Rescued By The Firefighter

Chris coughed and that led to another cough. “I can’t breathe so good.”

“I can imagine,” Rand replied. Another minute of hanging from the limb and Chris would be in trouble. Rand needed the boy to try to aim for his outstretched arms.

“Chris, let go, and when you do, pretend you’re lying down horizontally. It’ll be like skydiving.”

“Rand!” a man’s voice shouted.

“Over here!” Rand replied as loudly as he could.

“You skydive?” Chris coughed out the words.

“Yes, Chris. Now, let go and do it!”

“Okay!”

Chris let go of the limb, flattened his back and closed his eyes.

Rand dug his heels into the ground, bent his knees to keep his back solid and reached out to catch the boy. Chris landed in Rand’s arms with a wallop. Rand had expected his biceps to sting with the sudden impact, but, like his brother, Chris was much lighter than he’d braced for.

Chris popped his eyes open, blinked and squirmed out of Rand’s arms.

“You’re safe,” Rand said. “Here, put this oxygen mask on. It will help you with the smoke inhalation.”

“I’m fine.” Chris pushed Rand’s hand away.

“Wear it!” Rand ordered and then clamped the mask over Chris’s face and put the elastic strap over his head, making sure the back was secure.

“Rand!” Another shout came toward him along with the sound of many boots crunching over the burned ground. Ted McIntyre and Manny Quale stood shoulder to Nomex-suited-shoulder in front of them.

“You found him,” Ted said, pointing with his gloved hand to Chris.

“He was up that tree.” Rand looked at Chris, who was staring at the smoking forest floor.

“I’ll go back for the paramedics,” Manny said.

“I’m fine,” Chris said sternly as he ripped off the mask, shoved it back to Rand, and marched away from Rand, Ted and Manny. “See?” He swung his arms as he walked away from them.

Both Ted and Manny looked back at Rand.

“What? No ‘thanks’?” Ted asked.

Rand shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently, he didn’t want to be rescued.”

“Oh,” Manny said. “One of those.”

“Afraid so,” Rand answered.

They walked out of the smoking forest after Chris.

* * *

BEATRICE LOOKED DOWN at her right ankle as she sat on the gurney in the ER. “Acute metatarsal fracture?” she repeated to Dr. Eric Hill, the ER doctor who was documenting her injury into a laptop computer on the counter to her right. A nurse with streaks of purple and pink in her midlength hair was inputting more information into another computer with a larger screen on a wheeled cart.

“Correct,” Dr. Hill replied. “Which means you broke the long bone in your foot. The one that attaches the ankle to the toes. Luckily the bones are aligned and don’t need surgery.”

“Will I have to wear a cast and use crutches?” Beatrice swallowed hard, thinking of all the camp chores, the climb to her cabin and supposedly easy things like helping the kids dress in the mornings. Such simple chores, these daily bits of her life, but they made her days rewarding. She’d have to put the crutches down each time she wanted to hug a child.

Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back.

“I’d rather not go that route,” he said.

“Seriously?” She brightened. “But you said the recovery time is six to eight weeks.”

“It is. But we can outfit you for an air boot. I prefer it to a cast because it has a reservoir that can hold ice-cold water around the injury for as much as six hours. Right now, I want the swelling to go down and ice is the answer. More than any medication. And overmedicating can lead to bleeding and that’s not good, either. In a week, I’ll start you on some exercises with that foot.”

“Exercises?”

“Easy things at first. Well, they sound easy to the uninjured. And make sure to keep the foot elevated as much as you can. Keep your weight off of it. The air boot will help a lot with redistribution of weight.”

“Good.”

He rose and looked at her with more empathy than she’d seen in anyone’s eyes in a long time. “Those burns on your back are going to sting for a few days, but could be worse. You’ll need to apply aloe vera and an antibiotic cream for a week to ten days. Take two Tylenol and three Ibuprofen for pain. And you’ll probably want to get a haircut.”

“Smells pretty bad, doesn’t it?”

“Like burned hair.” He gave her a faint smile and continued. “We’ve put loose gauze over the burns for now. Do you have someone who can change the bandages for you every day?”

“Uh, sure. Cindy or Maisie at the camp...”

