The Taylor Clan

She picked up her ax and trotted toward the billowing rise of smoke at the far end of the platform. She checked her gauge and breathed deeply, verifying her oxygen intake before plunging in.

Going in blind was risky. Though she trailed her hand along the wall to find her path, any misstep could send her flying over the edge of the platform or plummeting through a hole or…

The dog charged out of the smoke, plowing into her shin and knocking her back a step. “Whoa! How’d you do that?”

A loud crack thundered in her ears and the whole floor tipped.

“Meghan!”

She ignored John’s call and braced her back against the wall to reverse course, zeroing in on the sound of the dog’s whine.

What the hell was going on here?

“The secondary escape route’s collapsing.” She panted the words into her mike and started to pray.

The dog charged her legs again, then circled her feet. He barked as he followed his nose toward clear air. Meghan honed in on the sound as if it was an outstretched hand.

Three steps later she was clear.

She scooped up the dog. “Good boy. I don’t know what miracle you just pulled, but you saved us both.” As she petted the dog, trying to calm its fears and her own, a few things became obvious. She wasn’t the only female fighting for her life in this building. “Sorry. Good girl. Let’s get out of here. John?”

“It’s no good.” She could hear the effort it cost her partner to keep the fear out of his voice. “The floor’s going. There’s no way we can get a ladder to you.”

No ladder. No ramp. No rescue.

The platform tilted another five degrees and Meghan scrambled for balance. If this platform gave way they’d crash through the main floor into the basement. If the fall didn’t kill them outright, the flames would consume them soon enough.

This was not how it was going to end.

When the world left her with no options, she made her own.

She’d coped with her mother’s death and her father’s abandonment.

She’d lived through aunts and uncles who cared and those who couldn’t care less.

She’d cheated death in a car crash one fateful, foolish night.

And she’d survived walking away from the truest man in the whole world.

An image of Gideon Taylor’s seal-brown hair and gentle smile blipped into her mind. She’d hurt him.

She’d never said how sorry she was for hurting him.

“Dammit!” she yelled, startling the dog into an answering bark. This was not her life flashing before her eyes! “We’re not going down without a fight.”

Galvanized by a fiery spirit that wasn’t done living yet, she pushed everything from her mind but thoughts of escape.

The hook and wench. The boarded-up windows.

“Meghan, talk to me!”

She dropped the dog and picked up her ax. She struck the first blow against the rotting wood before responding. “I’m going out the back window, John.”

“The foundation drops off to the river on that side. It’s four stories down. There’s no way to get a truck—”

She swung again. “I know how to swim.”

The first board split in two. She was breathing hard now as she jammed the ax beneath the next board and pried it loose. Sweat lined her brow beneath the tight fit of the mask and dribbled down her face. She blinked the sting of it from her eyes and attacked the next board. The platform groaned and teetered toward the heart of the fire, costing her precious leverage.

The dog barked. “I know. I know.” She scooted the mutt behind her and smashed the window. The sudden rush of shifting air pressures knocked her off balance. She scrambled back to her feet, climbing uphill now to reach the window.

Meghan cleared the glass around the frame, then pulled a rope from the gear on her back. She looped it around the bale rigging.

The floor pitched. The smoke crept up to the second floor and drifted toward her, as if just now discovering its two potential victims upstairs.

She said a nervous prayer while she knotted the ends around her hips and set up a rappelling line. “I gotta see my boys. They’re all I’ve got.” She scooped up the dog, unbuttoned her coat and slipped her inside. “You’d like them, too.”

Lifting her helmet, she peeled off her mask and shrugged out of her gear harness, shedding every excess pound she could before replacing the helmet and hoisting herself up to the window. The platform sank to a forty-five-degree angle, ripping away from the wall and surrendering with a fiery crash to gravity, age and fire.

“Hang on.”

Charcoal smoke gusted out around her head and shoulders.

Meghan held her breath and jumped.

FIRE CAPTAIN Gideon Taylor skirted the crowd in the aftermath of the fire, an unseen extra amid the swarm of uniformed professionals doing their best to secure the site, as well as to accommodate the press and curiosity seekers who had gathered to see the show play out on the long, cloudless afternoon.

He took note of several faces in the crowd, never ceasing to be amazed at how destruction brought people out of the woodwork. Some came to help, others to gawk, a few to give thanks that the tragedy wasn’t happening to them.

An interstate highway carried most people past this old industrial area on the north bank of the Missouri River. But, whatever their reason, plenty of folks had pulled off and gathered around the border of yellow tape that cordoned off the ruins of the old textiles warehouse.

He headed toward the white-and-red SUV that indicated the chief of the fleet of yellow fire engines parked in front of the remaining shell of the old Meyer’s Textile Company. He’d start with the official story from the scene commander, then see what the building itself had to say about the cause of the fire. He ducked beneath the yellow perimeter tape and paused. He’d bet this old girl had plenty to say about her demise.

