Warrior For One Night. Nancy Gideon
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you to pull me out of there before both of us are barbecue.”
She continued to stare at him, expression frozen, eyes huge. Finally he unhooked his straps and stood. “I’m going to go rig up. You get in as close as you can. It doesn’t look like we’ve got much of a window of opportunity.”
She gripped his wrist, holding hard, needing him to understand the gravity of his situation. “I don’t have any safety equipment on board. Once you’re outside, I can’t help you.”
He covered her hand with his, pressing hard. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
She watched him work his way to the back, swaying with the rock of the Ranger as the rising heat created a vicious turbulence. She would have cursed again but her heart had bobbed up into her throat, choking her with desperate emotion.
What kind of man dropped into hell in his shirtsleeves for someone he didn’t even know?
The quick and competent way he fastened up the harness said he knew what he was doing. His expression was grimly focused. If he was afraid, she couldn’t tell. There was no hesitation in his movements. She could have been looking at one of the seasoned hotshots about to fly like an eagle. Except he was plunging into a furnace with no oxygen and no fire suit.
“Here.”
He caught the bandanna she tossed back.
“Hold your breath,” she warned. She’d be holding hers. “I’m giving you thirty seconds and then you’re coming up with or without him. Understand?”
He nodded, not looking at her as he uncapped one of the bottled waters in the back, pouring it into the cloth square then over his head to wet his hair and face. Then he fixed her anxious gaze with his own steady one and told her, “Don’t let me fry.”
She tried to answer but couldn’t form the words.
He tied the soaked bandanna over his nose and mouth and opened the door. The stench of smoke poured in. He swung the hoist out and locked the cable onto his harness. Then, with one long look at her, he gave a thumbs-up, stepped out into the hazy air and was gone.
There was no time to worry about him. She had her hands full keeping the Ranger at a low steady hover just above the trees. She began to count. One thousand one. One thousand two. She couldn’t see him as he was directly below the belly of her ship, but she could see the flames chewing across her memory. And she could hear the screams, pleading for rescue from the horrible reaches of her past. One thousand seventeen. One thousand eighteen. She tried not to think about the poisonous gases, the heat, the flames. One thousand twenty-nine. One thousand thirty. Ready or not.
She activated the hoist, her breath still suspended as she swiveled in her seat to watch the empty doorway.
She’s right. I’m crazy.
Sure, he’d done bungee jumping and rappelling. But not into a raging volcano. And the difference was searingly apparent as he sang down the line into the fire. He took a deep breath—the last he could safely pull until he was back in the helicopter—and plunged to the floor of hell.
One thousand three. One thousand four.
The heat hit like a closed fist, the waves of it so intense the water and instant sweat beading up his face and neck sizzled. Walls of flame pressed in on all sides. He could hear the sap popping in the firs as it boiled. Tongues of fire raced across the dry grasses under his feet, licking at the still figure stretched out on the ground. His vision blurred behind the scorch of smoke as he bent over the unconscious man. From the corner of his eye, he saw something fall and reached without thinking to catch a limb as big around as his forearm, deflecting if before it struck the downed firefighter. He could smell the cooked flesh on his palms before the pain actually registered. Then he gasped and, immediately, was coughing, choking, reeling.
One thousand twelve. One thousand thirteen.
He couldn’t draw a breath. His nose, his throat, his lungs burned with a raw, tearing agony. Dropping down onto elbows and knees, he swayed, struggling not to succumb. Seconds. He only had seconds to secure the other man’s safety.
One thousand twenty. One thousand twenty-one.
He crouched over the firefighter, wincing as he grabbed onto his slack weight and dragged him up into a seated position. Buffeted by dizziness and the relentless pounding waves of heat, he banded the man’s chest and locked his arms about him.
One thousand twenty-seven.
Burning embers lit on the back of his neck. He shook his head but couldn’t knock them off. Not without letting go. He gritted his teeth. Come on, Mel! Get me out of here!
And then the line pulled taut, dragging him and his limp cargo up and off their feet, snatching them up through the thick plumes of blackness. He was barely aware of them stopping. Of his feet groping for the open doorway. Of swinging his heavy burden inside. Of collapsing, crawling the last few feet and rolling onto his back to suck the first sweet taste of air.
At the controls, Mel shouted back, “Alex, are you in?”
Then his hoarse reply. “Go.”
Mel headed back to Reno, not daring to turn around until they touched down on tarmac where the ambulance waited by the Parrish hangar. She threw out of her belts and hurried back to where Xander sat on the floor beside the still firefighter, one hand clutching the other’s motionless fingers, the other rubbing at his own eyes. He glanced up when Mel touched the back of his dark head. His face was a mess of black soot smeared by runnels from bloodshot eyes. From out of it, his wide smile was a sudden shock of white. Relief and something bigger, something massive, plugged up in her chest.
“We got him, Mel.”
Her own smile wobbled. “Yes, we did.”
The paramedics were quick to secure the young firefighter, Teddy Greenbaum, to a stretcher. They had Xander breathe through an oxygen mask until he could suck air without spasms of coughing. He let them take his vitals then declined further attention with a gruff “I’m fine,” and a promise that he’d check in with them if he had any problems.
Then Teddy Greenbaum, who’d been scant minutes from beyond help, was whisked away to the hospital.
“Come on,” Mel coaxed the slumping figure of Xander Caufield. “I’ll stand you to a cold one.”
Groaning, he slid off the chopper step onto his feet and took a reeling pitch to the right.
“Whoa. I gotcha.”
Mel slipped in under his arm and let him lean on her while he gathered his bearings then steered him toward the hangar. Acting without thinking, she sat him down in her swivel desk chair, stuck an opened longneck in his hand and went for the first-aid kit in the small bathroom. She came back to find him hunched over, untouched beer dangling between his knees. She tipped his head back with the cup of her palm beneath his chin. His sore eyes were flat with fatigue as they fixed upon hers. Slowly, very gently, she began to clean off his face with the wet towel she’d brought for that purpose. His eyes closed as she uncovered more of his splendid features with each determined swipe. Beautifully masculine lines. Irresistible. She bent, touching her mouth to his. He tasted like dry ash on the outside. Sweet, so sweet inside. When she lifted away, his eyes were still shut, his breath coming softly, shallowly between the slight part of his lips. With her hand on the back of his head, she had him tuck his chin so she could attend the singed nape of his neck while her fingers meshed and kneaded his dirty hair. All the while a curious fullness kept building around her heart.
Crouching between the spread of his knees, Mel took the beer from him and had a long drink of it before setting it aside. She took up his hands, again, her touch so very tender, examining the blistered palms.
“There’s no easy way to do this, Alex.”
He braced at the quiet warning.
At the first touch of the ointment to the raw skin on his hand,