Daddy Protector. Jacqueline Diamond

the fall, lost his balance and toppled over. Mercifully, his head hit the padding, but pain shot through his left ankle and the side of his body throbbed.

      Now he was supposed to rise, dust himself off and demonstrate to Skip how a he-man handled danger. With aplomb. With panache.

      Fierce heat radiated from the nearest window that at any moment might explode outward. And Hale couldn’t move, not even to drag his aching body out of danger.

      “Somebody get me outta here!” he shouted.

      A fire truck screamed to a halt on the street, boots pounded across the lawn and someone lowered a stretcher. About time you clowns showed up, Hale meant to say, but his larynx refused to cooperate.

      He focused on suppressing a groan as his rescuers braced him for removal. Their precautions emphasized that he might have broken something important.

      For the first time, the reality of the risk he’d run occurred to Hale. But he and Skip had both survived, and that was what counted.

      CONNIE LOVED SOAP in its many shapes, colors and scents, prettily packaged, whether alone or in combination with bottles of perfume and lotion. Not only did soap make great gifts, but customers who bought it for their own use generally returned regularly for replacements.

      “I shouldn’t spare the time but I’m desperate! Can’t you smell the smoke on me?” inquired one of her regulars, reporter-editor Tracy Johnson, who stopped in about four o’clock for a box of her favorite rosettes. Without waiting for an answer, she said, “I’m on deadline, and I’ll be writing my fool head off this evening, but I refuse to scrub with the powdered stuff we use at the office. It feels like sandpaper and smells like shoe polish.”

      A hard-driving woman in her thirties, Tracy had few vanities. She wore practical pantsuits, tied her auburn-streaked brown hair in a ponytail and chose flat shoes over heels despite her small stature. She stopped in to Connie’s Curios mostly for the candy bars but had developed a fondness for rose-scented soap.

      The reference to smoke reminded Connie of the sirens she’d heard intermittently during the afternoon. On the radio, she’d caught a mention of a warehouse blaze. “Did anyone get hurt?”

      “Depends on which fire you mean.” Tracy chose a bottle of cucumber lotion. “I could use this, too. My hands are so dry they’re cracking.”

      “There was more than one?”

      “Two at once, can you believe that? I had to bring Roy in to help. He’s okay if I tell him who to talk to and what to ask, but he never digs beneath the surface.” The fiftysomething Roy Anderson mostly sold ads and handled layout.

      “Where was the biggest fire?” Connie asked in concern.

      “In a warehouse south of the Amber View housing tract.” Tracy explained that a tenant had failed to obtain permits for storing chemicals used at an off-site manufacturing plant. A substance that spilled during unloading had ignited, thanks to a carelessly discarded cigarette. Without information about the exact nature of the chemicals, the fire department had had to assume the worst. Extinguishing a potentially toxic blaze required the hazardous materials team and, of course, added to the danger for firefighters.

      “Somebody’s going to pay a big fine and maybe go to jail,” Tracy concluded. “Fortunately, nobody got hurt, but the factory owner violated a bunch of laws.”

      “People don’t recognize the purpose behind safety regulations until there’s a crisis, I suppose.” Connie had been astounded by the red tape necessary to open a shop. She still wasn’t convinced it had all been necessary.

      “The second fire’s a more interesting case,” Tracy added. “The cause hasn’t been determined, for one thing.”

      Connie glanced over as Paris Larouche, Jo Anne’s twenty-year-old daughter, arrived for her shift. While ringing up Tracy’s purchases, she inquired, “Where was the other fire?”

      “At a fourplex that belongs to Yolanda Rios,” the reporter answered. “You must know her from tutoring.”

      Yolanda’s fourplex, where Skip lived? A wave of fear sucked the moisture from Connie’s throat. “Was anyone injured?”

      Unaware of the urgency behind the question, Tracy said vaguely, “Some idiot left a kid home alone but a cop rescued him.”

      She must mean Skip, since he was the only child in the building. “Is the boy okay?”

      “A few scratches. He’s been turned over to child protective services.” The reporter signed her credit slip. “I guess Detective Crandall merits another commendation.”

      “Hale Crandall?” Connie asked, puzzled. “Why?”

      “He got the kid out of the building.”

      Connie was grateful to the man once again. This must be a record. “Is he all right?”

      “I’m not sure. The paramedics carted him off to the med center,” Tracy responded. “The public information officer thinks he’ll be okay, but that could be simply an assumption.”

      Anxiety swept through Connie. “Did you check on his condition?” Tell me he suffered nothing worse than a little smoke inhalation.

      “The hospital refuses to comment.” Tracy must have noticed her agitation, because she added, “Is he a friend of yours? I get so caught up in reporting that I can be insensitive.”

      “He’s my neighbor.” That seemed the simplest reply.

      “He was awake and alert, if that means anything.”

      “Thanks.” Paramedics often took people to the hospital as a precaution, Connie reflected, and summoned enough presence of mind to wish her visitor good luck with the articles.

      After Tracy left, Connie discovered she was trembling. Once Saturday evening’s incident with the intruder had passed, she’d never considered that Hale might get hurt somewhere else! Now he lay in the hospital, perhaps badly burned, and he didn’t have relatives in the area. She hoped his colleagues were watching out for him. Or maybe he had a girlfriend, the Saturday-night date for whom he’d donned a suit and tie. Well, if that woman didn’t rise to the occasion and take care of her man, Connie owed him a little TLC for saving Skip’s life.

      Thinking of Skip reminded her of Paula’s poor judgment in leaving the boy unattended, and now he’d been turned over to social workers. Too bad Paris wasn’t experienced enough to trust with locking up the shop, because if Connie could figure out where he was, she’d try to arrange custody now.

      Seeking the most efficient way to ensure the boy’s safety, she dialed Brian Phillips, the lawyer who’d helped with the adoption attempt. After she filled him in, he promised to track the boy. “I’ve got a few contacts at the county.”

      “That would be wonderful.” How distressing that Skip might have to spend the night among strangers! As for how close she’d come to losing him altogether, she couldn’t bear to think of it.

      A year and a half ago, when he’d arrived at the tutoring center, he’d acted alternately clingy and rebellious. Connie’s upbringing with divorced, self-absorbed parents—her mother was only slightly warmer than her father—hadn’t prepared her to offer selfless nurturing. In fact, during her marriage, she’d resisted the notion of having children.

      But with Yolanda’s aid, she’d learned to be a steady, loving guide. While Skip was in kindergarten, Connie had helped him focus on classroom activities, following directions and acquiring a familiarity with numbers and letters. Later, they’d moved into reading and arithmetic. This month, he’d finished first grade working at or above average in all areas.

      Now, without her, he might get lost in the system. She had to find him.

      Well, Brian was working on that now, and sternly, Connie reminded herself that she had a job to do. After turning the counter over to Paris, she went into the office and settled at the computer