Up in Flames. Rita Herron

the raging fire illuminated her rescuer’s face, and her stomach tightened. He was the detective she’d seen questioning spectators at Cozy’s earlier. He had saved Hazel, and now her.

      She clutched his open shirt in a death grip as he dodged the flames and falling debris. Outside, she dragged in gulping breaths of fresh air, then swallowed against the dryness in her throat, aware of his masculinity and the power of his body as he carried her toward the ambulance.

      Her body glided downward, scraping over the detective’s massive thighs as he lowered her onto the stretcher. For a brief second, he pushed errant strands of her hair from her forehead. The gesture was so tender and gentle that tears pricked her eyes.

      “Miss, are you okay?”

      She nodded. “My friend…” she whispered. “Natalie Gorman, she fell. Find her, see if she’s all right.”

      He nodded and squeezed her arm. “I will. What does she look like? What’s she wearing?”

      “Brown hair, a green dress!”

      An EMT met them and shoved an oxygen mask toward her.

      “Check her out!” The detective shouted, then he raced back toward the burning building.

      The EMT examined her hands and arms for burns. They tingled from the heat, but she’d survived without any major injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

      Rosanna tried to tell him that she was okay, but again she broke out in a coughing fit.

      The weighty pull of the smoke and exhaustion pulled her under, and she drifted into unconsciousness.

      BRADFORD DARTED back toward the blazing building searching for his partner, but he didn’t see him anywhere.

      Two pairs of officers had arrived on the scene, and were trying to manage traffic and contain the crowd. He quickly explained what had happened and asked them to canvas the people who’d been inside, as well as the spectators on the street for information.

      “See if you can find a Natalie Gorman, too,” he said. “Her friend was asking about her. Brown hair. Green dress.”

      He pushed his way back through the mob, but didn’t see a brown-haired woman in a green dress. And no Parker. He radioed him, but Parker didn’t respond, and panic seized Bradford.

      He headed to the front door to go back inside, but a fireman grabbed him. “You can’t go in. Too dangerous.”

      “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….”