Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins

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      CHAPTER FOUR

      AS THE FIREFIGHTER laid the limp dog onto a cleared area of the yard, Dietrich ran over, carrying an oxygen tank.

      Drake stumbled forward and dropped to his knees next to Hearsay. The dog lay on his side, unmoving, eyes closed.

      Tugging off his own mask, Chuck knelt across from Drake. Dietrich, positioned at the dog’s head, strapped a small plastic mask over the dog’s muzzle.

      Dietrich jabbed his chin at Chuck. “Turn it up.”

      Chuck adjusted the nozzle on the tank, then pressed two fingers against the dog’s throat. He held it there, a studious look on his sweat-slicked face, before giving his head a small shake.

      The two firefighters exchanged a look.

      Which Drake caught. His insides constricted into a tight ball of hurt and rage.

      He refused to believe it.

      Not his dog. Not Hearsay.

      He would find the bastard who did this, make him pay. After Drake was through with him, he would wish he had died a slow, agonizing death in this fire instead.

      The crackling of the flames, movements of people and machinery, even the fierce heat shrank into the background as Drake stroked Hearsay, still soft and warm, willing his life force to not seep away.

      Please. Spare him.

      “Come on, buddy,” he whispered, his voice strained, “you can make it.”

      Dietrich, his face grim, peered intently into the dog’s face.

      Chuck lightly shook the dog’s shoulder. “Stay with us, boy.”

      Drake ran his hand down the dog’s side, stopping when his fingers grazed stiff, charred hair.

      “Looks to be only the fur,” Dietrich said, “nothing deeper. Bigger problem is how much smoke this little guy took in.” He lightly brushed some soot from Hearsay’s nostrils.

      “I heard whimpering as I approached the kitchen,” Chuck said. “He hasn’t been out long.”

      Drake leaned closer. “Stay,” he whispered hoarsely, every fiber of his being commanding it to be so. He swiped at the tears coursing down his face, not giving a damn who saw. “I need you, buddy.”

      A crackling crash. On the west side of the house, flames blew out the shattered kitchen window.

      “Got a pulse,” Chuck said.

      Drake stared at the dog’s chest, catching an almost imperceptible movement. “He’s breathing!”

      The men stared at another rise and fall of the chest...and another...

      “Keep at it, boy,” Dietrich coached, “you’re almost there.”

      Three grown men on their knees cried and whooped as Hearsay’s eyelids fluttered opened.

      Dietrich grinned at the dog, his teeth white in a face streaked with soot. “You’re one tough bastard, Hearsay.”

      Blinking, the dog looked around, his gaze settling on Drake.

      In that moment, he met God.

      “Welcome back, buddy,” he murmured.

      After a few minutes, Chuck slipped the oxygen mask over the dog’s head. “There’s an all-night emergency vet hospital near here—”

      “I know where it is.” Drake stroked Hearsay’s head.

      “Take him there right now, have him checked over. He’s alert, breathing on his own, but the little guy took in a lot of smoke. He’s gonna need medicine to prevent lung issues later.”

      “I will.” He looked over at Dietrich, who had moved away and was yammering orders to several firefighters. “I never got to thank him.”

      “Captain lost his own dog a few months ago,” Chuck said. “Saving yours helped him, you know? Helped all of us. It’s an honor to save a life.” He put his hands underneath the dog. “Let’s get him up.”

      Together, they lifted the dog.

      Cradling Hearsay in his arms, Drake walked down the driveway. As he passed through clusters of neighbors, people touched his back, murmured words of encouragement. He held Hearsay close, knowing there were difficult, frustrating days ahead, but at the moment, nothing mattered but the life in his arms.

      At the pickup, he opened the passenger door. Cuddling Hearsay close in one arm, he lifted the jacket lying neatly on the seat with his free hand. Then paused. The vinyl seating was old, ripped. A jacket would provide some cushioning.

      Carefully, he laid Hearsay on the jacket, which still carried lingering scents of his dad’s Old Spice cologne and love of cigars. His old man would have approved. He liked the material things like anybody else, but nothing—not even a jacket that had cost him a month’s pay—was more important than family.

      “Mr. Morgan?”

      He double-checked to make sure Hearsay was comfortable, then turned. A streetlight highlighted a stocky man dressed in pants and a sports shirt.

      “I’m Tony Cordova, arson investigator for this district.”

      Drake guessed his raspy voice was from years of smoking, inhaling smoke or both.

      “Like to ask you some СКАЧАТЬ