Ring of Fire (2 page)

His T-shirt was at the foot of the bed, where he'd tossed it when he racked out. He grabbed it and held it to his face, trying to block the smoke. He'd already inhaled so much while caught up in his flashback that his burning lungs and throat kept him coughing, and his eyes watered.

He did a quick situation analysis. The bedroom was on the second floor. If he shut the door—that sturdy wooden door—it'd hold the fire back. But there was no fire escape outside the window. Though the bedroom was on the second floor, the way the house was situated atop a hill meant that it was a three-story drop from the window to a concrete patio. He was strong enough to pull himself up onto the roof, but the fire could trap him there if rescue didn't arrive soon. If he donned his prosthesis, maybe he could find a way to climb down, or he could take his chances on jumping. No, wait. Shit. The batteries that operated his high-tech leg were in the charger.

He was running out of time.

The only other exit was down the hall and stairs to the front door—if the fire didn't block his path. Deciding on that course of action, Eric crawled lopsidedly around the bed, using his good knee, his stump, and one hand. Clad only in cotton boxer briefs, he kept his head low, using his other hand to hold his tee to his nose, but smoke filtered through the cotton. Deep, wrenching coughs racked his body. There was crap in this house, toxic crap. Smoke inhalation messed with your body and your brain. He didn't have a moment to spare.

He made it to the door into the hall. The smoke was even thicker, and orangey yellow flames engulfed the end of the hall directly above the kitchen. How the hell had the fire started? Faulty wiring in the kitchen, maybe? It was an old house; when he rented it, he hadn't cared that it was run-down.

The fire ate its way toward him, but didn't cut off his escape route to the top of the staircase. Coughing into his T-shirt, he crawled as fast as he could. His coordination was getting worse, a side effect of smoke inhalation.

Stairs were good exercise. He'd been drilling himself running up and down them, getting used to his fancy prosthesis, building his strength, striving for a balanced gait. Improving every day. Now, without that leg, he'd have to “bum it down” as patients referred to it in rehab—plopping on his ass and bumping down step by step the way a toddler would. It'd only take a few seconds, and then the door would be right in front of him.

He forced himself onward. Both his legs—the one that had been seriously injured and the missing one—hurt fiercely. What with the smoke and his coughing, he could barely catch his breath. His head ached so badly he had trouble thinking, and he was dizzy, disoriented, and nauseous. Did he hear a siren, or was he hallucinating?

At the top of the stairs, a coughing fit brought him to a stop. It was so severe he couldn't catch his breath.

Peering downstairs through burning, watering eyes, he saw that it was less smoky there, but that flames and smoke were spreading down the hallway from the kitchen. He'd left the heavy kitchen door closed and it had blocked the fire for a while, but now the monster had breached it. He had to get to the first floor before fire blocked the front door.

Goddamn it, he'd survived an IED in Afghanistan. He wasn't going to die in a house fire out in the middle of the Cariboo. Dizzy, fighting nausea, he struggled to stop coughing, to breathe shallowly through the protective barrier of his cotton tee, to focus, to push onward.

Downstairs, there was a crash. Breaking glass. Had the fire blown out a window? An instant later, the front door slammed open and two firefighters dashed into the smoky hallway. “Fire Department,” a voice yelled. “Call out!”

He tried to respond, but instead coughed like he was hacking up a lung. A haze swam across his eyes, through his brain. He was fading, losing consciousness.

But one of them had seen him. A figure clad in bulky turnout gear raced up the stairs. The other manned a hose, aiming a powerful stream of water down the hallway, attempting to hold back the fire.

The first firefighter knelt beside Eric, reaching for something in the pocket of his turnout pants. “You're okay,” he said, his voice muffled and distorted by the face mask. “Is there anyone else in the house? Nod or shake your head.”

Eric, still hacking, shook his head while the firefighter pulled out a strap.

“Got an adult male,” the firefighter reported to someone. “He says that's all.”

Through the visor of the mask, dark brown eyes stared into Eric's. “We'll get you out,” the man said. Despite his wonky vision, Eric read confidence and reassurance. A sense of peace stole over him. The hand that held the tee to his nose dropped away. He began to fade . . . His last conscious thought was,
I'm safe
.

His lapse in consciousness didn't last long. When he came to, he was being pulled headfirst down the stairs. The firefighter had wrapped the strap under his armpits and was tugging him, supporting his head and neck. Eric's lower body bumped each step. Pain jabbed him. His body struggled to expel smoke, but he tried to hold still, to not make the rescue more difficult. He hated being helpless, being somebody's burden. Making this other man risk his life to rescue him. Eric was the soldier, the one who was supposed to be tough and self-sufficient.

