Up in Flames. Rita Herron

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      “Detective Walsh, SPD.” He flashed his badge. “My partner may still be inside. And another woman.”

      The burly man’s expression clearly looked doubtful that they’d find anyone still alive. But he turned to one of the other rescue workers. “Search for survivors.”

      Bradford paced the sidewalk feeling helpless and angry. He should be questioning people, hunting for clues as to how the fire started, but fear kept him watching the doorway, listening.

      Finally one of the rescue workers appeared, sweating and cursing. “We have a live one, trapped. Need equipment.” He grabbed an ax from the truck.

      “Let me help,” Bradford pleaded.

      The burly man put a hand to Bradford’s chest as his coworker ran back inside. “No, stay put. You do your job, we’ll do ours.”

      Bradford scraped sweaty hair from his forehead as another firefighter grabbed an ax and followed his coworker inside the blaze.

      Heat scalded Bradford’s face and a wave of anger crashed over him a second later when one of the men carried an unconscious woman outside. He ran to check on her, but the firefighter shook his head. “She’s dead,” he said. “Looks like she took a blow to the head.”

      Bradford saw her blood-soaked hair, the green dress, and grimaced. Then he noticed the tiny purse with the strap still wrapped around her wrist. He unsnapped the bag, checked her ID, then muttered a curse.

      Natalie Gorman. The redhead’s friend.

      God, he’d have to tell her.

      “Your buddy tried to save her, but a wall crashed on him,” the firemen said. “We’ll have him out in a minute.”

      Suddenly two rescue workers rushed out, yelling for the paramedics who met them with a stretcher. “He’s alive, but we’ve got injuries. Multiple contusions to the body, second-and third-degree burns, his leg needs to be set…”

      Bradford shouldered his way to the ambulance, his chest clenching when he saw Parker’s limp body. He was unconscious; nasty blisters were already forming on his charred arms and hands. His leg looked twisted and mangled below the knee, his color ashen.

      The EMT’s secured his head and neck, started oxygen and an IV drip, and quickly loaded him in the ambulance.

      “Is he going to make it?” Bradford asked.

      The EMT shrugged. “We can’t say yet. We need to get him to the hospital ASAP. What’s his name?”

      “Parker Kilpatrick,” Bradford said. “He’s a detective with the SPD.”

      “Is he allergic to anything?” one of the EMT’s asked. “No.”

      A frown marred the second EMT’s face. “If you know his family, contact them.”

      “He doesn’t have any family,” Bradford said grimly.

      The medic closed the doors, the siren began to screech, and the ambulance rolled away, the lights twirling.

      NIGHTMARES OF FIRE, death, hell and eternal damnation consumed Rosanna. She struggled against the exhaustion, but lost the battle and closed her eyes. She was suffocating, couldn’t breathe. The fire engulfed her hair and body, and her skin sizzled. Then her father’s nasty smile found her as he climbed from the grave and grabbed her.

      Then she was in the bar. Beside her, a man lay on the floor, his eyes wide pools of nothing, blood floating around his head like a red river. Her friend was sprawled facedown with fire shooting sparks around her, chewing at her hair and fingers. Rosanna’s own skin burned, was frying, sliding off bone until black, sooty ashes fell like brittle, dead leaves onto the sodden floor.

      She jerked awake for the hundredth time, and searched the sterile hospital room, wishing she were home in her own bed, wishing she’d talked Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini. Wishing she had someone to talk to, someone who cared that she was lying here alone, dirty and scared.

      A knock sounded at the door. Quiet. Barely discernible. The doctor, most likely.

      “Come in,” she said in a hoarse voice.

      The door squeaked open, and the detective who’d rescued her stuck his face through the opening. His thick, wavy black hair was ruffled, looked as if he’d jammed his hands through it a dozen times, and soot and exhaustion colored his face. “Are you awake, miss?”

      “Yes, please, come in…”

      His boots pounded on the floor as he strode toward her. Did he have news about Natalie?

      One look into his troubled, dark eyes and she knew the answer before she even asked him.

      “My name is Detective Bradford Walsh.”

      “Rosanna Redhill,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”

      He shrugged, but his jaw remained rigid as if he didn’t want or expect her gratitude. “How are you feeling?”

      His rough, thick voice skated over raw nerve endings.

      “I’m fine.” She clutched the sheets between shaking fingers, praying she was wrong about the bad news. “Did you find Natalie?”

      He nodded, stepped toward her. Shadows haunted his eyes, eyes that had seen violence and death and sorrow.

      “I’m so sorry. My partner tried to save her….”

      “Oh God, no…” Her voice broke, and she curled into a ball, and pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle a sob.

      He lowered himself onto the bed, gently stroked the hair from her face, then wiped a tear trickling down her cheek.

      “How?” she asked in a tortured whisper.

      “A head injury. The firefighter managed to get her out before the flames reached her.”

      Thank God. She couldn’t stand that image in her head. Still, grief swelled in her chest.

      She sucked in a sharp breath, determined to hold herself together until he left, but another sob escaped her, and he pulled her into his arms and held her. The gesture was so kind that it undid her, and she clutched him, not wanting to let go. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be alone.

      Poor Natalie. She had been so young and vivacious, so full of life with so much ahead of her. Her new apartment, internship, classes at the College of Art & Design…

      He stroked her hair again, and she gulped back more tears, the tension in his hard body reminding her that he was only a stranger being kind, not a real friend. She couldn’t lean on him….

      Finally she swiped at her eyes, managed to regain control. “What about your partner? Is he okay?”

      He cleared his throat, then glanced down at his hands. “Parker is alive, but in critical condition. He suffered burns and multiple wounds. His leg was crushed and his lung collapsed.”

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