“Great. I want to see you in my office a week from today. I’ll have the nurse here set up an appointment for you.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You take care, Beatrice. I’m glad the camp is unharmed.”

After setting up the appointment, the nurse wheeled the trolley with the computer out of the ER bay, giving Beatrice a wide smile as she said goodbye.

“Dr. Hill, before you go. Could you tell me more about Eli and Chris?”

“They’re both fine. Eli was more frightened than injured. Chris is suffering from mild smoke inhalation. The firefighter who found him administered oxygen. He’s got a cough, but frankly, considering all he’s been through, he’s done remarkably well.”

“It’s a miracle,” she said, more to herself than to the doctor.

“The fact that he climbed a very tall tree and stayed far above the fire and smoke helped. He was high enough that the air was at least somewhat clearer. That was smart thinking on his part.”

Given his past, it didn’t surprise her that Chris was resourceful. His intelligence wasn’t the issue, however. He’d been closed-off, quiet and seemingly resentful at camp. She was sure he just needed to be loved. But he’d be gone from camp soon, and she couldn’t guarantee he’d get the care he so desperately craved.

“It’ll be a few minutes for the nurse to get all the release papers and instructions. You just rest for a bit.” He patted her shoulder, pulled back the curtain that hung over the sliding glass door and walked away.

As Dr. Hill left, a sandy-haired young man in surgical garb and a white lab coat entered the room. He carried a drawstring bag that looked almost as big as Santa’s sack. “I’m here to fit this boot on you,” he said.

“Of course.” Beatrice smiled, and the man went quickly to work.

The black-and-gray air boot looked like something an astronaut would wear to walk on the moon, Beatrice thought, as the man very gently lifted her injured foot and slid the boot into place. His fingers flew over the straps, making certain the boot fit comfortably. Beatrice eased herself off the gurney to try the rocker bottom of the boot, which was supposed to improve her gait. He explained how to use the ice-water feature, then instructed her about donning and doffing the boot and how to clean and maintain her new “friend.”

“This boot is my favorite,” he said. “I used it when I broke my ankle. I was back to fast walking in three weeks.”

“Three weeks? The doctor said six to eight weeks for me.”

“Oh, sure. That’s total healing time. But I can’t live without running. The docs let us ease back into our normal exercise fairly quickly.”

“Well,” she said, grinning, “then this is exactly the boot I want.”

“Great,” he said and handed her a card. “Here’s the number to the ortho department. Call us if you need.”

The young man left and Beatrice leaned her hip against the gurney as she rocked her foot back and forth in the boot. She lifted her knee, but felt a stabbing pain when she did.

Wincing, she glanced up and saw him.

He was leaning against the doorjamb. Gone were the Nomex suit, goggles and gloves. The helmet. She noticed his thick, dark, nearly black hair first. A hunk of shining, slightly damp hair hung over his strong forehead. His jawline looked like it had been carved from granite. In fact, everything about him was strong. He didn’t need a firefighter’s suit to make his shoulders wide; his presence filled the doorway, the room, the expanse between them. He wore a black short-sleeved T-shirt that stretched over biceps that could only have been built by hours in a gym. His black jeans fitted close to his narrow hips and muscular thighs. He wore no jewelry. No watch, no wedding ring, no tats. There was nothing extraneous or ornamental about this man. It wasn’t necessary—his whole being shouted, “I’m a man.”

He pushed himself off the door and took a short step inside. “You okay?”

That was all he said, yet his words caused her to be tongue-tied.

“You saved my life,” she croaked over a tangle of emotions that had yet to be released from the night’s ordeal. Fear that Eli and Chris would be burned alive. Shock that her dream camp could be swept away by fiery fingers. Despair that she would disappoint her employees. Anger that she’d failed herself. And utter sadness that the children would lose their idyll.

And then this man had walked through fire and carried her and Eli to safety, before entering the inferno again in search of Chris.

She couldn’t help the hero she saw in him.

“Just doing my job,” he replied flatly as if he did this every day.

Of course he did. She was just another of his tasks to be accomplished. Most people didn’t think twice about firefighters, police or prison guards until their circumstances collided. They were the protectors, sworn to their duty, and she didn’t know his name. “Thank you,” she replied simply. “Mr....”

