Ring of Fire (26 page)

“You don't have to wait on me either,” she said with a touch of snippiness.

“I do when you've had a bad day.” He hopped to the fridge. “You can do the same for me, okay?” He returned to the table with two bottles, and put one in front of her.

“Sure. For as long as you're around.” She concentrated on opening her beer. “You haven't said how it went with your parents.”

“We're supposed to be talking about you.”

“After dinner. I don't want to think about it right now. I want to hear about your visit.”

He sighed. “It wasn't pleasant.”

“I'm sorry.” The softness in her eyes confirmed it. “Did it help you at all, talking to them?”

“Yeah, it actually did. Dad doesn't bend, but I discovered my own spine. I stood up to him, maybe for the first time in my life.”

“Good for you. What did you say?”

“Let me start at the beginning. Wednesday, I got to their place around 2200 hours. The three of us sat down in the living room and Dad poured drinks. He said I was looking fit and he hoped I'd come to tell them I'd been cleared for active duty. So I told them the truth: that I'm physically fit, but suffering from post-traumatic stress.” He sopped up some pasta sauce with bread. “I'm glad I could honestly say that I was taking all the steps I could to deal with the PTSD.”

“What did your father say?”

“Exactly what he's said about other soldiers and veterans with PTSD. That it's the product of a weak mind.”

“Ouch.” She made a face. “It's his mind that's defective.”

“I told him I disagreed with him. I said I was attending a group with survivors of trauma who suffered from PTSD. He scoffed about what a bunch of losers they must be.” Lark's scowl almost made Eric smile. “I told him that some of those people were as strong as any soldier I've ever met. He didn't like that one bit, and he stalked out of the room.”

“What did your mother do?”

“Stood up, started to follow him, and then came back to me. She hugged me and said, ‘You should know better than to upset your dad.' I said, ‘I'm sorry, Mom, but you should know better than to agree with him on everything. You're an intelligent woman.'”

Lark's eyes flashed with surprise. “Wow. How did she take that?”

“She said she would talk to Dad. So I went to bed in the spare room. Yesterday, I rose early and went for a run. When I came back, Dad had gone. Mom made breakfast for me and we sat and talked. Actually we talked, off and on, for a good part of the day.” Feeling tension in his shoulders, he tried to shrug it out. “It was pretty intense.”

Lark had finished eating, and reached over to clasp his hand. “Go on.”

Here she was, the woman who'd had a terrible day, offering comfort to him. “This is all wrong,” he said. “I didn't come here to dump my problems on you. It was supposed to be the other way around.” Why couldn't Lark ever let him help her? While he respected her self-sufficiency, he wished she'd let herself lean on him.

“We're taking turns. And I want to be here for you, Eric.”

“I want to be here for you, too. I'll hold you to that promise that we're taking turns.”

Her lips pressed together and then she said, “Okay. Now tell me about your talk with your mom.”

“She cried,” he said softly. “She said she shouldn't have to choose sides between her husband and her son. She said I'd never made her do that before. She was right, so I told her I was sorry about that, but I needed to be honest with her and Dad. I needed to be my own man rather than fit into some mold he tried to force me into. I told her that maybe he could never see me for who I really am”—and love him just as he was—“but that I hoped she could.”

The sheen in Lark's eyes suggested that tears weren't far away. She must be in a highly emotional mood after whatever she'd gone through. “Shit, Lark. You don't need to hear this stuff now. Tell me about this afternoon.”

“In a minute. I promise.” She gave a couple of fast blinks, and the moisture was gone. “What did your mom say?”

He swallowed, sudden emotion clogging his own throat. “She said that even if it made things tough between her and Dad, she wanted me to always be honest with her. She said I'd always seemed unbreakable, like Dad. And that made it easier for her, because she didn't have to worry so much. She said she should have known better, she should have looked harder.” His mother had been crying through much of the conversation.

He gazed into Lark's eyes, noticing for the first time that they were a little bloodshot. From fire? From tears? “I told her what you said, about how Dad and I bore some of the guilt because we'd been overprotective. I said that protective can be good, but overprotective isn't fair on the other person because it doesn't recognize their strength.”

