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  “So you’re really not upset about the actual breakup?”

  For a second, Cole wished for the nosy words back. But Savannah didn’t seem uncomfortable, and anyway, talking about each other’s personal lives to some extent or another was pretty common fare around the house. She was part of the group.

  “Well, I might have been a tiny bit upset at the time,” she said, letting out a soft laugh. “I mean, he did cheat on me with the living embodiment of a Barbie doll. But it seems kind of stupid to get torqued up over someone who would treat me like that, so . . . no. I guess I’m not that upset now.”

  “The guy sounds like a dick. No offense,” Cole tacked on, but if anything, Savannah’s smile grew bigger.

  “None taken. He is a dick. I’m better off solo.”

  “That’s pretty pragmatic for someone who normally staples her emotions to her sleeve.” Cole gestured to the tractor tire in front of them with a question on his face, not at all shocked when she hefted her sledgehammer with a nod. Squaring off with the tire, Savannah took a few low swings before responding.

  “I only get emotional about the important stuff, Everett. The job is a big deal to me. Everything else is extra.” She continued for a full minute, adjusting her grip on the sledge and hitting the tire with a methodical thunk thunk thunk. “So can I ask who Mason Watts is?”

  Cole’s heart tripped against his ribs. “Sorry?”

  “Mason Watts.” Savannah lowered her sledgehammer in favor of pointing to the helmet hanging directly over Station Eight’s middle garage bay. Over the helmet stood a boldly lettered plaque reading: In memory of Mason Watts. Firefighter, brother, friend.

  Jesus, Cole missed him.

  “Mason was a firefighter here on engine. He came up in the class after me.” The facts felt stiff in his mouth, like gum that had been chewed two hours too long. But the alternative would rip into a wound Cole worked too hard to keep under wraps, so he blanked his expression and stuck with the nuts and bolts. “He died in an apartment fire three years ago when the floor of the building collapsed.”

  “Oh my God.” Savannah froze, her spine at perfect attention. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No.” The word flew past Cole’s lips before he realized he was going to say it. “If you’re going to be a firefighter here, you should know who Mason was.”

  “You two were close,” she said, and even though every last one of his anti-emotion instincts shrieked at him to jam a sock in it and have her finish the drill, he nodded.

  “We were best friends. Me and Mason and Donovan and Brennan.”

  Her sledge hit the concrete with a heavy thump. “Instructor Brennan?”

  “Yeah. He was on engine here before he became an instructor.” Cole kept the details of Brennan’s injury to himself—although the guy had gone through hell and high water to get right side up after the fire that ended his career and Mason’s life, he was happy now. He’d even gotten engaged a few months ago. They all coped the best they knew how, even though they’d never, ever forget that horrific night they lost Mason.

  Cole took a breath. Focus. “That apartment fire was one of the worst I’ve ever seen. Calls like that are one of the big reasons why the most important house rule is to always have each other’s backs. No matter what.”

  Savannah’s eyes went wide in sudden recognition. “That’s why you said I had the most important job at that warehouse fire last week, isn’t it? Because we were standing by in case anyone got jammed up and needed help.”

  “Did you think I was bullshitting you?” He knew he’d been irritated with her, but he wasn’t exactly a cryptic messages kind of guy.

  “No, I . . .” She paused, biting her lip hard enough to mark her skin with two half moon–shaped indentations. “I felt like I hadn’t carried my weight, and I thought you were making fun of me.”

  His palms turned slick at the same time his mouth went dry as dust, but neither stopped him from pinning her with a stare and saying, “Listen, Nelson. I promised to make you a great firefighter. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be hard on you, and it doesn’t mean you’re not going to hate me for it from time to time. But I won’t ever jerk you around. I say what I mean and I mean what I say. You copy?”

  Savannah nodded. “Yeah, Everett. I copy.”

  But rather than get all awkward, she simply went back to work with the tire. “So you’re training me in order to land a spot on squad, huh?”

  Cole tried—and failed—to keep his jaw from unhinging. “Who told you that?”

  “Nothing’s sacred around here, remember?” A flicker of a smile crossed her lips, prompting one of his own. Fucking Donovan. He might talk a tough game, but man, the guy put out more gossip than a tabloid.