He was aware of the second firefighter still spraying water, and then his rescuer was pulling him through the open front door. Other hands were there, ready to take him. Fresh air touched his skin. Red and blue lights swirled; water arced from a hose pointed at the house; voices called out.

He was on a stretcher, an oxygen mask being hooked over his face. Needily but cautiously, he sucked air through his scorched airway. Someone draped a blanket over him and fingers checked his pulse. Paramedics, he realized. A man and a woman in blue uniforms.

His rescuer was still there, too, addressing him. “You said there's no one else in the house. Nod if that's correct.”

He nodded confirmation.

“Any pets?”

He shook his head. Damn it, his prosthesis was in there. The high-tech one designed for soldiers to help them be fully functional—and to return to active service if they chose to do so. It was his mobility, his freedom; it was his chance to reclaim his career, his life. But he couldn't ask firefighters to risk their own lives for a damned leg. The prosthetist would make him a new one, but it would take time. Another setback. It was the fucking story of his life these days.

Dimly, he was aware that his rescuer was relaying Eric's report to the other firefighters. Oddly, the man's confident voice had an almost feminine sound.

Eric wanted to lift the oxygen mask and thank the guy, but the firefighter was hurrying away to help the others who were trying to control the blaze.

“You're going to be okay,” the female paramedic, youngish, with blond hair pulled back from her face, said calmly. “We'll get you to the hospital and they'll treat you for smoke inhalation.”

He nodded his understanding.

She glanced toward the house. “It's fully involved. You're a lucky man. Lark got you just in time.”

Lark? An unusual name, especially for a guy.

The other paramedic, a stocky guy with graying hair, said, “Caribou Crossing's sure lucky to have her.”

Her? Well, shit. He'd been rescued by a woman.

He had nothing against women. He'd served with a few; they were as capable as the men. But now, for whatever reason, discovering that he'd been saved by a woman felt like the final blow to his ego. Grateful as he was to be alive, could he be any more humiliated?

Chapter Two

Lark Cantrell reached for her son's hand and clasped it, feeling the answering pressure, discernibly stronger now than two months ago.

Sitting in his wheelchair, ten-year-old Jayden nodded eagerly as his physiotherapist, Monique Labelle, spoke in her charming French-Canadian accent. She listed the benefits they'd seen from a couple of months of therapeutic riding: increased confidence; strengthening of Jayden's back, core, and legs; better posture and coordination.

Lark stifled a grin when Jayden, listening, straightened his shoulders.

Her son, born prematurely, had been diagnosed with cerebral palsy, a neurological disorder, as an infant. Though his symptoms weren't as severe as those of some kids with CP, they were disabling enough that he had never been able to walk.

Monique smiled, tucked a wayward strand of black hair back into the ballerina-style knot at the back of her head, and outlined a few suggested changes to Jayden's riding lessons.

The physiotherapist, a strong, graceful woman who'd been an Olympic figure skater in the early 1990s, had joined Jayden's therapy team three years ago. For reasons known only to her, she had forsaken the big-city life in Toronto to move to the small town of Caribou Crossing in central British Columbia. The town had certainly benefitted. Monique was highly qualified, having trained in occupational therapy as well as physiotherapy, and having worked for many years at one of the best rehabilitation centers in the country.

This afternoon, Monique's audience consisted not only of Lark and Jayden, but also Lark's mom, Mary, and Jayden's riding teacher, Sally Ryland. They clustered in a circle in the physio's office, listening intently to her.

When Monique finished, Sally said, “Yes, we'll incorporate those changes. I'm sure Jayden will do well with them. He's one of my best students.” Sally, an attractive strawberry blonde dressed in a blue Western shirt, slim-fitting jeans, and cowboy boots, was two or three years younger than Lark's own thirty-five. “He has a great attitude, both toward horses and toward learning,” Sally added.

“We're all so glad you could take him on,” Lark said. Sally wasn't a specialist in therapeutic riding—there was no such person in the small community—but she was an excellent riding teacher and she'd worked closely with Monique to design a program for Jayden.

“It's my pleasure,” Sally said.

Jayden—small for his age and adorable with his mop of dark brown hair, wide brown eyes, and engaging grin—bounced a little in his chair. Lark knew he was dying to interrupt, but was trying hard to remember his manners.

Monique turned to him. “I can see you want to say something, Jayden.”

