Ring of Fire (10 page)

“Oh, God,” she murmured. She rested her hand on his arm, needing the contact herself as much as to let him know she was there for him. Under the cotton of his shirt, his muscles were as rigid as steel.

Eric didn't seem to notice her touch, just stared straight ahead as he went on. “Sharif was behind me. He was hurled backward, out the door. Knocked out cold. Later, I found out he was concussed but otherwise okay. But Peller . . . The blast blew off one of his legs and pretty much destroyed the other. And the structure caught fire. I got tourniquets on his legs, but I couldn't get him out of there. He died before a medic got to us.”

He'd left out a pretty significant detail. “And your leg?”

“Both my legs were pretty fucked up. I managed to pull myself over to Peller, but I couldn't carry him out. The fire was growing; I was coughing and choking. I was going to drag him, but—”

He coughed now, a ragged sound, and then cleared his throat. “He had a pregnant wife. I was telling him his wife loved him when he died right in front of me.” Another cough. “If I'd gone through that door first, he'd still be alive. I sent him in, then I didn't get him out.”

“With your legs so badly injured, you
couldn't
get him out.”

He turned and stared at her. Looking down from his two-inches-taller height, the starlight didn't reflect in his eyes. Instead, their gray depths looked flat, almost dead. “I've gone back over this so many times in my mind. I don't think
couldn't
applies. You've heard of cases where a mom lifts a car off her kid when he's pinned underneath it.”

“Superhuman strength,” she murmured. “Yes, it happens, but it's so rare. You couldn't expect that of yourself.”

“Why not? Events like that test your mettle, and at the most crucial juncture, I failed.”

“So you're human, not superhuman,” she said. “Cut yourself some slack, soldier.”

He shook his head. “I was his commanding officer. He was my responsibility.”

“Yes, but . . .” She pressed her lips together, and tried to put herself in his shoes, to imagine how horrible the situation had been. “I do know what you mean. I'm the chief. The firefighters are my responsibility and I do take that seriously, and personally. I do my best not to put any of them in danger. That's our first rule, not to risk our own lives. And if something does happen, I use all my resources, both mine and my team's, to help that firefighter.”

Thinking back to something she'd told him previously, she went on, “But, despite what I said about when I was a kid and thought firefighters had superpowers, I know that's not true. I don't expect myself to be a superhero. That's not realistic, Eric.”

He grimaced. “You sound like Karim, my psychologist.”

His expression told the story. “But you don't believe us,” she said.

He glanced away, at the darkened house where now Willie Nelson was crooning that nothing but sunshine was coming his way. That was such a contrast to what Eric was putting himself through. And yet a capable, smart man like Eric would surely have a bright future if only he could listen to the truth and forgive himself.

Survivor guilt. Was that what he was experiencing, what was behind the flashbacks? She thought about Eric's psychologist trying all sorts of therapies to help him heal.

“The riding,” she said. “That's more for your PTSD than for your leg, right?”

“Yeah. Though I don't understand how it's supposed to help.” He squared his shoulders. “But it has to. I'm physically fit. Combat ready. It's only the goddamn post-traumatic stress that's holding me back.” In a sudden burst of energy, he shoved himself back from the fence and faced her. Bitterly, he said, “PTSD and a missing leg. I'm fucked up as a soldier and as a man.”

Unsure what had brought on that outburst, she stepped back from the fence and turned to him, thrusting her own shoulders back and lifting her chin high. “Your PTSD and missing leg are no more fucked up than Jayden's CP, and you were right when you told him that cerebral palsy and a wheelchair don't make him any less of a man. Tell me you believe that, and you weren't patronizing my son.”

Uncertainty flickered on his face. “I believe what I told him. He's one smart, gutsy kid.”

“And you're one smart, gutsy, strong, capable, determined, and—” She broke off. Did she really want to say the rest of what was in her mind? Yes, and damn the consequences. “And very attractive, sexy man.”

Chapter Seven

Attractive? Sexy? Eric stared into Lark's face, even more striking in the starlight as she tipped it toward him, full of conviction. She found him attractive and sexy?

She stood, shoulders back, a foot away. Solid, real, strong, and utterly female. Desirable.

Before he could think what he was doing, he'd gripped her shoulders and leaned toward her, angling in to plant his lips on hers—without an ounce of finesse, only a burning hunger for this woman. The one who'd made him feel like a man, a sexual man, for the first time in more than a year and a half.

If he'd had any doubt that she'd meant what she said, it vanished as she kissed him back, moving forward so the front of her body—all strength and curves and heat—pressed against his. She must have felt the erection that had sprung instantly to life, but it didn't give her a moment's pause. Her arms went around his waist, her hands moved up his back to his shoulders, and she held him firmly as if she didn't want him to escape.

Escape was the last thing on his mind. He clasped her, one big hand fanning across her back, the other cupping her taut ass. God, but she was a handful, in the very best way. He slanted his greedy lips over hers and she opened for him, giving an achingly feminine gasp as his tongue accepted the invitation.

He wouldn't have expected her to be a passive lover, and she wasn't. She kissed him back with equal fervor, demanding as much as she gave. Grinding her jean-clad hips against him until he was so hard he was afraid he'd burst.

