Undercover Bodyguard. Shirlee McCoy

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.

       Sympathy, concern, curiosity about the woman who seemed both strong and vulnerable.

       “I’m going to send an EMT over. You need to get the cut on your head looked at.” The firefighter hurried away, and Shelby put a hand to her temple, fingering the lump that still oozed blood.

       “It doesn’t even hurt,” she said, shivering as she looked at her bloodied fingers.

       “Shock will do that to you. Here.” Ryder shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, his knuckles brushing the silky flesh beneath her jaw as he adjusted the collar.

       She stilled, something flashed in the depth of her eyes. Fear? Anxiety? It was there and gone too quickly for him to read.

       “Thanks. I’ve never been so cold in my life. I guess that’s another thing sho—” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening as she caught sight of his side holster. “That’s a gun.”

       “Right.”

       “You’re carrying a weapon.”

       “Right.”

       “But…why?”

       “I’m in the security business. I protect people and property.”

       “You’re a bodyguard?”

       “A security contractor.”

       “Which is the same as a bodyguard.”

       “If you want.”

       “What I want is to go back to last night and insist that Maureen spend it at my place.”

       “It would be nice if life had a do-over button, Shelby Ann, but it doesn’t.”

       “I know. I just wish that I’d had a chance to save her.” She swayed, her face colorless. He slid an arm around her waist, motioning to the EMT who was making his way toward them.

       “Ma’am, why don’t you sit down and let me have a look at your head?”

       “I’m all right.”

       “You’re bleeding, and you may have a concussion.” The EMT used gloved fingers to probe Shelby’s wound, and she stiffened.

       “Ow!”

       “Looks like you’re going to need a few stitches. The doctor may want to do a CAT scan to rule out any fractures or brain bleeds. Let’s get you transported to the hospital and see what’s what.”

       “I really don’t need to go to the hospital,” Shelby protested.

       “You really do,” Ryder responded, urging her onto a stretcher that had been wheeled over by two other EMTs.

       “But—”

       “Just relax, ma’am, and let us do all the work.” They rolled her away as she continued to protest.

       Ryder figured he’d have a chat with the fire marshal and then find a place to buy some coffee, eat one of the protein bars that he kept in his glove compartment and get on with his day.

       He scanned the mass of people fighting the blaze, searching for the one who might be in charge. A dog yapped from the bushes at the edge of the yard, but he ignored it, focusing on the task, determined to follow through on his plan.

       “Wait! Stop!” Shelby’s cry sent adrenaline pumping through him, and he turned.

       She hung over the side of the stretcher as she whistled and called to something. If she leaned any farther, she’d fall on her head. The EMTs seemed helpless to stop her.

       Ryder was not.

       He covered the ground between them quickly, grabbing her arm