Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins

pointing its gushing stream of water at the flames. Others worked another hose, aimed at the roof of the neighboring house.

      He headed up the driveway.

      “Hey, buddy, you can’t go in there!”

      “Chuck, stop that guy!”

      A firefighter, his mask pulled off his face, blocked Drake’s path.

      “My dog’s in there, damn it!” He tried to shove past, eyeing the crackling flames that licked at the side of the house. His office.

      “Stop!” A second firefighter, his face gleaming with sweat, grabbed Drake’s arm. “Calm down or I’ll call those cops over to drag your butt to jail.”

      The heat radiating off the fire was intense. Sucking in a breath that tasted like soot, Drake glanced at the name on the firefighter’s helmet. “Captain Dietrich, I’m Drake Morgan and I live here. My dog’s inside.”

      “I know. Heard it from dispatch.” He looked over his shoulder and yelled, “I said, step on it!” Turning to Drake, he continued, “Sorry, but I can’t have you doing something stupid like trying to go inside. We got enough on our hands fighting the fire, looking for the dog. Can’t be trying to save you, too.”

      “I won’t fight you.” Drake swiped at his brow. “My dog—”

      “Two guys made an attempt to go inside, but I had to pull them back after a wall collapsed.”

      His heart jammed in his throat. “Where?”

      Dietrich jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “East side of house. Looked like an office. According to neighbors, that’s where the house first exploded in flames. Did you store flammable chemicals, other petroleum distillates, there or anywhere else?”

      “Absolutely not.” A small relief sifted through Drake’s fear. The office was the farthest from the kitchen. “I think my dog is in the kitchen.”

      “Where is it?”

      “Back northwest corner.”

      Dietrich stared at the front door, smoke swirling out the opening.

      “It’s a clear shot,” Drake said, “thirty feet diagonal, from the door. Table is against the west wall. Hearsay—that’s his name—likes to lie under it.”

      Dietrich pointed at Chuck. “Got that? Back northwest corner? Look under kitchen table for the dog. You and Ross are going in.”

      Chuck pulled up his mask as Dietrich strode to a truck, gesturing and talking to several firefighters.

      Drake watched Chuck and Ross, air tanks strapped to their backs, enter and disappear into the smoke.

      “Hang in there, buddy,” he said under his breath, “they’re almost there.”

      When the mutt—who looked to be part whippet, part retriever—showed up at Drake’s house a year ago, he’d ignored it, figuring it would meander back home. Instead it hung out in his yard like a lonesome guy in a bar who had nowhere to go after last call.

      The next day, he’d grudgingly put out a bowl of water, some leftover meat loaf. It was cool enough in April that he didn’t worry about the mutt hanging around outside, figuring he’d soon go back to wherever he belonged.

      Within the week, Drake was lugging home dog food. Mutt sniffed it, turned away. Wanted meat loaf.

      Drake’s gut clenched as a front window exploded, glass shattering. Gray smoke streamed out the window, curling furiously over the roof as flames lashed through the opening.

      He tried to still his thoughts, told himself that the worst of the fire was in his bedroom and office, was traveling only now into the living room...hadn’t yet reached the kitchen.

      “Mr. Morgan?”

      He turned. An elderly woman, who he vaguely recalled lived several houses down, stood hunched in her chenille robe.

      “I’m so sorry.” In the flickering light of the fire, her milky blue eyes brimmed with emotion. She clutched his hand and squeezed it. “Oh, your sweet little dog...”

      He couldn’t deal with this.

      Clamping his mouth shut, he looked at the fiery hell, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached, willing God or whoever was in charge to hear him out. Take it all. Destroy everything I own. But please, spare one small heart...

      In the doorway, a form materialized in the whirling smoke. A firefighter emerged, cradling a limp form in his arms.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      AS THE FIREFIGHTER laid the limp dog onto a cleared area of the yard, Dietrich ran over, carrying an oxygen tank.

      Drake stumbled forward and dropped to his knees next to Hearsay. The dog lay on his side, unmoving, eyes closed.

      Tugging off his own mask, Chuck knelt across from Drake. Dietrich, positioned at the dog’s head, strapped a small plastic mask over the dog’s muzzle.

      Dietrich jabbed his chin at Chuck. “Turn it up.”

      Chuck adjusted the nozzle on the tank, then pressed two fingers against the dog’s throat. He held it there, a studious look on his sweat-slicked face, before giving his head a small shake.

      The two firefighters exchanged a look.

      Which Drake caught. His insides constricted into a tight ball of hurt and rage.

      He refused to believe it.

      Not his dog. Not Hearsay.

      He would find the bastard who did this, make him pay. After Drake was through with him, he would wish he had died a slow, agonizing death in this fire instead.

      The crackling of the flames, movements of people and machinery, even the fierce heat shrank into the background as Drake stroked Hearsay, still soft and warm, willing his life force to not seep away.

      Please. Spare him.

      “Come on, buddy,” he whispered, his voice strained, “you can make it.”

      Dietrich, his face grim, peered intently into the dog’s face.

      Chuck lightly shook the dog’s shoulder. “Stay with us, boy.”

      Drake ran his hand down the dog’s side, stopping when his fingers grazed stiff, charred hair.

      “Looks to be only the fur,” Dietrich said, “nothing deeper. Bigger problem is how much smoke this little guy took in.” He lightly brushed some soot from Hearsay’s nostrils.

      “I heard whimpering as I approached the kitchen,” Chuck said. “He hasn’t been out long.”

      Drake leaned closer. “Stay,” he whispered hoarsely, every fiber of his being commanding it to be so. He swiped at the tears coursing down his face, not giving a damn who saw. “I need you, buddy.”

      A crackling crash. On the west side of the house, flames blew out the shattered kitchen window.

      “Got a pulse,” Chuck said.

      Drake stared at the dog’s chest, catching an almost imperceptible movement. “He’s breathing!”

      The men stared at another rise and fall of the chest...and another...

      “Keep at it, boy,” Dietrich coached, “you’re almost there.”

      Three grown men on their knees cried and whooped as Hearsay’s eyelids fluttered opened.

      Dietrich grinned at the dog, his teeth white in a face streaked with soot. “You’re one tough bastard, Hearsay.”

      Blinking, the dog looked around, his gaze settling on Drake.

      In that moment, he met God.

      “Welcome back, buddy,” he murmured.