  “Yes,” Cole said, because A) it wasn’t a secret, and B) Savannah clearly knew the score. “Once your orientation is done, I’m moving to squad. But that’s not really why I’m training you.”

  “Okay.” She drew the word out, pulling it into a question. “Then what? You just ended up with the short straw and got the rookie?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. We need a strong candidate on engine before I can move to squad, so I’m not without motivation to get you trained. But Westin asked me to put you on my hip, and I’m not about to leave Crews and Donovan and Jones short-handed just so I can be promoted.”

  She gave a slow nod. “The squad stuff is pretty cool. Lots of search and rescue, right?”

  “Lots of everything,” he said. But when he’d chosen the calling that had been in his heart nine years ago rather than the one that had been laid out for him like a suit on Sunday, he hadn’t intended to go halfway. Becoming a firefighter had cost Cole all he’d known—the farm where he’d grown up, the family ties he’d stupidly believed were unbreakable. For a price that steep, he wasn’t going to stop until he’d earned a spot with the best of the best.

  “And you’re really jonesing to be on squad with Oz as your LT?” Savannah asked, her mouth pulling as if the words had left a bitter aftertaste on their way out.

  Cole straightened. This bullshit between her and Oz needed to be put to bed, once and for all. “Oz is a damned good firefighter, and he’s got more tenure here than anyone,” he said, his gut forming a knot. “It’s not smart to piss the guy off.”

  Savannah swung at the tire with a solid thwack. “Oh, but it’s just fine for him to piss me off and boss me around the kitchen as much as he pleases? Look”—she lowered her sledgehammer, folding her arms over the chest of her sweat-dampened T-shirt—“If he was giving me shit over something I’d screwed up, I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’d take it. But he’s giving me shit because I’m a woman. He’s not even giving me a chance to prove I can handle the job.”

  The conversation he’d had with the lieutenant last week rattled through his brain, but Cole dismissed it with a decisive shake of his head. Oz might not be the most PC guy on the planet, but he was one of the best firefighters Cole had ever known. Once Savannah earned his respect, he’d come around.

  “Oz is giving you a hard time because this is a hard fucking job, Nelson.” Cole held up a hand to fend off the argument brewing in her expression, and miracle of miracles, she let him continue. “I’m not going to lie and tell you there aren’t firefighters who think women don’t belong on the job. But Oz is just looking out for everyone in this house.”

  “Except for me. If I’m the one who knows the least, then shouldn’t he be in my corner if what he really wants is for me to learn to have everyone’s back?” she asked, and hell if the words didn’t jab him right in the chest.

  “You know what, you’re right.”

  Savannah pulled up halfway through her swing. “What?”

  Under different circumstances, Cole might be amused at having shocked her so thoroughly. But working as part of the team was the most important thing he could teach her, and if he wanted Savannah to learn to have everyone else’s back, then he damn well needed to lead by example.


  “You’re right,” Cole repeated, stepping in close to look her right in the eye. “I’m not saying I support your getting into it with Oz, or anyone else here at Eight for that matter. But you’re part of the house, even if you’re a rookie. From now on, I promise to have your back just like everyone else’s.”

  As if fate had decided there was no time like the present to put his affirmation to the test, the all-call sounded from the speakers in the engine bay.

  “Squad Eight, Engine Eight, Ambulance Eight. Motor vehicle accident. Highway Twenty-Nine, mile marker Ninety-Two. Requesting immediate response.”

  Chapter Nine

  Savannah sat in the back step of Engine Eight, trying like hell to convince herself to breathe. The lurching motion of the vehicle matched the churn in her stomach, and even though she’d never been troubled by motion sickness, she found herself biting down on her tongue in order to take a swipe at her nausea.

  “Okay, boys and girls,” came Crews’s tinny voice through the headset, and he didn’t sound happy. “Dispatch has at least three vehicles in what looks like a doozy. One of them is reportedly a tractor trailer, and another looks to have hit the Jersey wall pretty good. They anticipate multiple injuries and we’re closest to the scene, so let’s gear the fuck up.”