Lark nodded. “It's a hard lesson to learn.” She squeezed his hand. “I'm so glad that your mom was willing to listen to you.”

“Me, too. I feel closer to her now. Like she's someone I'll be able to talk to. Oh, I won't share all the details of my army missions, but I'll be able to tell her if I'm feeling down.”

“I'm glad.” And yet there was reserve in her voice, a shadow in her eyes.

“Speaking of which.” He stood and held out his hand. “Let's go sit on the couch. You're obviously upset and I want to hear about it.”

Chapter Eighteen

Lark took Eric's hand and rose. Knowing that he hated being treated as disabled, she didn't put her arm around his waist to offer support as she walked and he hopped over to the couch. She settled at one end, her knees up and her arms hooked around them.

Which part did he want to hear? That there'd been a tragedy, a stupid, needless one that had seriously damaged multiple lives? Or that the thought of Eric returning to duty, of him marching out of her life, depressed her?

She knew the answer to that question. He was asking about the callout. He was right that it would help her to talk about it, and he would understand. Her experience with her ex had taught her not to share her troubles with a man, but Eric was different. She trusted him.

Maybe soon she'd find the courage to tell him that, as her friends had diagnosed, she'd fallen for him. Maybe she'd fight for him, offer him an alternative to being a soldier, or even see if there was any way they could both have the careers they wanted and yet make their lives mesh. Maybe. Since her chat with Brooke and Lark, she'd struggled to come to terms with her feelings, and the implications of those feelings. Once upon a time, she'd thought she loved Tom, but she'd been wrong. Eric was a good man, deserving of a woman's love. But he seemed pretty clear about what he wanted, and it wasn't love, a wife, a family. It wasn't her.

Could she change his mind? Did she want to? She had such a good life—with her family, her work, her friends in Caribou Crossing. Why complicate it, especially when her and Eric's relationship seemed so damned problematic?

Tonight was definitely not the time to talk about her feelings for him, much less even think about them. Her emotions were too raw after what had happened today. Her head ached from a combination of the stench of burning gasoline, stress, and grief. Would talking about the incident, letting the words flow out, help ease the pressure inside her skull?

Hugging her knees, she started. “It was a gas station explosion. An elderly man was pulling in to get fuel, driving a little too fast and not in control. He must have meant to brake but instead he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.”

Eric let out a low whistle.

“He plowed into a pump, knocking it over, onto an SUV. The pump exploded in flames. The man's car caught fire, as did the SUV.” She took a breath. “Inside the SUV were a young mom and her toddler.”

Eric kept quiet, but he moved closer and put his arm around her tight, hunched shoulders. She appreciated the physical connection, but couldn't relax.

“She had just fueled up and she was buckled in, ready to start the engine. The way the pump had fallen, it trapped her inside the burning car. The teenaged boy at the counter inside the gas station called 911 and then ran out to try to help. It was crazy of him to rush in when either car could have exploded at any moment. But he did, and he got that toddler out of the backseat before the flames reached it.”

“A hero,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “When we arrived, both cars as well as the pump were engulfed in flames. We got the mom out, alive but badly burned. I checked with the hospital just before you showed up at the door. They say she has a slightly better than fifty percent chance of making it. If she does, she'll have so much pain . . .” She blinked, trying to stick to the facts and not get emotional. “She'll need skin graft surgeries and she'll end up with bad scars. Fortunately, she has a husband to support her through it. And their little girl came out without a scratch, thanks to that boy.”

Eric waited, not asking the next obvious question.

“The elderly man died,” she whispered. “We couldn't get him out in time. He hadn't tried to get out himself, hadn't even opened the door. It was an older model car, no airbag, and we think he may have hit his head when he crashed. Hopefully, he was unconscious when . . .” She shuddered. So much for sticking to the facts.