With powerful regret, he took a step back. “Lark, hold on.”

She dropped her arms and, looking a little stunned, let out a low whistle. “Wow. That kiss kind of came out of nowhere.”

Concerned, he said, “Was it okay that I kissed you?”

She laughed. “Didn't it seem like I was enjoying it?”

He had to chuckle as well. “Yeah. And so was I. Too much. It's a long time since I've been with a woman and I, uh, don't have a lot of self-control.”

“Me either. Too. Whatever.” She shook her head. “I've been attracted to you from the beginning, but I kept telling myself it wasn't a good idea.”

His good mood vanished. “Right. What woman would want a messed-up guy like me?”

She blinked, squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head. “Look, I'm not sure what you're talking about when you say ‘want.' Just to make things clear, I'm not in the market for a, uh, commitment. And I didn't think you were looking for one.”

“I'm not. But that's not what I meant. If you're looking for easy and fun, why would you want a guy who's likely to fall out of bed in the middle of the night, coughing and choking, thinking he's been hit by an IED and is stuck in a burning building with a dying soldier?”

She gave him that calm, steady gaze of hers. “I'm sorry you have to go through that. But, Eric, I have a son. I wouldn't be sleeping over.”

“No, right, of course not.” He took a deep breath, and brought up the other factor. “I have to warn you, when I take my pants off, it's not a pretty sight.”

Her lips twitched. “Are you referring to your residual limb and scars, or is there some problem with your, uh, manly attributes?”

Hard to believe at a time like this, but she actually made him laugh. “Hell, no, ma'am. My manly attributes are all present and accounted for. And from the way they reacted when I kissed you, I'd say they're fully functional.”

“That confirms my analysis of the situation, soldier,” she teased. Then her voice softened. “It's hard to deal with loss of a body part. Or bad scarring, or physical issues like Jayden's gone through since birth. I don't mean to brush it off. But, Eric, it doesn't make you any less attractive to me. What matters to me is that you're a handsome, sexy man, and you're a strong, good one.”

A suspicion entered his mind. He'd run into all sorts of attitudes from civilians, from chastisement for being a “warmonger” to hero worship. He'd seen pity for his injury and gratitude for his service. Some of the grateful ones, especially the grateful ones who also pitied him, wanted to do things for him. They offered to buy him a cup of coffee, cut his hair for free, carry his groceries for him back in the days when he was using crutches, even have sex with him—not that he'd accepted any of those offers. “This isn't, like, a ‘do a good deed for a soldier to thank him' thing, is it?”

Her eyes widened. She began to laugh and didn't stop for a while. When her chuckles slowed, she managed to say, “A gratitude fuck? Seriously? You think I'd do that?”

“Sorry. No, that's not who you are. So what
did
you mean when you said you didn't think being with me was a good idea?”

She turned to lean against the fence again, gazing toward the ranch house, and he did, too, resting his arm beside hers. Though he wanted to touch her, he didn't do it. If she didn't think being together was a good idea, he'd respect that. No matter how badly he ached for her.

The building was a dark shape in the starlight, with the only light coming from a golden lantern on the porch. Music still wafted across on the night air. It was a song that even Eric recognized: Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire.”

He didn't know all the lyrics, but he did recall that the guy fell into a burning ring of fire. It crossed Eric's mind that if that were going to happen to a man, Lark Cantrell was the right woman to drag him out again.

After a moment, Lark said, “The thing is, I've never—not since Jayden's father left—mixed my family life and my sex life.”

“How do you mean?”

“I've never slept with a man who came to the house and was friends with Jayden and Mom.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to confuse Jayden. He'd like to have a dad like most of his friends do. I try to make him understand that that's in the same category as him wanting to be a firefighter when he grows up. There are many, many things he'll eventually be able to achieve, and we want him to always be positive and optimistic. But he has to be realistic, too. And thinking that he can ever be big and strong enough to be a firefighter, given his neurological injury, isn't very likely. I try to encourage him to think of other career options. He's got an excellent mind.”

“I know. We played firefighting tonight. He knows his stuff and he's good at strategizing. But get back to the point. Why would us sleeping together confuse him? Would he even have to know?” Eric wasn't sure how things worked for a single mom with a kid that age. “Or, if he did, couldn't we make it clear that neither of us has any intention of getting married? Like you said, he's smart. He ought to be able to understand that.”

“Huh.” She frowned slightly; it looked more like reflection than annoyance. “So maybe I'm being overprotective?”

That was for her to decide, not him, so he kept his mouth shut. Gazing toward the house, he wondered who was sitting on that porch spending their Sunday night listening to music. It was kind of a waste of time, but no more than watching a game on TV, and a lot more peaceful. Not that he'd ever been the kind of guy who sought peacefulness. As a boy, there'd always been chores or homework, and then he'd joined the army. Any spare time went to working out or to hanging around with his buddies or whichever woman he was seeing at the time.

When his dad retired, would he and Eric's mom ever just sit around together listening to music? It was hard to picture.