  Savannah registered Donovan’s nudge to her knee on a five-second delay. Shit, how had he already gotten his coat on and zipped?

  “You okay, rookie?” he asked as soon as she’d whipped the headset from over her ears.

  “Uh-huh.” She punctuated the less-than-convincing grunt with a nod in an effort to convince them both, stabbing her arms through the sleeves of her coat and tugging the zipper up to her chin.

  “On big MVA calls like this, we usually back up both ambo and squad, depending on how many injuries and extractions we’ve got. Westin will give you an assignment, just like at a fire.” Donovan kept his voice nice and easy and his focus on his gloves, palming his helmet with a business-as-usual grab.

  Okay. She could do this. She could. “Copy that.”

  “Just stay on Everett’s heel and keep your eyes wide open. You’ll be fine, Tough Stuff.”

  Savannah barked out an unexpected laugh, and it scattered her nerves. Emulating Donovan’s composure, she made a list in her head, starting with the rest of her gear and ending with all the protocol she could remember from the academy regarding trauma scenarios. Having something specific to focus on helped calm her further, her breath flowing in and out a little easier.

  Until the engine squealed to a stop and her boots hit the pavement, and oh God, oh God, bad couldn’t touch this with an eight-foot New York hook.

  Two cars and an eighteen-wheeler sat at various angles across the four-lane expanse of asphalt making up Highway Twenty-Nine, which was Fairview’s main in-and-out to neighboring cities. Aside from some seemingly minor damage to the rear driver’s side corner, the semi looked fairly intact where it stood about sixty yards away. The other two vehicles made up for it in spades, though, both of them smashed from multiple points of severe impact and neither facing anywhere near the proper direction on the highway.

  Nothing about this would end well.

  “All right, people.” Captain Westin’s voice interrupted the panic crowding Savannah’s chest, and she latched on to the smooth, controlled cadence with all her might. “Let’s assess injuries and get this scene secure. Oz, you and Andersen take the red station wagon, Crews and Jones, you take the semi. Everett, you and Nelson are on that gray sedan. Donovan, radio in another ambo to back up O’Keefe and Harrison. I want trauma assessments right now. Go.”

  Everett looked at her, and Savannah realized with a start that he’d been standing at her side since they’d disembarked from Engine Eight.

  “You practiced trauma assessments at the academy,” he said, falling into motion as he spoke. Her legs autopiloted the rest of her alongside him, although she couldn’t for the life of her remember her brain issuing the command to do so.

  “I, uh. Yeah. On dummies.” They approached the sedan, and a quick burst of adrenaline had Savannah’s pulse working even harder. The entire front end of the vehicle—which was facing them even though traffic had been moving in the opposite direction—had buckled like a giant steel-and-glass accordion, with one of the tires bent at enough of an unnatural tilt to make her sweat run cold between her shoulder blades.

  Everett, however, seemed as calm as a summer sunrise. “Good. Take the passenger side. Just follow my lead and tell me what you see.”

  Savannah forced her feet to the car’s passenger side. Bits of broken safety glass crunched under her boots, and the smashed window gave her a clear line of vision to the two teenage girls in the front seat.

  Oh God. Blood. There was so much blood.

  Everett leaned into the space where the driver’s side window used to be, his eyes moving in a critical sweep. “Hi there. My name is Cole, and I’m here to help you. Can you tell me if you’re hurt?”

  “Y-yes,” the driver stammered, her voice carrying the high-pitched strains of both panic and pain. “My . . . my neck. And my leg. Oh God, my leg hurts so bad, but I can’t open the door. It’s stuck. Please, get us out of here!”

  Savannah’s stomach pitched at the sight of the driver’s leg, clearly broken and pinned in beneath the crumple of the dashboard. The girl in the passenger seat let out a whimper, and Jesus, the jagged gash running from the bottom of her neck down to her chest had to be seven inches long.

  Still, Everett’s calm didn’t waver. “Okay, sweetheart. I know it hurts, but you’ve got to stay calm for me, all right? Breathe all the way in. We’re going to get you out of here as fast as we can so we can take care of your leg, but until that happens, I need to stabilize your neck to keep you safe. Nelson, what’ve you got?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Her mind tripped backward, dragging her focus with it.