Lowering her aching head, she rested it on her folded arms. “Someone must have recognized his car and called his family, because his son and daughter-in-law arrived just after the ambulances had left for the hospital. I had to tell them.” Often, it was the doctors who faced the horrible job of telling relatives that loved ones had been injured, or even killed. This afternoon, with the traumatized middle-aged man and woman right in front of her, staring at the burned-out car, the burden had fallen on her shoulders.

No wonder her shoulders were tied up in knots, a tension that even a couple of beers hadn't relaxed. Eric must realize it, because he was gently massaging her tight muscles.

Listening. Not asking questions. Letting her tell what she wanted to tell, in the way she wanted to tell it. Her mother was like that, too. The best kind of listener. But with Eric, she knew that he, too, had seen this kind of horror. He knew exactly what it looked like to see a burned-out vehicle, a charred corpse. He knew how it felt to notify someone that a loved one had died.

“His son and daughter-in-law felt awful,” she said. “They said he shouldn't have been driving. He was eighty-five and his depth perception and reaction time were bad. They said they'd tried to talk him into giving up his driver's license, but he got mad and said they were trying to rob him of his independence. They could have reported him so that he'd have been tested and probably had his license taken away. But they didn't, and they'll live with that forever.” Bitterly, she added, “This accident didn't have to happen.”

Eric's fingers worked deeper into her muscles. “How's the teenaged hero doing?”

“They took him to the hospital, too, in shock. Physically, he's fine. But he was beating himself up for not getting the mom out, and the old man. He couldn't have, but you know what it's like. It's never what you did, it's what you didn't manage to do that remains with you.” Like Eric, with his dying sergeant. “That boy saw them burning, right in front of his eyes. He'll never get over that.”

“No, he won't.”

Finally, she turned her head to look at Eric. “I'm going to visit him this weekend. Talk to him and his parents. I'll suggest counseling and mention the trauma support group you attend.”

“I could come with you if you think it might help.”

For the first time since dispatch had called them to the gas station, Lark found a smile. “I think it would. Thank you.” She stretched her sore neck, feeling his fingers circle it warmly, comfortingly, pressing into the spots where tension tightened her muscles. Her head still ached, but not as badly as before.

“I'm also going to see the husband of the woman who was so badly burned,” she said. “I know the hospital staff will tell the family about the procedures and what to expect, but sometimes it helps to have someone else, a professional but not from the medical community, talk to them. There are services available to help in all areas of their lives. With her injuries, everything will be different for the rest of their lives.”

Eric nodded.

“I'm going to believe she'll make it,” she told him, as if her words hadn't already made that clear, or as if he'd challenged her.

“I sure hope she does.”

She sighed. “All of this tragedy just because one old man was so stubborn and proud that he wouldn't be sensible.”

“Are you going to visit his son and daughter-in-law?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Probably. I just keep thinking that if they'd stood by their convictions and been willing to face some anger from the dad, he'd still be alive and a lot of other lives wouldn't have been wrecked.”

“I'm sure they're telling themselves the same thing.”

“Probably.” She blew out a long breath. “I'm just so angry and frustrated. This kind of thing doesn't have to happen. It shouldn't happen.”

“Nor did that apartment fire with the heater that had a frayed cord. Nor do many fires and accidents.”

She sighed again. “I know. But it's harder when someone's seriously injured or dies. When we can't save them.”

“Roger that,” he said gruffly, and she knew he was thinking of Sergeant Peller. He cleared his throat. “Maybe down the road that couple could do some public service talks to seniors and to middle-aged folks with aging relatives. Drum home that very point. It might make them feel better, too—like something good could come out of the tragedy.”

“That's a brilliant idea.”

The tension and achiness were easing from her head and shoulders, thanks in part to Eric's massage and in part to sharing the story with him. In their place, exhaustion seeped through her body. She was going to crash soon, and that was good. Much better than having her mind replay horrible memories all night long.

She glanced at her watch. “I need to get home so I can tuck Jayden in. Eric, I'm not going to invite you over. I'm just going to kiss Jayden and then fall into bed.” Last night, even though she'd been off duty, she hadn't slept well. The conversation with Brooke and Karen had kept her tossing and turning.