After a few moments, Lark spoke again. “Overprotectiveness is a danger for any parent, and especially when you have a child with a disability. You don't want him to get hurt, so you tend to shelter him. But children don't learn or become self-sufficient when you do that. Pain is part of life. So's learning from mistakes.”

“And this is a pretty heavy discussion,” he noted. “Seems that's what we've been having tonight.”

“Seems it is. That's not a bad thing.”

They were both quiet then. Eric listened to the distant music. He didn't recognize the new song that was playing.

“I like you, Lark. I like how you're a great mom and a great fire chief. I like that you're so big and strong, yet so female and sexy and passionate.” He moved closer so his forearm touched hers on the fence rail. When she didn't move away, he went on, “I want you. I haven't wanted a woman in a long time, and it's been even longer since I was as attracted to someone as I am to you. So that's me, laying my cards on the table.”

She shifted slightly so now their shoulders brushed as well. “I'm of two minds. Part of me—a big part—wants to stop with all the talking and go home with you, and tear up your bed.”

His body tightened. Unfortunately, he sensed a “but” and sure enough she went on.

“But I'm tired and hungry, and—”

“Damn, I'm sorry. I completely forgot that you'd missed dinner.” He wasn't usually so self-centered.

“That's okay. I had a snack at the fire hall. I wouldn't have expected you to think about my dinner when you were coming down from a flashback. And that's another factor. We're neither of us in top form tonight. I want to think this through.” She nudged her arm against his. “When I'm away from you. Because I don't think all that clearly when I'm close to you.”

His lips curved. “I like hearing that.” Not to mention feeling her move closer despite her words. As if she couldn't resist touching him.

She bumped his arm again. “So for tonight, let's settle for steamy dreams. And I'll let you know what I decide.”

“Don't keep me waiting too long.”

* * *

Monday morning, Lark spent an hour at the site of the apartment building fire. She determined that the blaze had resulted from a frayed cord on an old space heater. The apartment's occupant had left the heater on and gone down to the laundry room. He'd been in the basement, reading a book while his clothes were in the dryer, so the fire'd had a chance to take hold before someone called 911. Lark reported to the building owner and told him to put his insurer in touch with her.

When she returned to the fire hall, the other regular personnel were busy with equipment maintenance. She pulled out a draft for a training lesson that she'd been working on, but it was hard to concentrate on work. Her mind kept returning to the Eric dilemma. She phoned her best friend, Karen Estevez, a sergeant with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “D'you have time for lunch, or a coffee break?”

“How about lunch around one?” Karen responded.

“Great.” It went without saying that if Karen had an emergency or Lark had a callout, lunch wouldn't happen. “Big & Small?” Lark suggested. The coffee shop offered eat-in or takeout with a variety of sandwiches, soups, and salads in full size, half size, or combination.

After Karen agreed and rang off, Lark abandoned the lesson plan and spent the rest of the morning conducting fire inspections at downtown businesses.

Just before one, she walked to Big & Small. Karen had already snagged the most secluded table, way at the back of the cozy coffee shop. Many customers considered that corner the least desirable; as a result, it offered the best opportunity for private conversation. That worked for Lark and her friend, whether they were discussing the town's inhabitants and issues or their own personal lives.

Lark sat down across from the police officer, both of them in their uniforms. Karen, only a couple of inches shorter than Lark, was a striking woman with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a firm jaw. For work, her dark brown hair was pulled back in a neat knot.

Their regular waitress, Cindy, came to greet them and take their orders.

As soon as she'd gone, Lark dove right in. “So there's this guy.”

“Do tell. Old married lady here has to live vicariously.” Karen gave a mischievous wink.

“Like I believe that for a moment.” Karen had been married for a year to the very hot Jamal Estevez, the staff sergeant in charge of the RCMP detachment in Williams Lake, a hundred and fifty miles away. Though the two of them had had a number of issues to work out—not the least being to find a home that allowed them both a reasonable commute—Karen had said more than once that the sex just kept getting better.

“This guy's different from my usual, um, flings,” Lark told her friend. “We haven't had sex yet and I'm not sure we should. He's been to the house for dinner a couple of times and—”

“What? Seriously? That's not like you.”

“Tell me about it.”

In some ways, Lark and her friend were much alike: strong, self-sufficient women who'd built careers in male-dominated worlds, and loved their work. But when it came to relationships with men, they were quite different. Lark had once hoped for a happy marriage, being young and optimistic enough to believe that she could break the bad luck streak of her grandma and mom. She'd learned from harsh experience that it wasn't going to happen for her. Karen, on the other hand, had always dreamed of a “happily ever after,” but had never had serious feelings for a man until Jamal came along—and now she had a love that seemed to be strong and true. The cool thing was, despite Lark's and Karen's different philosophies on romance, they respected and supported each other.

After Cindy delivered their meals—a Mexican chicken wrap for Karen and a half Caesar salad and half veggie panini for Lark—Lark filled her friend in on who Eric was, how he'd come into her life, and how last night had ended. She left out the part about using her friendly vibrator to, rather unsuccessfully, take the edge off her hunger for Eric. No doubt Karen would figure that part out for herself.