Through The Fire. Sharon Mignerey

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      She grinned when he didn’t add anything more, the expression transforming her face from pretty to vibrant. “Ah, the old visiting-a-friend routine. Personally, I thought this was the place to meet strangers.”

      Rafe smiled back, recognizing that she was deliberately trying to turn their attention away from the fire on the other side of the door. “So far, that strategy is working.”

      She glanced at the children. “Ask them about their sister.”

      In Spanish, Rafe asked about Ana’s illness but was only able to find out that she was a couple of years older—seven to their three and four—and that she was very sick.

      “I know what that’s like,” Lucia said, her gaze going from one child to the other. “My father is in this very hospital in intensive care.” Rafe watched her as she looked around the small chapel. “As soon as we get out of here, I’ll need to go see my mother and call my brothers. They’ll all be worried.” She glanced at Rafe. “Do your parents worry?”

      “About what?” He was still caught on the part of her statement that her father was in the hospital.

      “You.”

      He shrugged. “Some, I suppose. More about my sisters.”

      She smiled down at the little girl in her lap, who automatically smiled back. “See? A man can go off to be a policeman or a spy or a mountain climber and that’s okay. But a girl is supposed to play it safe—”

      “Don’t be including me in your generalities. I never said that.” Some of the best firefighters on his hotshot crew were women. “I don’t believe that.”

      “Do you worry about your sisters?”

      “Of course. One is a homemaker and has a little girl. My other sister teaches school.” He gave Lucia a grin. “Now there’s a dangerous occupation.”

      Lucia gazed down at the two children. “That wasn’t a very nice thing for him to say, especially since he doesn’t think you can understand him.” She brushed a hand over Teresa’s hair. “Children are gifts from God—everyone knows that. I wish that I could make you understand that I’ll be praying for your sister.”

      The gesture was so nurturing that Rafe was entranced. Movies painted the heroic picture of a big firefighter tenderly caring for those smaller, weaker. This more feminine version of that same image made Lucia more appealing than she could know—especially since the gesture was not even a conscious one on her part.

      Teresa leaned her head against the sleeve of Lucia’s turnout coat.

      “Rezebo mi oraciónes por vuestra hermana,” Rafe said. When Lucia looked at him, he repeated in English, “I’ll say prayers for your sister.”

      She smiled and looked from one child to the other, repeating the words, words that made both of the children smile.

      Rafe knew too well what it was like to have a parent in intensive care. Even though that had been a whole lifetime ago, the feelings suddenly at the surface were as sharp as they had been when he was no older than Ramón. He hadn’t understood the significance of his mother being moved from intensive care into hospice. For a while, he had even hoped the change meant she was getting better. Since he was again allowed to sit next to her on her bed and put his arms around her, that had to have meant she was getting better—or, at least, so he had reasoned as a four-year-old boy.

      Too vivid was the memory of that last day when she had taken him to the chapel and cradled him in her lap. He had sensed something was terribly wrong, and the ache in his chest that day had been suffocating.

      “God is always with you,” his mother had whispered, her hand warm against his chest. “Always. No matter where you are or what you are doing, just look inside. God is right there.” She’d had tears in her eyes when he had looked up at her. “He loves you, just as I love you.” She gathered him closer, and to this day, he could still feel her cheek against the top of his head. “All you have to do is close your eyes and pray. You’ll feel God, and you’ll feel me. Both of us loving you.”

      He had hung on to the promise his entire life, and he had always found it to be true. Especially in tense situations like this one, with a fire in the hallway and a two-story drop to safety through the window.

      Lucia’s radio crackled to life, and Donovan said, “A little break at last, partner. The sprinklers finally came on. You should be seeing water seep under the door.”

      Glad to have an activity that brought his mind back to the present, Rafe scooted across the floor toward the door and, sure enough, the drape he had taken off the window was wet. “That’s exactly what’s happening.”

      Lucia relayed the information.

      “It won’t be long now,” came the answer.

      While they waited, Lucia continued to talk to the children, and as she had predicted, they responded simply to the sound of her voice.

      “You’re good with kids. Do you have children? I know you mentioned nieces and nephews,” Rafe asked, wanting to ask her instead if she was married.

      “No children,” she said. “Three nieces and two nephews so far, plus some honorary ones. What about you?”

      “Never been married,” he said.

      “Me neither,” she said.

      “So no children,” he continued, as though finding out she was single hadn’t meant anything. She was single.

      He looked down at the two children sitting between him and Lucia. Men weren’t supposed to have the ticking biological clock, but he did. He didn’t like the sudden realization that even if he found a woman today that he’d like to marry, he was still several years away from having children.

      “You mentioned a sister—”

      “With a little girl,” Rafe said. “Yeah. She’ll be two soon. They live in Atlanta.”

      “A long way from here.”

      “Yeah.” For the ninety-ninth time over the last day, Rafe thought maybe he could talk his sister into moving closer if her marriage ended. If, he reminded himself. Better that things work out in her marriage instead of his selfish wish to have her closer.

      “What do you do, Rafael Wright?” Lucia asked with a smile, “when you’re not putting out fires and rescuing small children and damsels in distress?”

      “Put out fires,” he said, looking steadily at her and thinking a man could lose himself in her dark eyes. “Don’t rescue many damsels, though.” When she raised an eyebrow in question, he added, “I’m the superintendent for the Sangre de Cristo hotshot crew.”

      “You’re a firefighter?”

      “Big difference between structure fires and wildfires,” he said.

      “But you’re a firefighter?”

      He nodded. “I’m also a volunteer for the city wildfire volunteer squad.” In the year he had been here, СКАЧАТЬ