might remember him from the Cooking with Heat project, a cookbook which he spearheaded, with all proceeds donated to the 9/11 fund.”

  Here they showed a shot of a slightly younger Fred eagerly displaying a cookbook for the camera. Lord, he was adorable. Since Rachel’s father owned an animation studio, among many other things, she’d met her share of movie stars and celebrities over the years. But none of them had come close to Fred’s unselfconscious appeal.

  “We’ll have a lot more on Firefighter Breen and the new Urban Search and Rescue Squad in our special hour-long report tonight, Heart of a Hero.”

  Off screen, she heard Fred spluttering. “Heart of bullsh—” before the sound was cut off.

  Rachel took a long swallow of her coffee. This was bad. Very bad. While she appreciated Fred’s reluctance to grab the spotlight, the truth was he didn’t have much choice in the matter. If the media decided to turn him into a story, he’d be a story. And if he was the story, she couldn’t go anywhere near him.

  The thought made her unexpectedly sad, as if she were passing by a warmly lit house she’d never be able to enter. Instead of taking a present to the firehouse, she’d have to order something to be delivered.

  She clicked on the next link, and this time she saw Fred heaving her into his arms and settling her against his chest. A shiver passed through her, a visceral memory of what it had felt like to be nestled so close to him. And then she saw it. The way she’d shaken the hair away from her face, so it didn’t get caught in the fasteners of his jacket, left her profile momentarily exposed. The camera didn’t zoom in on her or linger on her face in any way, but that didn’t matter. Anyone with any sort of technical knowledge at all would be able to zoom in on the shot and get a pretty good image of her.

  Well, there was nothing to do about it now. Once it was online, there was no scrubbing it out of existence. She just had to hope it didn’t go viral, that the kidnapper never saw it, that the kidnapper had moved on to other concerns or maybe that he wasn’t even alive anymore.

  The threat still hung over her head, the way it had since she was eight years old. She was only twenty-five, too young to have her life ruled by some maniac with a grudge against her father. But what choice did she really have?

  Sighing, she turned back to her Internet search and Googled “gifts for hot firemen.”

  “Sweet heavens,” she whispered, as images populated her screen. Weren’t firemen supposed to wear shirts?

  When Fred arrived for his next shift, it didn’t take long for the teasing to set in.

  “Bachelor Hero, coming through,” said Mulligan.

  “Trying to get lucky with a bridesmaid?” teased Vader, who was now Captain Brown. Making captain hadn’t put a dent in his exuberant sense of humor.

  “I’m dedicating my divorce to you, hot shot,” growled Double D. “Except my wife won’t give me one.”

  Only Sabina showed him any sympathy. She shepherded him toward the kitchen, growling at anyone who tried to stop them. Ace the rookie, whose time at the station was nearly up, gave him a salute.

  “Nice story. Uh, my sister told me to ask for your number,” he added in a mumble.

  “Give her Courtney’s. They can duke it out,” said Fred, grinding his teeth.

  Sabina shoved Ace out of the room and shut the door. “Stud, I know what you’re going through. If you need any help dealing with the media, come to me, all right? I’ll beat them up for you. Only metaphorically, of course.” Sabina had been a child star before she’d joined the fire department. For a long time she’d actually managed to keep it a secret.

  “It’s not a problem, Two. They’l
l forget about me in no time. I’m boring. I’m not a legend like Brody, or photogenic like Vader. I’m just me. They’ll move on.”

  Sabina gave him an odd look. “Don’t sell yourself short, Stud. We gave you that nickname for a reason.”

  “Yeah, because I’m not one. It’s known as irony. Or sarcasm.”

  “If you ask me, it’s neither one. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. We called you Stud, now you are a stud. And the Bachelor Hero.”

  He couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity. “Come on. I’m just a regular guy.”

  “We’ll see. Anyway, this came for you.”

  She held out an envelope addressed to him. “Do you know what I went through to keep the guys from opening this?”

  “It’s probably nothing interesting.”

  “I’m interested.”