“Nelson.”

He still didn’t move any closer, but his eyes examined her more closely than Dr. Hill had. By the troubled expression on his face, she got the sense he wasn’t pleased with what he saw.

She fingered her singed hair. She hadn’t felt so self-conscious since middle school. Her mother, Jenny, had been acting as a fill-in host on a local Chicago PBS talk show. The show was a favorite among Beatrice’s schoolmates’ parents. They were vocal with their opinions that Jenny was a joke—and their kids echoed their parents by taunting Beatrice. Beatrice’s shame and embarrassment lasted the six months until the regular show host returned from maternity leave.

But those months had taught her a lesson. She learned that kids can be placid, lonely, mean, arrogant, spiteful and defiant—but beneath it all, kids were afraid. Life came at children at jet speed or faster, and they were vulnerable to its whims.

That insight had led her to found her camp, and to try to go that one step further for kids like Chris and Eli.

What drove this fireman to do his job?

She was aware she hadn’t taken her eyes away from the velvet brown pools that were locked on her. She wondered if he was uncomfortable under her gaze. Probably not. He was too self-assured. She would be, too, if she’d just saved three lives that night.

“Rand Nelson,” he said. “Short for Randall.”

“I’m Beatrice. I don’t have a short.” She smiled and extended her hand.

“Sure you do, Bee.”

“That’s...what you called me in the forest.”

He walked to her, which only took three long steps. His thigh muscles flexed beneath his jeans. His movements were fluid, as if he was the most perfect human ever sculpted. She wanted to rub her eyes to make sure he wasn’t a dream. Then she felt his hand in hers. Flesh against warm flesh.

“Your hand is cold. You’ve been through a lot.” He withdrew his hand from hers and pushed back his hair. “I came as soon as I got cleaned up. I wanted you to know the fire is out. The wind died completely, which left nothing to fan the flames. That brief sprinkle of rain wasn’t much, but it helped. And the crew did their job well.”

“Masterfully done, I’d say.”

“The fire poses no more danger, so you can bring the other kids back to camp anytime.”

“That’s great,” she replied, amazed she’d managed a full sentence. That was a full sentence, right? Most likely she was still in shock. She did feel cold. But she’d bet her last dollar that her cheeks were hot—a heat caused by being this close to Rand. The hero who had saved her, two children and, along with his team, her entire youth camp.

He clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t usually make hospital visits,” he said, clearing his throat as if he was uncomfortable.

“No?”

“Officially, you’re the victim. The regulations stipulate that what you tell me should be recorded.” He glanced away and back. “But I, well, wanted to see you. Er, to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Except for my broken foot.”

“You were lucky. You could have died out there.”

“I know I said it before, but thank you, Rand. Thank you for everything. And please tell your men how deeply grateful I am to you all for everything...”

He put his hand over hers, which was grasping the edge of the gurney for support. “It’s what we do, Bee.”

He’d leaned his face closer to hers and she smelled peppermint on his breath and something spicy on his recently shaven cheeks. She was bombarded by a storm of sensations that already screamed “Rand” to her. She swayed.

“Beatrice! Thank God!” Maisie burst into the ER bay, shoving the curtain back even farther. She glanced up at Rand and then ignored him as she nearly flew to Beatrice’s side.

“Oh, my God, I was so worried when they took you and Eli away. I thought I’d lose my mind until that man came out of the woods with Chris. I’ve never been through anything remotely like this, Beatrice.” Maisie stopped abruptly, her eyes shooting from Beatrice to Rand. “Wait, you’re that guy!”

Rand’s face was implacable, as Maisie’s gratitude and dawning hero worship bounced off him like he was made of Teflon. “Yes, we met at the camp earlier.”

Though Maisie was taking huge deep breaths like a track runner at the finish line, she calmed instantly, offered her hand and said, “Thank you for your service.”

Rand gave her hand a quick shake and stepped back a pace. “You’re welcome.” He looked at Beatrice. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay...well, um, then I’ll be out to your camp in the morning. With the forensic team. What time would be good for you?”

“Forensics?” Beatrice’s heart thudded to a halt.

“By law we have to assess the origin of the fire.”

“Of course.” Her mind scrambled for logic. “Nine a.m. would be good.”