  Blood spiderwebbing over the air bag in angry red starbursts, spilling over her fingers, sticky and wet . . . the dark, coppery smell filling her nostrils, clogging her senses, choking her so completely . . . and the screams . . . the screams . . .

  “Nelson. Look at me.”

  She blinked back to the asphalt with a jerk, her eyes landing on Everett’s.

  “Hey. Just tell me what you see,” he said. Whether it was the absolute composure in his stare or the urgency of the situation kicking in hard and fast, Savannah couldn’t be sure. But she vaulted into motion, knocking away remnants of broken safety glass and taking a closer look at the passenger.

  “Right. She’s conscious, nasty laceration from the neck to the right chest. It’s”—Savannah’s throat worked over a tight swallow, barely keeping her gag reflex in check—“bleeding heavily.”

  “Get pressure on it. You’re going to need to press hard,” Everett said. He turned to relay their status into the radio clipped to his shoulder, then framed the driver’s face with his palms to keep her neck steady, talking to her in low, smooth tones.

  Do this. You have to help this girl. You have to be tough.

  Savannah slid a deep breath down her windpipe and shouldered her way past the open window space. Releasing the girl’s seat belt for direct access, she pressed a gloved hand over the wound, using all of her willpower not to focus on the blood steadily oozing through her fingers.

  “Unnhhh. Ow.” The girl moaned, her head lolling to the side as she fixed Savannah with a glassy-eyed stare. “I don’t . . . my head feels . . . funny.”

  Shit. Shit. Savannah did another quick visual. There wasn’t any evidence of head or facial trauma, and her skin was clammy and pale. “Can you, ah, tell me your name?” Savannah asked.

  “Re . . . Rebecca.”

  “Do you know if you hit your head in the accident, Rebecca?” Those air bags hurt like a bitch.

  “No. Not that,” she slurred. “I feel . . . sleepy.”

  Savannah’s heart slammed even faster under the thick layer of her coat. This girl was bleeding out, and fast. />
  “Please. Help me,” Rebecca gasped, tears wobbling off her lashes. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to die.”

  Dark crimson blood pulsed over Savannah’s glove. She slapped her other hand over the first, and Rebecca’s chest gave far too easily beneath the pressure. More blood started to seep between the fingers on Savannah’s top hand, and oh God, she couldn’t make it stop.

  “Everett! A little help here!” She darted a glance across the front seat, fear sinking into her like claws. Panic climbed the back of her throat. Where the hell were Rachel and O’Keefe?

  “I’m right here, and you and Rebecca are doing just fine,” Everett said, meeting her desperate stare with nothing but certainty, as if he did this sort of thing all day, every day, no big deal. “I’m keeping Melody’s neck nice and steady until O’Keefe gets here with a C-collar, and then he’s going to help Rebecca out with that lac.”

  “But she’s—”

  “O’Keefe knows, Nelson.” Everett flicked a glance at Savannah’s blood-soaked hands, and even though the gesture lasted for less than a second, it spoke volumes. “He’s coming as fast as he can, and then we’ll be all set.”

  The words somehow managed to penetrate the panic buzzing through her, knocking it down a peg. Savannah turned her face toward Rebecca’s, blocking her bloody gloves from view. “Hear that, Rebecca? Help is on the way.”

  “But it hurts,” she said, her chest heaving as she let out a guttural sob. “I’m going to die.”

  “No.” Savannah’s argument springboarded right out of her, but oh God, she had no right to say it. She scrabbled for something—anything—to get them both to focus. “Look, you’re breathing, see? All the way in.” Savannah took an exaggerated inhale, which Rebecca shakily mimicked. “Good. Okay. Just . . . let’s keep doing that.”

  After the fourth round of in and out, O’Keefe arrived over Everett’s shoulder like a miracle. “What’ve we got?”

  “The driver has an injury to the right leg and is complaining of neck pain,” he said, perfectly calm even though his arms had to be screaming with fatigue. “She’s pinned in pretty good. Passenger’s got a bad chest lac.”