  And as soon as Fred saw the feminine, careful handwriting inside, so was he. Intensely interested. In fact, the little hairs on his arms prickled. He had no doubt in his mind who had sent the note, even before he started reading. “Dear Fred the Fireman: I will be forever grateful for your heroic actions in the wake of the crane incident. Please forgive me for hitting your nose. It was entirely accidental and thoroughly regrettable. As a token of my gratitude, a donation has been made to the San Gabriel Urban Search and Rescue Squad. Also, you will find that your next umpteen coffees at the Lazy Daisy Cafe have been paid for. With warm appreciation, Rachel Allen.”

  Fred stared at the envelope, which, now that he noticed, was made of the sort of extra-thick ivory paper you didn’t find at Staples. “Umpteen coffees? Who the hell is this girl?”

  Sabina was quickly scanning over his shoulder. “Your newest fan, Stud. If you’re going to have a groupie, why not a rich one?”

  “But how did she know about the Lazy Daisy? That’s just eerie.”

  “Everyone in town knows the crew goes there.” Sabina peered at the scrawled signature. “Wait a second. Does that say Rachel Allen?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then I know who she is.”

  Chapter 5

  “Vader, I need to borrow Stan for a few hours,” Fred announced a few days later, as their shift was ending. The firehouse dog, hearing his name, raised his head. Vader, who was scowling at the desktop computer, transferred that scowl to Fred.

  “What for?”

  “Personal business.”

  An array of expressions crossed Vader’s face, curiosity vying with the urge to tease. “Do I want to ask why you need the firehouse dog for your personal business?”

  “Look, it might even be good for him. It’s like a field trip.”

  “What kind of field trip?” Vader might be big and ripped, but he was very far from dumb.

  “The kind . . .” Fred hesitated, then finished at lightning speed. “Where you take your dog to get therapy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Dog therapy,” Fred repeated. Sabina’s revelation that Rachel was a respected dog therapist had inspired this crazy plan. “Stan could probably use it. What else is he going to do today, nap?”

  Stan cocked his head, then rested his chin back on his paws.

  “See?” Fred said triumphantly. “It’s not like I’m interrupting his magnum opus on the trade policies of third world countries.” Which happened to be Courtney’s current project.

  Vader stared at him. “I know you’re speaking English, but nothing’s making sense. Back to the part about dog therapy. Does this have anything to do with a girl?”

  Yup, Vader definitely didn’t miss a trick. Fred nodded cautiously.

  “Is the girl Courtney?”

  Fred shook his head.

  “Then go. Have fun. Stan, be a good wingman, just like I taught you.”

  Stan reluctantly got to his feet and padded over to Fred. “Thanks, Vader. I’ll have him back in no time.”

  Vader waved him away. “Just make sure to feed him a lot. You know he gets cranky without regular snacks.”

  “You’d make a great dad, you know that?”

  Vader shot him a sharp glance. “Why do you say that? Do you know something I don’t know? Cherie tell you something? Did she take the test yet?”

  Fred backed away, flinging his hands in the air. “Why would she tell me anything? I was just making an observation.”

  “Girls tell you shit. They can’t help it. It’s that magic nice-guy—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Fine. You’re an asshole. Get the fuck out of my office,” said Vader good-naturedly as he turned back to the computer. Fred went, Stan trotting dutifully at his side.

  They drove to the far edge of town, where Sabina had said Rachel’s dog therapy practice was located. He’d debated long and hard about making this visit, but he couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind. And shouldn’t he thank her for the generous gift? It was only polite. By bringing Stan, he figured the whole thing would look more natural, as if he’d just happened to run into her while trying to do something for his dog.

  He found himself at a wooded park surrounded by a concrete wall with loops of barbed wire on top. A discreet sign announced it to be the San Gabriel Refuge for Injured Wildlife. An ironwork gate barred the entrance, which was watched over by two security cameras. Sure seemed like a lot of security for a wildlife refuge. He leaned out of his truck and pressed a button on the small intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Rachel Allen. I was referred to her for my dog. He’s been having some issues.” That’s what you were supposed to say, right? A mounted video camera angled toward the car, and he indicated Stan, who sat next to him in the front seat, not looking one bit traumatized the way Fred had asked him to.