“I love horses!” The words burst out. “I love riding! I don't have to be in my chair and itmakesmefeel—”

“Hold on now,” Monique broke in, raising a hand. “Remember what your speech therapist told you?” Jayden's therapy team included a speech therapist in addition to Monique and his pediatrician. Occasionally, other specialists needed to be consulted as well. A one-time injury to Jayden's brain—occurring while he was in the womb or during or shortly after birth—had affected his motor development. He would be working with health care professionals for the rest of his life as he strove to be as healthy and functional as he possibly could.

Jayden huffed out a sigh and said, more slowly, “When I get excited, my words run together and get gob . . . garbled, and I don't e-nun-ci-ate properly.”

Lark grinned at her son. “Well said. Now, what did you want to tell us about not having to be in your wheelchair?”

“I feel like everyone else,” he said. “Like I'm not different.”

Her heart aching for her boy, Lark exchanged glances with her mom. Mary Cantrell spoke softly, but confidently. “I keep telling you, Jayden, everyone is different. Unique and special.”

Lark smiled a thank-you to her mother. Mary, a petite, soft-spoken Native Canadian woman, was anything but diminutive when it came to strength of character. She'd raised Lark by herself, and now was helping to bring up her grandson.

“I know, Granny,” Jayden said. “But I get tired of my kind of special. I get tired of my chair.” He had slumped forward, but now straightened his shoulders again. It used to be that he needed frequent reminders to correct his posture, but since he'd started riding he'd been much better at self-correcting.

“Your body's getting stronger every week,” Monique said. “There's a good chance that one day you'll be able to do away with the chair and the walker.”

It was the goal they were all working toward. Once Jayden reached it—which Lark was increasingly confident he would—there'd be another goal. To run, maybe. To ride a bicycle. To dance. To do things that other children took for granted.

In her mind, her boy had always been perfect. But she understood his frustration about being different and having limitations.

“There's something else I'd like to talk about today,” Monique said, rising. She walked to the window and turned to face them, leaning her toned butt against the sill. In her black leggings and stylish burgundy top, she had an air of understated elegance. Resting graceful, short-nailed hands on her thighs, she said, “I have an idea I'd like to run by all of you. I have another patient in mind for therapeutic riding. I wondered how you all might feel about Jayden sharing his lessons with someone else.”

Lark frowned. Jayden was doing so well. Why would Monique want to change things?

“Monique,” Sally said, “I'd be happy to give private lessons to this other patient.”

“That's good of you,” the physio said, “but I think it would do both Jayden and my other patient good to learn together.”

Jayden cocked his head. “Is this someone else with CP?”

“No, his issues are quite different.” She glanced around the room, including the others as she explained, “He was injured and lost a leg, and he's getting used to wearing a prosthetic limb.” She focused again on Jayden. “Do you know what that is?”

“An arti-arti-fi-cial leg, right? Like Amanda has.”

“Exactly,” Monique said.

Amanda, who was three years older than Jayden, had been a member of one of Sally's riding classes before losing her leg in a car accident—an accident that Lark and her crew had responded to. They'd been able to cut the girl out of the mangled car, but there'd been no way to save her leg. The child was gutsy though, and after taking private lessons with Sally she'd recently been able to rejoin her regular riding class. She'd told Jayden she planned to be a barrel racer, just as Sally had once been.

Monique pushed herself off the windowsill and squatted in front of Jayden, putting her face at his level. “I thought it might be nice for both of you to have someone to ride with, and learn with.”

“Who is this child?” Lark asked. “Is the family new to town?” As far as she knew, Amanda was the only Caribou Crossing child who'd had a leg amputation. The only other person who was missing a leg was . . . Wait a minute. “Is this a child or an adult?”

“An adult.” The physio sat back down in her chair and gazed across at Lark. “A soldier who lost his leg in Afghanistan.”

“Cool! A soldier!” Jayden said.

Lark knew exactly who Monique was talking about: the man who'd been in the house fire out on Tannen Road a couple of months back. Eric something-or-other. He was new to Caribou Crossing and kept to himself, but occasionally Lark glimpsed him around town. In this land of trucks and family-style SUVs, he drove an old Jeep, with the top down unless it was raining. But more often he was on foot, and usually running. Like Amanda, the soldier clearly didn't intend to let a missing leg slow him down. When he ran, he ran hard, sweatpants covering his prosthetic limb, his loose tank top soaked with sweat and sticking to an impressively muscled torso.

Lark might have sworn off “relationships”—the Cantrell women had a horrendous track record when it came to happily-ever-after—but that didn't mean she didn't appreciate a good-looking guy. She'd even been known, from time to time, to get down and dirty with one, on a total no-strings basis.

Not this man, though. There was something about Eric, a sense of distance and self-containment. He was a touchme-not guy if she'd ever seen one.