“See you then.”

He turned and left. The room was instantly less vibrant.

Beatrice’s booted foot slipped as she watched Rand walk through the bay door. It was as if Rand’s presence had provided an extra measure of stability, something she’d never needed before.

She looked down at the boot. It was only the bone that was broken. Nothing else. She was fine.

But an investigation...? Her hero apparently came with a double-edged sword. When he wielded it on the side of the law, would she and her camp survive the blow?

CHAPTER FIVE

BY THE TIME Beatrice returned to camp at dawn, reality was crashing down on her. Pain was the first of her comprehensions of change. The ice water in the boot was warmer than her body temperature now. Dressing, bathing and asking Maisie to come to her cabin to redress her burns added another twenty minutes to her morning routine. Pain accompanied all these tasks that just yesterday she’d taken for granted.

Just yesterday, I wasn’t under investigation, either, she thought.

But after agonizing about it for the last couple of hours, she’d steeled herself for whatever Rand could bring. She tried not to think that an investigation could be the worst thing that could happen to her. The camp was old, and when she’d bought it, the list of repairs and necessary maintenance had been three sheets long. Two sheets longer than she could afford to fix, even with a small inheritance she’d received from her aunt Elizabeth.

She’d done much of the work herself. The repainting, the gravel for the driveway. She’d pulled every weed, and torn out the unproductive old rosebushes. She’d relaid the heavy stones around the gravel driveway. She’d hauled 52 tons of rock that first spring to create pretty flower beds and garden “islands,” where yard-sale benches mingled with Victorian iron arches that she’d also found at junk shops along Red Arrow Highway. She’d begged and bartered for all the used commercial kitchen appliances that their cook, Amanda, made the meals on.

Beatrice had suffered through one building inspection after another as she readied the camp for opening. She’d bought twice the liability insurance required. She and the camp had passed every building, plumbing and electrical wiring inspection required. Even her little lake was considered safe for all activities because it was only three to four feet deep. Safer than a swimming pool.

She’d obtained her state license as a caregiver. She limited the number of campers to ten and hired three counselors so that her counselor-to-child ratio was better than the one required by the state, which was four to one. She knew children with special needs required one-on-one care, and Beatrice, with sixty clocked hours of training and a child-development-associate credential, took care of those children herself.

The camp and the positive influence she had on the kids’ lives was more than just rewarding for Beatrice. It was her reason for living.

So if Rand came at her with his sword clashing, she’d strike back with a blade just as mighty.

She stood, then winced as pain shot up her leg.

“You okay?” Maisie asked as Beatrice eased her way on her crutches out the door and to the front porch.

“Fine.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m not buyin’ that one.”

They gazed out at the scorched woods, the felled trees and the blackened ground.

“It looks as bad as your hair,” Maisie mused.

“My hair? I just washed it.”

“Okay, but those burned chunks still look bad. Cindy is good with scissors. Maybe she can whack it off.”

“Yeah.” Beatrice closed her eyes. Her long, natural-blond hair had always been a source of pride for her. Pride before the fall, she couldn’t help thinking. “I figure six inches will need to come off.”

“And that would just make it even.”

Beatrice gasped. “And it would be shoulder-length.”

“An improvement.” Maisie grinned, touching her chin-length cut. “Cindy cuts mine. Saves me lots of money compared to what I paid my stylist in Chicago.”

“I’ll ask her to do it this morning.”

“Good,” Maisie replied. “So, look, the kids are at breakfast. I’ll meet you over there.” Maisie started running backward, then twirled and took off toward the dining hall.

Beatrice was nowhere near close to being able to twirl. She was still navigating her new life with the awkward contraption on her foot. She’d come home with a pair of crutches, which were a hindrance inside her little cabin. She’d knocked books off her small, rickety bookshelf and nearly tripped on the rag rug next to her bed when the crutch caught on an edge. That was when she tossed the crutches down and decided to wing it without them. Fortunately, she’d been told she only needed the crutches for this first week. Then she would start rehabilitation. Exercises. Writing the alphabet with her toes.

The very idea made her wince.

Right now, she needed ice water for the interior of the boot to keep the swelling down. She grabbed the crutches and slowly made her way down the three steps of her porch and onto the gravel path that led to the kitchen.