  “Park in the north lot,” said the disembodied voice. The gate opened and he drove past, down a long, curving drive lined with eucalyptus trees. He gave a slow whistle. A lot of money must have gone into this place. Some wealthy donor’s vanity project, no doubt.

  He reached a collection of beige stuccoed buildings with a Spanish hacienda feel. A more modern barn and aviary looked as if they’d been added later, along with a fenced-in corral. Fred spotted a llama and some goats munching grass inside the corral. The place had the atmosphere of a spa or some sort of meditation center, but it smelled and sounded more like a zoo. He located the north lot and discovered that it sat next to a cute little guesthouse with the word “Therapy” painted on a sign over the door.

  “You ready for some therapy, boy?” Fred asked Stan. “You must have something wrong with you. That time you swallowed the gel pack still giving you nightmares?”

  Stan merely cocked an ear at him.

  “Seriously, do you have to look so well-adjusted?” Fred grumbled. “You’re going to blow my cover.”

  As he opened the front door of the little building, Stan scampered between his feet. The beagle had a thing about entering a room first; come to think of it, maybe he needed therapy for that. The space, which was set up like a waiting room, was empty and simply furnished. A jewel-toned Turkish rug, a large mahogany desk the size of a small ship, a comfortable-looking armchair arrangement, and that was about it. A closed door led to the rest of the guesthouse; that must be where the actual work got done.

  “Hello?” he called.

  “One minute!” A little thrill ran through him at the sound of Rachel’s voice. Uh oh. Thrills weren’t good. He hadn’t come here for thrills. Then what did you come here for?

  The door opened and there was his answer. She immediately filled his vision as if nothing else was present. Her thick, curly hair was held back at her neck with a clip, and she wore simple black pants and a tunic top with an embroidered neckline. He made a quick check. Yes, her eyes were exactly as he’d remembered, that deep, velvety purple like the heart of a pansy. Or was it a petunia. Anyway, it was the spark in her eyes that really got to him, and beyond that, the shadow of something sad.

  “Fred the Fireman?” She looked astonished. “What are you doing here?”

>   Good question. He shouldn’t be here. He should be sparring. Painting his sister’s apartment. Anywhere but here, pretending to need therapy for a dog that wasn’t even his.

  “It’s Stan,” he said, tugging on Stan’s leash. “He’s been having some problems.”

  Her expression instantly transformed into one of concern. She came forward, crouched in front of Stan, and murmured, “Well, aren’t you a fine-looking dog? Will you let me pet you? Do you mind?”

  Since Stan was already enthusiastically butting his head against Rachel’s hand, the answer seemed clear. She looked surprised as Stan welcomed her caress. Fred took note of the small size of her hand, and the sure way she handled Stan. “He seems pretty happy to me. What sort of behavior is he exhibiting? And what’s his name again?”

  “Stan.”

  “Interesting name for a dog.”

  “Long story, but Stan is short for Constancia. We couldn’t let him have a girl’s name, so we call him Stan.”

  “That’s thoughtful, but dogs don’t have our ideas of gender-based nomenclature,” she said absently.

  Gender-based nomenclature. Huh. Fred found himself even more fascinated by her than he’d been at the accident scene. She was such an odd mixture of things, courageous and clearly intelligent on the one hand, but a little . . . flaky on the other.

  “So what behaviors have you worried?”

  On the spot, Fred searched for something plausible. Clearly he hadn’t thought this through. Showing up with Stan was one thing; lying about him was another. “Well, he sleeps a lot. I’m worried that he might be depressed.”

  “How’s his appetite?”

  “Voracious.” For some reason, the word, hanging between them, took on a sexual undertone. Fred hurried past it. “I thought maybe it’s a psychological thing. You know, childhood issues. I mean, puppyhood.”

  Narrowing her eyes at him, she offered Stan a treat, which he gulped down with his usual eagerness. “Have you noticed any limpness in his tail?”

  “Limpness?” Somehow, that sounded sexual too. “Um, no,” he answered in a slightly choked voice. “His tail is . . .” don’t say stiff . . . “not limp. He wags it a lot.”