Bold And Brave-hearted

“I hope it’s not too bad.”

“This time of day?” He shrugged. “Probably a grease fire in the kitchen.” It was nights when things could get hairy, where fires burned undetected and were already out of control when the trucks arrived.

“Why did you decide to become a firefighter?” Kim asked.

“You mean besides wanting to rescue damsels in distress?”

“I suspect there’s more to it than that.”

He paused in the hallway to give her the easy answer, the one they used for school kids touring the station. “For the cheap thrills. Every time that tone sounds, you’ve got a chance for a trip to Six Flags.”

“You’re an adrenaline junkie?”

He couldn’t leave it at that, letting Kim think he was that shallow. “I grew up in the house where I’m living now. As a kid, every time I’d hear the fire trucks roll, I wanted to be there with them putting out fires, rescuing people, wearing that cool helmet. But the real question is why any sane person would stay on the job and risk his neck every day for strangers after you get past the adrenaline high and the excitement.”

“And?”

He turned to her, picturing her blue-violet eyes looking at him, wishing he could touch her. Run his fingers through her hair. Weigh the silken blond strands in his palm.

“It’s the brotherhood on the job. We may fight like brothers here at the station and give each other a hard time every chance we get, but we’re there for each other when it counts.” He rubbed his hand over his face, forgetting for the moment about the glasses and knocking them askew. He hadn’t done a very good job of shaving that morning and there were patches of stubble on his jaw. He couldn’t do anything about the press of tears at the back of his eyes, caught there behind those damn patches that kept him from being a whole man. “That’s what I miss the most about being off the job. They need me and I can’t be there for them.”

“You will be, Jay. A few weeks, and then you’ll be back on the job.”

“Yeah.” God, he hoped so. Otherwise he’d go crazy. He hated pretending everything was okay; hated swallowing the fear that rose up in the night to grab him. The dreams he was unable to halt, the explosion happening again and again.

Shaking off the feeling, he continued down the hallway, Kim at his side, her heels making those feminine clicking noises on the hardwood floor. Her scent faint. Seductive. Something that good dreams were made of.

“I’ve lost track of how many steps I’ve taken,” he admitted, distracted by her nearness and his own fantasies. “The dispatch office—”

“Is right here. You want us to go in?”

“Yeah. No tour of the station is complete without meeting Emma Jean Witkowsky, our dispatcher and resident psychic.”

“Psychic?” Kim frowned at the comment. “You mean she predicts fires before she gets a 911 call?”

“That’s what she says…about two minutes after a call comes in. Says it’s her gypsy blood.”

Kim nodded, chuckling, though she wasn’t sure she quite understood.

Jay shoved open the door marked Dispatch and Kim entered. Certainly the woman sitting in front of a U-shaped console of computer keyboards and screens could be a gypsy. Her dark hair was in wild disarray as though she had just finished a fiery dance to the music of violins and a concertina, and large silver hoops dangled from her ears.

“Hey, Jay, I knew you’d be coming in today. How are you, hon?”

Jay nudged Kim with his elbow. “Now she knows I was going to show up, but a half hour ago? Not likely.” To the dispatcher he said, “Doing fine, Emma Jean. I’d like you to meet Kim Lydell. I’m giving her a tour.”

“Hey, hon, I know you.” Her dark eyes flashed with recognition. “You’re that TV person. Haven’t seen you on the air for a while.”

Kim tensed, feeling the now-familiar self-consciousness wash over her when she met someone new. Automatically, she tugged her scarf more tightly around her face.

“I’m on a sabbatical.” There wasn’t much call for news anchors who look like macabre clowns.

The dispatcher gave her a closer look, her gaze uncomfortably penetrating. “Don’t worry about a thing, hon. I’m getting good vibes about your future.”

Although Kim wasn’t a great believer in psychics, she said, “Thanks. I’ll hold that thought.”

“You do that, hon.”

Kim noticed a plate of what looked to be homemade oatmeal cookies covered with plastic wrap on the counter that separated the computer area from the rest of the room. “Those look good. Are you the cookie maker?” she asked Emma Jean.

“No, not me, but help yourself. Mrs. Anderson brought them over for the guys and they’re going a little slow.”

“Thank you.” Tempted, she reached for—

Blindly, Jay grabbed for her wrist just as her hand closed around a cookie. “Don’t touch those. They’ll kill you.”

Her head snapped around. “What?”

“Evie Anderson is the world’s worst cook.”

“The city councilwoman?”

“The same,” Emma Jean said. “She’s also got a mad crush on the chief. Thinks the way to his heart is through his stomach.”

“A stomach pump is what you need when you eat any of her cooking.”

“Oh, they can’t be that bad.” Gingerly, Kim bit off a tiny bite of the cookie she’d snatched, chewed and choked, desperately wishing she could spit it out. “Eeew, yuk.”

“Told you so,” Jay chided.

“She must have dumped a whole box of salt in there. They’re terrible.”

“She fell a couple of years ago and suffered a concussion,” Jay explained. “I think she lost her sense of taste.”

“But she’s a very nice lady,” Emma Jean said, defending the councilwoman. “And I predict—”

“Don’t!” Jay held up his hand. “If the chief and that woman get together, there’ll be mass resignations from the department. That’s my prediction.”

Kim couldn’t help but laugh. Councilwoman Anderson was an attractive woman in her early sixties, practically an institution in Paseo del Real, if a little conservative for Kim’s taste. She and the widowed fire chief would make a good-looking couple—assuming he had an iron stomach, she thought as she dropped the remains of the cookie in a nearby waste-basket.

“Say,” Emma Jean said. “I bet you’d like to come to the station’s pancake breakfast this weekend.” She whipped out a pre-printed pad of tickets. “Only five bucks a crack. It’s for a good cause.”

Kim glanced at Jay in the hope of an explanation.

“We’re restoring a vintage fire truck to ride in the Founder’s Day parade next September,” he offered. “Whoever sells the most tickets gets to drive. I figure I’m a shoo-in.”

“In that case, maybe I ought to buy my ticket from Emma Jean.”

“What kind of loyalty is that?” he complained. “Wasn’t I the one who brought you to the dance?”