Slowly, she forced herself to her feet.

He stood, too. “Of course. You're not on call, I hope.”

“No. Dispatch won't call any of us who were on duty this afternoon. The volunteers can handle whatever may come up.” She rinsed their dinner dishes and put them in the dishwasher. When she turned around, Eric had taken off his jeans and sat down on a chair to put his prosthesis back on.

Though his left leg had bad scarring from his ankle to above the knee, both his upper thighs were perfect. And she knew that the torso covered by his long-sleeved Henley was perfect, too. Her blood stirred, but that ripple of heat was no match for her tiredness. “Any other time,” she said, “I'd be seriously turned on.”

He glanced up, said, “Rain check,” and went back to his task.

She put the empty pasta container back in the bag and by the time she was ready to go, so was Eric.

He held out his arms. “Come here for a minute.”

Though she was only a couple of inches shorter than he was, and in peak form, she felt almost fragile as she stepped into his embrace and leaned against him. Resting her head on his shoulder, she said, “Thank you.”

“Thanks for talking to me. Not shutting me out.”

But she didn't say it.

* * *

Sunday, after dinner at Lark's house, Eric said, “Lark, why don't we do the dishes?”

When Mary took Jayden into the family room to do his exercises, Lark started to clear the table. Eric stopped her with a quiet, “Hey, come here for a moment.”

She smiled. “Gladly.”

When she came into his arms and snuggled close against him, she gave a contented sigh. “There hasn't been much time for this lately, has there?”

“It's been a busy weekend for you.” As he spoke the words, he thought what an understatement they were. The aftermath of the gas station explosion had taken up the bulk of her weekend.

The whole town was in shock. The accident was the worst disaster in half a dozen years. Clips had been all over the news and YouTube. Though no one had filmed the initial explosion, a couple of passersby had captured the teenaged boy's rescue of the little girl—a rescue that neither of those cell-phone cameramen had assisted in. A reporter and photographer had arrived at the same time as the firefighters and had documented the efficient—but terrifying to a viewer—work done by Lark's team.

While the town dealt with its shock and grief, Lark had directed her attention to her son and to those who'd been immediately affected. On Saturday morning, she had met at the fire hall with the other firefighters who'd been involved, and she'd phoned each of them this afternoon as well. The good news was that the young mother who'd been so badly burned was doing okay, and her chances of surviving had been raised to eighty percent. That lifted everyone's spirits.

Eric had gone to the hospital with Lark to talk to the woman's husband, mostly just being there for support as she offered words of hope and advice. They'd then visited Justin, the gas station attendant who'd rescued the woman's child. The eighteen-year-old had been very upset. His parents had hovered, obviously concerned but not having a clue how to help.

When Eric had said, “You're a brave young man,” Justin said, “No! No, I'm not. Everyone says that, but I'm not. I didn't even think. I just ran out there, to get that little kid.” Lark had told the boy that it was indeed bravery when instinct told you to save someone else rather than protect yourself.

Eric had then told Justin that he was going to need courage and assistance to deal with the memories and thoughts. He had mentioned Karim's name, saying, “It took me a while to stop trying to be all macho and to realize that Karim actually knows what he's talking about. I hope you'll see him, and be smarter about it than I was.” He'd also told Justin about the PTSD support group and how it was helping him. “Lots of people have problems after a traumatic event,” he'd assured the boy. “Even Chief Cantrell and the other firefighters, though they have more experience with it.” An idea had struck him then, and he'd spoken privately to Lark. She had agreed, and offered that Justin get together with the firefighters next week so they could all talk about it together. The boy's eyes had lit up, and he had eagerly accepted.

Eric had felt good about that, and Lark had thanked him afterward.

Now, in his arms, her body, clad in jeans and a lightweight blue sweater, was warm and firm. Such a strong woman. She didn't need him, but he was sure glad for any help he might be able to give her. And he was very glad she had opened herself to receiving his help.