Kansas City's Bravest. Julie Miller

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      “Any idea if the Meyer family had something stored in the basement?”

      “Like a pile of rags?” Bridgerton scratched at the silver hair beside his temple and frowned. “This place hasn’t been used to store textiles since the Meyers moved out in the early eighties. It’s changed hands a couple of times since then. Now it’s owned by a Daniel Kelleher. He’s in real estate.”

      “Has he been notified?”

      Bridgerton nodded. “I called him out of a meeting. He’s on his way.”

      Gideon made a mental note to speak to Kelleher when he arrived. Meanwhile, he’d start nosing around on his own. “City hall says this place was out of use, but not condemned. Any ideas?”

      “The boiler was out of commission, the gas line disconnected.” The chief shrugged. “Maybe one of the vagrants who camps out here was trying to keep warm and lost control of his fire.”

      “In this heat?” The summer drought left the air hazy with dust that filtered through the atmosphere from dried-up farms in neighboring counties. The moisture from the river and thick bands of trees caught in the haze, forming a canopy that pushed the heat index up past one hundred for the seventh day in a row. Maybe he should look at this a little less clinically and with a little more heart. “There weren’t any casualties, were there?”

      “Just one.” The chief grinned. “She was treated for first-degree burns on her paws and tail and released.”

      “A dog?”

      “If she saw anything, she’s not talking.”

      His brief moment of concern eased and he joined the chief’s laughter.

      A round of applause from the crowd, punctuated by a couple of “Woo-hoo!’s,” diverted Gideon’s attention. He turned and noticed the bright lights of press cameras angled toward the gap at the center of the crowd. A crush of reporters, waving microphones and snapping pictures, blocked his view.

      He glanced down at the chief. “How come they’re not interviewing you? I count at least three news vans here.”

      Bridgerton laughed. “I gave my statement. But it seems they have a real celebrity today from over at Station 16. We had quite a rescue. Channel Ten and the others wanted shots of her instead of me.”

      Her? The reporters were interviewing a dog instead of a veteran, command-level firefighter?

      The chief slapped him on the shoulder and backed away. “I’d better get back to cleanup duty. Good to see you, Gid.”

      “Same here, Ch—” He doffed a two-fingered salute and corrected himself. “Tom.”

      “Call us sometime. The guys over at the Twenty-third would love to see you.”

      “Yeah.” The chief snagged a young man by the arm and pulled him along with him to take care of the next task at hand.

      At thirty-five, Gideon wasn’t—by normal standards—anywhere close to being over the hill. But he was out of touch. A young pup like the one jogging off to do Bridgerton’s bidding probably considered himself invincible.

      Gideon knew better. A hero like Luke Redding would be just a name in the wall of a memorial to that kid. And Gideon would be that old guy who used to fight fires. The one who couldn’t cut it anymore. The one who couldn’t save his partner.

      He was top brass now. A desk jockey. Gideon stared down at the nearly lifeless fingers on his left hand. Yeah, the new recruits could learn a lot from an old warhorse like him. He tucked his hand into the pocket of his black chinos and pushed the thought aside, not knowing if that was sarcasm or wishful thinking.

      Maybe he’d do better to avoid a visit to his old station house and the memories—both bitter and sweet—it held.

      Gideon put his sunglasses back on and calmed his emotions on a slow exhale of breath.

      He strolled toward the building, pulling out his notepad and pen. He jotted a few particulars from his conversation with Deputy Chief Bridgerton and walked the perimeter of the fire scene before going inside.

      A burst of laughter from the crowd caught his attention. Pocketing the notebook, he altered his course and crossed over to see this celebrity pooch that was causing such a media stir. At a solid six-two, he was tall enough to stand at the fringe of the audience and see over most of them.

      A bulky television camera blocked his view of the dog, but he recognized the tall, auburn-haired woman holding the microphone from the evening news. She looked straight into the light of the camera without blinking. “Saundra Ames, Channel Ten news, at the scene of a devastating warehouse fire in north Kansas City, between the Missouri River and Levee Road.”

      Somehow she managed to relay the basic details of the blaze while continuously showing off a perfect set of porcelain-white teeth. He had to admire a woman who didn’t even pop a sweat when she was in the spotlight on a one-hundred-degree day. The lady was a real pro.

      “Now I’d like to introduce you to one of Kansas City’s bravest—the firefighter who saved the puppy we met earlier.” The reporter thrust the microphone toward her interviewee. The cameraman shifted positions.

      Gideon’s world froze for a heartbeat in time.

      Meghan.

      His heart lurched in his chest. His lungs constricted so tightly, for a moment he felt as if he were breathing in hot, toxic air.

      She’d stripped her gear down to her royal-blue K.C.F.D. T-shirt and regulation black pants.

      But her wholesome beauty was just as uncomplicated and straightforward as he remembered. She wore her hair pulled back in what she’d called a French braid. In shades of amber and wheat and champagne, a few wavy wisps clung to the damp sheen of her soft, honey-freckled skin.

      She looked fresh and young, with no makeup except for the blush of color on her cheeks and the natural, peachy tint of her lips.

      And though she smiled at the mutt that squiggled in her arms and licked her chin and sniffed the microphone, her big brown eyes still held the same guarded expression he’d come to know so well in the months they’d been together.

      It was really her.

      Time moved forward again as Saundra Ames asked her next question. “Are there a lot of women firefighters?”

      Gideon drank in every nuance of Meg’s expression, every detail of beauty that resonated through his body—waking dormant yet familiar desires.

      He breathed in heavily, trying to dampen his body’s incendiary response to the mere sight of her. He didn’t want to feel anything. Not for her. Not anymore.

      “There are a few of us,” she answered. “More and more with each graduating class from the academy.”

      “How long have you been a firefighter?”

      “About four years.”

      As the interview progressed, Gideon began to notice the way Meghan shifted on her feet, betraying the СКАЧАТЬ