Authors: Kathryn Shay
Tags: #ptsd, #contemporary romance, #single parent dating, #firefighter romance, #parents and sons, #firemen romance, #war veteran romance
It Had To Be You
Kathryn Shay spent five years riding fire trucks with
a large city fire department, eating in their firehouses and
interviewing hundreds of America’s Bravest. Read the books that
resulted from her intense relationship with firefighters!
You
“Wow...Such a well written, emotional, heartbreaking
read. I just loved it. I was hooked from the start by such
wonderful and lovable characters...these characters broke my
heart.”
“I loved Beck's character and I loved him with Lela.
Kathryn certainly put their relationship through the emotional
ringer!!”
“I never realized the extent of PTSD and how horrible
it would be to have this. You also got in the mind of the
firefighters and what they feel and see during a fire. It was also
a different romantic story than usual.”
“I found this book very down to earth. As a past navy
wife, I could relate to the feelings of the different personalities
of each character. This is portrayed as real life with the ups and
downs. I also cried when reading it.”
“I loved it! This book brings awareness to the very
difficult reality of war vets with PTSD. It also shows the
struggles people go through for love and how fate can bring you
together.”
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Kathryn Shay
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Kathryn Shay
“
Hell, it’s hotter in here than it was
in Afghanistan!” Beckett Sloan mumbled the words, but his radio mic
must have picked them up because he heard his captain, Gabe
Malvaso, chuckle through the line.
“
At least it’s chilly outside for
April,” Gabe responded. “Thank God for small blessings,
Beck.”
Not gonna happen.
To Beck,
blessings
and
God
had become irrelevant words since
he’d taken his first tour in Iraq over twenty years ago.
Instead of dwelling on war experiences in
Iraq, which still woke him in the middle of the night, he focused
on his current job.
“
How you doin’ back there, probie?”
Felicia White tossed out. The tall, slender woman had a core of
steel.
Intentionally this time, Beck snorted into
the radio. “Just fine, Lieutenant.” For most of his adult life,
Beck had held officer’s rank—from second lieutenant all the way to
colonel. No more. Now, thanks to the Hire Our Heroes initiative, he
was rookie in the Hidden Cove Fire Department, which suited him
fine. The fire service was basically a paramilitary organization,
with the same slogan as the armed services:
Duty, Honor,
Country
. It was as close to the army as he could get without
IEDs going off in his path or the slaughter of innocents happening
right in front of him. At least now he was trying to save people
instead of kill them.
A timber crashed down in front of Gabe, and
all five members of the Rescue Squad jumped back. Sparks flew in
every direction and a few embers landed on White, who was in front
of Beck. They’d kept him close to officers for the first year.
Immediately, he reached out to brush the glowing shards from her
helmet. Embers under their Nomex hoods were nasty.
Into his mic, Gabe asked, “Condition of the
fire, Chief?”
“
Getting worse,” their battalion chief
shot back, with a note of concern in his voice. “You’re close to
coming out.” The voice belonged to Cal Erikson, who was operating
Incident Command.
“
We’re on the second floor. Let us
check the bedrooms.”
“
Do it fast.”
Gabe ticked off orders. “Sands and O’Malley,
left. White, go with them. Sloan, you’re with me.”
“
Yes, sir.”
Following his officer into a bedroom straight
ahead, he dropped to the floor when Malvaso did. It was a furnace
in here as heat rose. “Check the left side.”
Blindly feeling the wall, Beck connected with
a steel post. A bedstead? He reached beyond it and found a soft
spongy mass—a bed. Which, when pressed, bounced. “Got one,
Cap.”
“
You carry him out, Beck. My side’s
clear. I’ll be right in front of you to lead the way.”
Thankful he didn’t have a superior officer
who took over when things got tense, Beck identified legs first, a
torso, a head. Scooping up the body, he determined the person
weighed about two hundred pounds. And had a lot of muscle. Pitching
the guy over his shoulder, Beck stood into even hotter air, which
could burn the lungs. Using the wall again since he could only see
outlines, he slid his hand along the sheetrock until he reached the
door.
Stepping into the hallway, he slowly made his
way down the stairs, careful to balance his heavy load. His pace
was also hindered by the traditional gear of heavy clothing and a
breathing apparatus, which weighed about sixty pounds. Halfway
there, the horn blew, calling all firefighters to evacuate.
“
Pick up the pace, Beck.”
“
Yes, sir!” Beck tried to quicken his
steps, but his balance started to give way; sweat seeped out of him
inside his turnout coat; the weight pressed over his shoulder had
him stumbling to the exit.
“
I’m right ahead of you,” Gabe called
out. It was pitch-black down here, and Beck couldn’t see anything.
“Follow my voice.”
