Undercover Bodyguard. Shirlee McCoy

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      TWO

      The force of the explosion knocked Ryder Malone from his feet. He went down hard, his thigh cramping, his pulse racing, a thousand memories trying to drag him into the past. He ignored them, jumping to his feet and running across the grass that separated him from Shelby Simons. Pretty, amusing, uncomplicated Shelby Simons. Owner of the only bakery in town that knew how to make a doughnut right.

       Owner of the sweetest smile he’d seen in years.

       She intrigued him. Her quiet joy, her easy humor, the comfortable way she interacted with the people who entered her bakery, all those qualities set to a backdrop of quiet beauty and stunning blue eyes.

       Now, she lay facedown on the ground, bits of shingle and wood falling around her like glowing confetti. They coated her back and her thick dark hair, covered the ground around her prone figure. Flames shot from broken windows on either side of the thick wood door she’d been standing in front of. A few inches to the left or right, and she’d have been sliced to bits.

       He brushed an ember from silky curls, felt the pulse point in her neck. It beat slow and steady.

       Alive.

       No time to check for injuries. Not with the fire raging out of control and the house groaning beneath the onslaught of flames.

       He scooped her up, racing back across the yard as another explosion rocked the house. It threw him to his knees, but he kept his arms tight around Shelby’s soft, limp body.

       Neighbors spilled from their homes, frantic cries mixing with the roar of the blaze that consumed the beautiful Victorian, the sounds background noise to Ryder’s racing thoughts. He’d seen explosions, felt them, lived through them. He hadn’t expected one in Spokane. Not on a sleepy spring morning.

       “Shelby?” He brushed thick hair from her cheek, and she shifted, her eyes slowly opening.

       “What happened?” She gasped, coughing on the acrid fumes that poured from the burning shell of the old house.

       “Some kind of explosion.”

       “Explosion? Maureen!” She shoved away, jumped to her feet and ran straight back toward the inferno.

       He snagged the bow of her apron, pulling her to a stop, and she swung around, her eyes wide with horror. “Maureen is in there.”

       “There’s nothing we can do for her now,” he said truthfully, and she yanked from his hold, spun away, running toward the house again.

       He followed, heat searing his cheeks as flames whooshed through the roof and windows, consuming wood and melting wiring, the scent suffocating.

       “Shelby! She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do to help her,” he shouted, grabbing her apron again.

       “She’s my friend. I have to try.”

       “And kill yourself in the process? I can’t let you do that.” He wouldn’t let her do that, but she turned, tears trekking down her cheeks, leaving white trails in her soot-stained face. A large knot peeked out from beneath silky curls near her temple, the swollen flesh surrounding a deep cut that oozed blood. She didn’t seem to feel the pain of it. Didn’t seem to know she was hurt.

       “It’s her birthday, Ryder. Her fiftieth. She can’t be dead.”

       He touched her cheek, tried to make her see the futility of the situation. “People die on their birthdays all the time.”

       “I know, but that doesn’t mean Maureen is dead. Maybe she survived the explosion. Maybe she’s upstairs, trying to find a way through the smoke and flames. I can’t just stand here and watch her house burn around her.”

       “Shelby—”

       She’d turned away again, racing around to the back of the house, dark hair glowing gold in the firelight.

       He followed, his thigh aching, the memories threatening to overtake him.

       Smoke.

       Flames.

       His comrades consumed by it.

       Ryder consumed.

       He shoved the images down deep, refusing them the way he had so many times in the six years since an explosive device had taken the lives of four of the ten navy SEALs who’d been sent to hunt a high-level terrorist in Afghanistan.

       Fire licked along the facade of the house, blazing across the back-porch roof, snapping and crackling as it ate its way up wood posts. Engulfed, the back door offered no hope of entry, the shattered windows only serving as a conduit for black smoke and red-gold flames to pour out.

       Death had come calling, and it had taken every living thing in its path.

       Shelby stopped in her tracks, her face lit by flames.

       “She really is dead, isn’t she?” she asked quietly, the words barely carrying over the fire’s crackling hiss. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with blood and soot, but her voice was steady, her gaze direct.

       “Yes.”

       “It’s her birthday.” She repeated the information as if doing so would somehow change what had happened to her friend.

       “I know. Come on.” He took her arm, urging her to the front yard. Two explosions had already rocked the house. There might be another, and he didn’t want Shelby anywhere near the building if there was.

       Three fire trucks were parked at the curb, firefighters hooking a hose to the hydrant across the street. The ordered chaos of the scene strummed along Ryder’s nerves, making him anxious and antsy. He’d wanted a couple of doughnuts and some coffee, and he’d gotten trouble instead. Not a good morning. That was for sure.

       He hurried Shelby across the street, and a tall, thin firefighter stopped them there, his gaze jumping from Ryder to Shelby.

       “You okay, folks?” he asked.

       “We’re fine, but my friend Maureen…” Shelby didn’t finish.

       “Is she inside?”

       “Yes.”

       “Anyone else in there that you know of?”

       “No. She lived alone.”

       “Okay. We’ll do what we can to find her, but it doesn’t look good.”

       “I know.” Shelby offered a watery smile, and Ryder’s heart constricted, the feeling both surprising and uncomfortable. He’d noticed Shelby and her sweet smile every time he’d gone into her bakery, but noticing wasn’t the same as feeling something for her.

       And he was feeling.

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