Final Score. Nancy Warren
“Where is Terry?”
She pointed at the lower windows as though he were stupid. “In there. In the basement apartment.”
He glanced up to find his captain, Len Butcher, striding over, shaking his head. But Dylan was already on the move. He grabbed an ax, ran around to the back of the house and found the door to the basement none of them had known existed. Damn it, the neighbors had said that the owners were away. Nobody had mentioned an apartment.
He didn’t need the ax. He found that the door opened when he turned the knob. He did and was about to enter when his captain yelled. “Pull back! Damn it, Cross. Too dangerous. Pull back.”
He registered the words, but only through the buzzing of adrenaline. Somebody inside. Had to get them out.
Dylan pushed in. Where the smoke was thick and the growl of the fire was much louder. To his left, a kitchen, on the right, squalid living quarters with the remains of a collection of plants. The bedroom was behind the living area, thick with smoke, and he could barely make out the hump in the bed. He ran forward, knowing time was running out. He could feel the tremble as the house succumbed. Inside his suit, sweat pooled.
He shook the limp man. No response. He reached into the bed, hauled the guy up. Luckily, he was skin and bones and didn’t weigh much. Dylan humped him over his shoulder and staggered back the way he’d come.
He almost made it.
He could make out the doorway, the way he’d come in, but as he ran for it, the ceiling caved in on them. It was like a fireworks display, all spark and sizzle. As he fell, he pitched forward, trying to throw the unconscious man out the door.
Then something hit him and he blacked out.
* * *
“YOU WENT AGAINST my direct order,” Len Butcher yelled at him a week later when the doctor said he could return to work. Len had an unfortunate face. It was as if someone had crossed a bulldog with a baked potato. The result wasn’t happy. His face was broad and dark-skinned, with that mash of nose in the middle just begging for a pat of butter and sour cream. “I had to risk two other firefighters to go in after you. You could have all been killed.”
Dylan didn’t bother defending himself. Terry was alive. Okay, he was a drug user and small-time dealer whose illegal power-sucking grow op had caused the fire, but Dylan felt that he should get some credit for saving the guy’s life.
Len obviously didn’t agree. “I don’t have any room on my team for a hero with a death wish,” he stormed, so red in the face he looked in danger of spontaneous combustion. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You damn near were killed.” Dylan understood that part of his anger was worry. “You’re rash, a daredevil. You got away with a concussion and some bruises this time. It’s a warning. And if that’s not enough of one, I’m giving you another.” He raised his thick forefinger and shook it in Dylan’s face. “I want you to take a couple of months and think about your future.”
At this point Dylan dropped the hangdog act and glared at his captain. “A couple of months? I’m fine. Ready to go back to work.”
“You had a concussion. You don’t come back until I say you do. And I say you’re on leave until further notice.”
“But—”
“I mean it, Cross. Take some time. Figure out why you disobeyed my orders and how you’d feel if the two guys who went in to haul your ass out of there were in the morgue right now.” He put up a hand before Dylan could protest. “Could have ended that way and you know it.”
“But what the hell am I supposed to do for two months?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care. Take up yoga, basket weaving, something quiet that won’t get you killed. But stay out of trouble.”
“But—”
“I swear, I hear one sniff about you doing some crazy-ass stunt and risking your life and you’re off my team.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Out.”
* * *
CASSIE PRICE WAS in way over her head. Way, way, way over, she realized ruefully as she walked through the empty rooms of her new home.
Between them, her financial advisor, her parents and her real-estate agent had convinced her that buying a house in Hunter, Washington, was a great investment. The houses in her price range varied from tiny, boring new builds to older fixer-uppers with good bones. She’d bought the latter, although now, as she walked over brown shag carpet and peered at the harvest-gold appliances in the kitchen, she wondered about those bones, and if she hadn’t in fact bought herself a hopeless dump.
The neighborhood was old and established and the homes in it were solidly built, she’d been told. And she could read decorating magazines and watch home-improvement shows like everybody else and see the potential in the hardwood floors hidden under the awful rugs, and sure, the kitchen would be fantastic with new appliances, cabinets, flooring and lighting.
Even the main bathroom would be a showpiece once she replaced the turquoise bathtub and sink and the vinyl flooring.
Her trouble was that she wasn’t one of those handy types who could whip an old home into a showplace in a half-hour show, with plenty of time to spare for commercial breaks. She was a busy professional with zero skills and a limited budget. She couldn’t afford a fancy home renovator.
As she walked from room to room, her distress grew.
Buyer’s remorse? There had to be a stronger term for what she was suffering. Buyer’s panic might be closer.
What had she done?
“What have I done?” She echoed the words when she joined her good friend and positive-thinking guru, Serena Long, and Serena’s fiancé, Adam Shawnigan, for dinner at a local Greek restaurant, after touring the pair around her new-to-her house.
She speared a chunk of feta cheese and a tomato wedge from her salad.
Serena was a well-known performance coach. She and Cassie had first met a couple of years ago when Serena gave a workshop at the aquarium where Cassie worked as director of community outreach. Cassie had facilitated the workshop and they’d become friends almost immediately. Now Serena smiled that radiant smile of hers and said, “You bought a house. When it’s renovated it will be a wonderful home. And a good investment.”
“It’s getting from here to renovated that seems to be the issue,” Cassie said, shoving the food in her mouth and crunching down fiercely. “I need a miracle.”
Adam chuckled. “You don’t need a miracle. All you need is a decent handyman. A lot of the work in your home is cosmetic and grunt labor. You get a professional plumber and electrician for the tricky stuff, and then somebody like me who is handy and likes renovation projects can do the rest.”
“Are you available?” she asked Adam sweetly.
Even though she’d said the words sarcastically, she knew he’d have helped her if he could. Adam was renovating his own house, the old cottage that he and Serena planned to live in when they got married in a few weeks.
“You know I would if I had the time,” he said. Then she watched as he paused in the act of raising his water glass to his mouth. He put the glass back down and said, “But I think I know somebody who might be available.”
She knew Adam was a perfectionist. He wouldn’t recommend anyone who didn’t meet his own rigorous standards, so a feeling of hope began to bloom. “Are you serious? Who?”
Serena turned to Adam. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I usually am.”
Cassie had found that this happened a lot with Serena and Adam. They had the whole married-speak thing going and they weren’t even married yet. She waited, knowing they’d fill