A Cold Creek Reunion. RaeAnne Thayne

       Laura.

      He froze and, for the first time in fifteen years as a firefighter, he forgot about the incident, his mission, just what the hell he was doing here.

      Laura.

      Ten years. He hadn’t seen her in all that time, since the week before their wedding when she had given him back his ring and left town. Not just town. She had left the whole damn country, as if she couldn’t run far enough to get away from him.

      Some part of him desperately wanted to think he had made some kind of mistake. It couldn’t be her. That was just some other slender woman with a long sweep of honey-blond hair and big blue unforgettable eyes. But no, it was definitely Laura, standing next to her mother. Sweet and lovely.

      Not his.

      Dear Reader,

      I’ve read romance novels almost as long as I can remember. I think I picked up my first Mills & Boon when I was about eleven and I instantly fell in love. I still love that thrill in my heart as I read about two people who deserve to find happiness together!

      As I grew older, I discovered a whole new world of books out there and many fantastic authors whose stories have enriched my life more than I can say.

      Once in a while, I still have to pinch myself when I realize I’m actually writing for the line that has given me so many wonderful hours of reading enjoyment over the years.

       RaeAnne Thayne

      About the Author

      RAEANNE THAYNE finds inspiration in the beautiful northern Utah mountains, where she lives with her husband and three children. Her books have won numerous honors, including RITA^® Award nominations from Romance Writers of America and a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews. RaeAnne loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website, www.raeannethayne.com.

      A Cold Creek

      Reunion

      RaeAnne Thayne

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To romance readers who, like me,

      love happily ever afters.

       Chapter One

      He loved these guys like his own brothers, but sometimes Taft Bowman wanted to take a fire hose to his whole blasted volunteer fire department.

      This was their second swift-water rescue training in a month—not to mention that he had been holding these regularly since he became battalion chief five years earlier—and they still struggled to toss a throw bag anywhere close to one of the three “victims” floating down Cold Creek in wet suits and helmets.

      “You’ve got to keep in mind the flow of the water and toss it downstream enough that they ride the current to the rope,” he instructed for about the six-hundredth time. One by one, the floaters—in reality, other volunteer firefighters on his thirty-person crew—stopped at the catch line strung across the creek and began working their way hand over hand to the bank.

      Fortunately, even though the waters were plenty frigid this time of year, they were about a month away from the real intensity of spring runoff, which was why he was training his firefighters for water rescues now.

      With its twists and turns and spectacular surroundings on the west slope of the Tetons, Cold Creek had started gaining popularity with kayakers. He enjoyed floating the river himself. But between the sometimes-inexperienced outdoor-fun seekers and the occasional Pine Gulch citizen who strayed too close to the edge of the fast-moving water, his department was called out on at least a handful of rescues each season and he wanted them to be ready.

      “Okay, let’s try it one more time. Terry, Charlie, Bates, you three take turns with the throw bag. Luke, Cody, Tom, stagger your jumps by about five minutes this time around to give us enough time on this end to rescue whoever is ahead of you.”

      He set the team in position and watched upstream as Luke Orosco, his second in command, took a running leap into the water, angling his body feetfirst into the current. “Okay, Terry. He’s coming. Are you ready? Time it just right. One, two, three. Now!”

      This time, the rope sailed into the water just downstream of the diver and Taft grinned. “That’s it, that’s it. Perfect. Now instruct him to attach the rope.”

      For once, the rescue went smoothly. He was watching for Cody Shepherd to jump in when the radio clipped to his belt suddenly crackled with static.

      “Chief Bowman, copy.”

      The dispatcher sounded unusually flustered and Taft’s instincts borne of fifteen years of firefighting and paramedic work instantly kicked in. “Yeah, I copy. What’s up, Kelly?”

      “I’ve got a report of a small structure fire at the inn, three hundred twenty Cold Creek Road.”

      He stared as the second rescue went off without a hitch. “Come again?” he couldn’t help asking, adrenaline pulsing through him. Structure fires were a rarity in the quiet town of Pine Gulch. Really a rarity. The last time had been a creosote chimney fire four months ago that a single ladder-truck unit had put out in about five minutes.

      “Yes, sir. The hotel is evacuating at this time.”

      He muttered an oath. Half his crew was currently in wet suits, but at least they were only a few hundred yards away from the station house, with the engines and the turnout gear.

      “Shut it down,” he roared through his megaphone. “We’ve got a structure fire at the Cold Creek Inn. Grab your gear. This is not a drill.”

      To their credit, his crew immediately caught the gravity of the situation. The last floater was quickly grabbed out of the water and everybody else rushed to the new fire station the town had finally voted to bond for two years earlier.

      Less than four minutes later—still too long in his book but not bad for volunteers—he had a full crew headed toward the Cold Creek Inn on a ladder truck and more trained volunteers pouring in to hurriedly don their turnout gear.

      The inn, a rambling wood structure with two single-story wings leading off a main two-story building, was on the edge of Pine Gulch’s small downtown, about a mile away from the station. He quickly assessed the situation as they approached. He couldn’t see flames yet, but he did see a thin plume of black smoke coming from a window on the far end of the building’s east wing.

      He noted a few guests milling around on the lawn and had just an instant to feel a pang of sympathy for the owner. Poor Mrs. Pendleton had enough trouble finding guests for her gracefully historic but undeniably run-down inn.

      A fire and forced evacuation probably wouldn’t do much to increase the appeal of the place.

      “Luke, you take Pete and make sure everybody’s out. Shep, come with me for the assessment. You all know the drill.”

      He and Cody Shepherd, a young guy in the last stages of his fire and paramedic training, headed into the door closest to where he had seen the smoke.

      Somebody had already been in here with a fire extinguisher, he saw. The fire was mostly out but the charred curtains were still smoking, sending out that inky-black plume.

      The room looked to be under renovation. It didn’t have a bed and the carpet had been pulled up. Everything was wet and he realized the ancient sprinkler system must have come on and finished the job the fire extinguisher had started.

      “Is that it?” Shep asked with a disgruntled look.

      “Sorry, should have let you have the honors.”