“I'm not sure it's a good idea,” she said. “That could be pretty heavy for Jayden, being with a man who's been in Afghanistan.”

“Jayden's mature,” Monique said. “He's dealt with a lot more than most kids who are much older than him.”

“I have, Mom!”

“I know, sweetheart. But still . . .”

Lark's mother reached over to touch her hand. “This man was injured serving our country,” she said quietly. “He needs help, and maybe our Jayden can provide it.”

“I want to help!” Jayden cried. “I never get to help anyone. They always havetohelpme.” Again his words ran together, but this time no one called him on it.

Conflicted, Lark turned to Sally. “What do you think?”

The other woman's greenish gray eyes met hers with sympathy and understanding. “I can see why you'd be wary, but Monique's been right about everything else. We could do it on a trial basis. A couple of lessons, then evaluate how it's going.”

“Please, Mom.” Her son could do puppy-dog eyes better than anyone she'd ever met.

She had to admit, Jayden didn't have a lot of male influences in his life. He lived with his mom and granny; the core members of his therapy team were women and so were most of the teachers at his elementary school. Lark didn't socialize with the firefighters in anything more than a very casual way, and she'd never brought any hookup-type guy home to meet her family.

“We'll give it a try,” she agreed. “Two lessons, on a trial basis.”

“Yay!” Jayden cheered.

“It's not a done deal yet,” Monique cautioned. “I haven't talked to my other patient about it, because I wanted to check with all of you first. I hope he'll see the benefit, though.”

“Tell him it's fun,” Jayden said.

Monique's lips twitched. “Somehow I don't think that'll be a selling point for him.”

Lark nodded. To her, Eric looked driven. Like the word
fun
wasn't even in his vocabulary.
Hmm.
Maybe part of Monique's goal was to get the man to lighten up a little.

The physiotherapist confirmed it with her next words. “But I hope he'll discover for himself how much fun riding can be.”

“You really figure that's likely?” Lark couldn't help but ask.

Monique grinned at her. “What rule do we live by here?” She turned to address Lark's son. “Jayden?”

“Think positive!” he responded.

Of course they were right, Lark thought. “I'll do my best.”

* * *

On Sunday at 0930 hours, Eric drove his olive green Jeep down the country road that led from town to Ryland Riding. After the fire had pretty much destroyed the farmhouse he'd been renting—not to mention incinerated his prosthesis and few possessions—he had moved into a generic apartment in town.

The Jeep was the one thing that had survived the fire, and he was glad of that. He'd owned the vehicle since his late teens. Once he'd gotten used to wearing a prosthesis, he'd had it converted so he could use the gas and brake pedals with his left leg and foot.

The radio was on now, tuned to the local station, which was the only one that came in clearly. CXNG played country music, and Eric didn't recognize many of the songs. He didn't even hear them very well because the Jeep was noisy, especially with the top down. Still, he liked the company of the half-heard voices and tunes. Right now, catchy music was playing and a guy was singing about being a rambling man.

It took some getting used to, wearing civvies and riding in a Jeep in the open country with the radio playing. After years spent amid the vistas of the sandbox—dirt, sand, the city of Kabul—he appreciated the rolling grasslands, fields of hay, groves of deciduous trees, and backdrop of low hills. The unfamiliar scenery also made him less inclined to see threats around every corner. Hypervigilance and an overactive startle response were symptoms of his PTSD, but slowly he was getting over them. Now if he could just beat the f'ng flashbacks and nightmares. . . .

He glanced at an adolescent on horseback trotting along the shoulder of the road and tried to see only a boy out for a ride rather than to wonder if the kid might be a suicide bomber. The white truck heading toward him was pulling a horse trailer, not carrying a bomb. Studying a grove of trees, he concentrated on appreciating that the leaves were turning shades of gold, rather than envisioning snipers hidden behind the trunks.

The color reminded him that the official start of autumn wasn't much more than a week away. It was September. More than a year and a half since the explosion. After the first surgery, when he discovered he'd lost a leg, he had sworn he'd be fully rehabbed and back to active duty in less than a year. And now here he was, about to take his first horseback riding lesson.

Fucking PTSD.

The Brigadier-General had a couple of sayings: “Some things are sent to test your mettle” and “Mind over matter.” Eric had lived by both of them, and they'd served him well until now. Now, despite surgery upon surgery, after stupid infections and almost losing his other leg, after adjusting to various prostheses and going through rigorous rehabilitation, he had restored his body to combat readiness. How fucking ironic that the body that had been blown up was in fighting shape, and it was his stupid
mind,
which hadn't even been concussed, that was holding him back.