A bracing rush of cold air, clean air, hit
them as they exited the house into the night. Two paramedics from
one of the ambulances rushed to Beck, took the body and strapped it
onto a gurney; when they left, Beck dropped to his knees. Every one
of his muscles pulsed, and his breathing was ragged. Ripping off
his head gear, he sucked in deep breaths. Again, he recalled the
hot, fetid air he’d been forced to take in after a skirmish in Iraq
or Afghanistan.
Brody O’Malley approached him. “Did good,
buddy.”
“
Thanks.”
“
Gonna hurl?” A woman—Sands or
White?—asked. “I have. It’s okay.”
Once more, he was overwhelmed with these
people’s
kindnesses
. When a member of the elite Rescue
Squad, Tony Ramirez, had been promoted to lieutenant on a different
group at the house, they’d pulled Beck up from his six-month rookie
position on a pumper. He knew why. Purple Heart. Silver Star. A
variety of commendations for his performance on the battlefield.
Though those things meant little to him, they gave him an
opportunity for a career that suited him. And he’d always admired
firefighters for the actions in 9/11, just as they admired
soldiers.
“
I think I’m good.” Sitting back on his
haunches, he surveyed the scene. Three alarms, which meant three
firehouses were called. Five trucks. Two ambulances. Turning, he
saw the structure engulfed in angry yellow-and-red flames. They’d
had a close call.
He’d had closer.
“
Need a medic?” This time, Gabe came
over and asked the question because Beck still hunched on his
knees.
White answered. “He says no.”
Finally able to stand, Beck felt himself
wobble. The lieutenant slid her arm through his. “You should be
shaky, Beck. You carried a lot of weight in sweltering
conditions.”
“
I’m okay.” He moved away from
her.
“
Suit yourself.”
“
We heading to the trucks?” he
asked.
“
In a minute.” Gabe perused him
closely, his dark gaze searching, then turned to cross to
Erikson.
The others wandered off to get water. Beck
started toward the Rescue rig, passing the Midi, a two-person
medical truck, which carried supplies. Someone stepped out in front
of him. Zach Malvaso. Though he was a nice guy, he was more
extroverted, more cocky than his brother, Mitch. “Doin’ good,
Beck?”
The origin of that question was different
from the others’ queries. Zach Malvaso was a firefighter with PTSD.
“Yep, good.”
“
You going to the meeting tonight?” All
the firefighters in Beck’s house knew of his problem, which was
necessary because something could happen on the job.
Afraid so
. “Yep.”
“
Good.” Malvaso grabbed his arm. Zach
and all his family were touchers. “The group isn’t so bad. I still
go occasionally, so I knew about the one that’s starting up
tonight.”
“
Sure, yeah. I’m down with
it.”
After he told the lie, he strode quickly to
the truck. Luckily no one was nearby. Circling the end of the rig
so he was out of sight, he leaned his forehead against the cold,
red-painted metal and closed his eyes.
His attendance at the Trauma Survivor’s Group
bothered him more than the experience he’d just had inside the
burning building. The last thing Beck wanted was to be part of a
specialty
support
group, set up by the fire department for
its members and including veterans from all walks of life. Society
was trying to help the wounded warriors who returned from the
Middle East and Asia. One of the conditions of his employment in
the HCFD was attendance at the sessions, but it had taken the
department about nine months to set up this particular class
because of scheduling problems. Then the doc running it had a
family emergency, so the new group had kept getting put off.
Beck thought about his PTSD—the emotional
shrapnel left in him by war—mostly centered around depression and
nightmares, with the occasional flashbacks. The fire department
officials believed he could learn to
manage
his symptoms.
But he had no inclination to deal with the very thing that had cost
him his marriage, his kid and, to a degree, his sanity.
o0o
Lela Allen knew she was in a dream,
struggled to surface from it, but she couldn’t. Instead, pain
rocketed through her. The slam of her head against the wood-paneled
wall radiated to her nerve endings, and her vision blurred.
“Please, Len, don’t.”
No response from the man she’d married. Just
a grunt as he wedged his arm in her windpipe.
She gagged. Choked. “Len, please. It’s me,
Lela.”
Sometimes yelling her name pulled him out of
the fog. Thank God, this was one of those occasions.
He blinked.
His eyes widened.
Then he fell to his knees and buried his
head in his hands. Began to weep.
Her struggle to breathe, combined with the
wrenching sound of his crying, had Lela bolting up in bed; she was
gasping for air for real. Slowly, she became aware of the firm
mattress beneath her, the cool April breeze on her arms and the
scent of laundry detergent from the bedclothes. Tugging the quilt
to her chest, she uttered the familiar mantra: “It’s a dream; it’s
over; he can’t hurt you anymore.”
The first two points were true. The jury was
still out on the latter. Maybe once the divorce came through, she
wouldn’t be as affected by his problems as much as she was now.