In the kitchen she greeted the cook, Amanda Reynolds, who was turning Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes on the griddle. Amanda was sixty-five years old, and had recently been forced to retire as a paralegal from a large law firm in Chicago. Amanda had been nowhere near ready to retire. She had enough energy to run rings around both Maisie and Cindy, from what Beatrice had observed. A widow whose only daughter lived in London, Amanda had always loved to cook. Though she preferred gourmet fare for herself and her guests, what she served for the kids was pure home-style family food at its all-American best. The kids loved it and, better still, they ate it.

“Pancakes? It’s not Sunday,” Beatrice said as she entered the kitchen by the screen door.

Amanda jumped. “Good heavenly days! You scared me to death! Don’t do that!” She flipped a mouse head. “I thought you’d take the day to rest.” Amanda walked over and gave Beatrice a big hug. Amanda was tall and slender, and wore very tight jeans, expensive running shoes and a camp T-shirt. Her dyed chestnut hair was clipped up on her head, and her makeup was immaculate, all of which confirmed her stylish Chicago career days. There was nothing “down home” about Amanda.

“After that ordeal last night, I thought the kids and the counselors needed something happy. I’ve got blueberries for the eyes, cherries for the nose and whipped cream smiles.”

Beatrice gave Amanda a smile of her own, the first one that had creased her face since she’d whiffed smoke. “You’re an angel.”

“No. I’m a cook, honey. You’re the angel for going in after those boys.”

Beatrice drained the warm water from the boot, went to the freezer and scooped ice cubes from the bin. She filled the boot resevoir. “Ah. Better already.”

Amanda scooped the pancakes off the griddle, placed them on plates and started decorating.

Cindy came through the swinging kitchen door. “Beatrice! You’re up!”

“Wobbling, but upright, yes.”

“Good. I could use you out here.”

“How so?”

“Would you talk to the kids? They’re upset, and Bruce and I are at our wits’ end. They need—”

“Leadership,” Amanda interjected. “Like the kind most of them don’t get from their parents.”

Beatrice stared at Amanda, who always spoke the truth sans varnish. And didn’t care when she said it or to whom. Sometimes, Beatrice wondered if that was the real reason she’d been pushed into retirement.

Cindy glanced at Beatrice’s air boot. “That’s just so intimidating. To a kid, I mean. Possibly scary. But hey, if anyone can pull this off, you can.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Beatrice replied and hobbled past Cindy and out the kitchen door into the large, vaulted-and-beamed dining hall. The long wall of windows at one end overlooked the little man-made lake at the back of the property, and the morning sun glinted off its surface. The opposite wall of windows looked out over the burned trees. Cindy was right. The atmosphere was already daunting to her camp kids.

She gazed around the room at the fear-filled wide eyes. No one said a word. No one was eating, pinching their neighbor, arguing or joking. They weren’t camp kids now; they were children floating through insecurity’s seas. The Kettering sisters held hands as Beatrice walked into the hall. Little Ricky stared blankly at his full glass of orange juice, though Beatrice perceived the tiny movements in his shoulders to be quiet sobs.

Eli wore a gauze patch over half of his left cheek, but he was the only child who ventured to smile at her. To his right was Chris, whose eyes were focused on the wall above Beatrice’s head. Eli reached for Chris’s hand, but Chris brushed him away and leaned back against his chair, folding his arms defensively over his chest.

Joshua Langsford was the only one who spoke, as he asked, “Does it hurt, Miss Beatrice?”

“A little bit, but nothing like what you’ve had to go through, Joshua.” She smiled. He didn’t smile back.

Every one of the kids clamped their eyes on Beatrice’s air boot. “So, here’s the scoop, guys. I broke a bone in my foot. I’m going to be fine. But for now, I have to wear this boot and use crutches when I’m outside or going up stairs to my cabin. I’m hoping the doctor lets me toss the crutches in a week.”

“Yeah, crutches help, but they’re a pain after a while,” Joshua said.

Beatrice’s cell rang. She looked at the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number, but it was local. She hit the decline button. “I’ll get it later. So, this is what I want you all to know. Last night was an accident and luckily no one was seriously hurt. What we need to focus on is the loss of trees.”