Gideon adjusted the bill of his black K.C.F.D. cap and tipped his head back to study the outline of the 1920s brick skeleton. Wisps of steam and smoke still puffed up from its central core, though the flames themselves had been put out.

With care and money, this warehouse could have been renovated to its one-time glory and converted to office space or—God forbid—a casino, like the reclaimed-factory-turned-tourist-trap a half mile upriver. Silhouetted against the glare of the August sun, Gideon knew this old beauty would be torn down now. Its bricks would be sold for fireplaces and landscaping, and the land would be transformed into something with considerably less personality, such as a parking lot.

It was his third investigation in as many weeks.

Big fire. Gutted building.

Accidental? Natural? Intentional?

It was his job to determine the cause of the blaze. Now that the hydrants had been shut off and the paramedics had left the scene—now that the fire had died—it was his job to sort through the charred and water-soaked remains to determine its cause.

Arson investigator.

His job promotion following rehab put him in a safer position than life on the frontline had been. Better pay. Better title. A chance to carry a badge in his wallet and arrest the bad guys, just like his brothers who were cops.

He’d trade it all in a heartbeat for another chance to serve beside his comrades.

“Taylor?”

Gideon peered through his dark glasses at the short, muscular man striding toward him. “Chief.”

“You can call me Tom now.” Deputy Chief Bridgerton rested his forearms atop the rolled-down waist of his insulated fire pants and smiled like the grumpy old father figure he was.

“Some habits die hard.” Gideon pulled off his sunglasses and shook hands with his former boss. “Good to see you again. What ya got?”

Old friend or not, Tom Bridgerton understood the urgency of the business at hand. Fire clues could be buried beneath rubble or blown away with the wind. The sooner the investigation started, the better chance Gideon had of pinpointing the cause of the blaze.

The chief turned toward the building and indicated areas with an inclination of his head. “The fire started in the basement. Don’t know how long it was burning before we got a call this morning from Westin’s casino up the road saying they noticed smoke. They knew the place was abandoned and called it in. A few of the casino workers drove over to check it out. They were the only ones on scene when we arrived. One of the police officers took their statement.”

“Any idea if the Meyer family had something stored in the basement?”

“Like a pile of rags?” Bridgerton scratched at the silver hair beside his temple and frowned. “This place hasn’t been used to store textiles since the Meyers moved out in the early eighties. It’s changed hands a couple of times since then. Now it’s owned by a Daniel Kelleher. He’s in real estate.”

“Has he been notified?”

Bridgerton nodded. “I called him out of a meeting. He’s on his way.”

Gideon made a mental note to speak to Kelleher when he arrived. Meanwhile, he’d start nosing around on his own. “City hall says this place was out of use, but not condemned. Any ideas?”

“The boiler was out of commission, the gas line disconnected.” The chief shrugged. “Maybe one of the vagrants who camps out here was trying to keep warm and lost control of his fire.”

“In this heat?” The summer drought left the air hazy with dust that filtered through the atmosphere from dried-up farms in neighboring counties. The moisture from the river and thick bands of trees caught in the haze, forming a canopy that pushed the heat index up past one hundred for the seventh day in a row. Maybe he should look at this a little less clinically and with a little more heart. “There weren’t any casualties, were there?”

“Just one.” The chief grinned. “She was treated for first-degree burns on her paws and tail and released.”

“A dog?”

“If she saw anything, she’s not talking.”

His brief moment of concern eased and he joined the chief’s laughter.

A round of applause from the crowd, punctuated by a couple of “Woo-hoo!’s,” diverted Gideon’s attention. He turned and noticed the bright lights of press cameras angled toward the gap at the center of the crowd. A crush of reporters, waving microphones and snapping pictures, blocked his view.

He glanced down at the chief. “How come they’re not interviewing you? I count at least three news vans here.”

Bridgerton laughed. “I gave my statement. But it seems they have a real celebrity today from over at Station 16. We had quite a rescue. Channel Ten and the others wanted shots of her instead of me.”

Her? The reporters were interviewing a dog instead of a veteran, command-level firefighter?

The chief slapped him on the shoulder and backed away. “I’d better get back to cleanup duty. Good to see you, Gid.”

“Same here, Ch—” He doffed a two-fingered salute and corrected himself. “Tom.”

“Call us sometime. The guys over at the Twenty-third would love to see you.”

“Yeah.” The chief snagged a young man by the arm and pulled him along with him to take care of the next task at hand.

At thirty-five, Gideon wasn’t—by normal standards—anywhere close to being over the hill. But he was out of touch. A young pup like the one jogging off to do Bridgerton’s bidding probably considered himself invincible.

Gideon knew better. A hero like Luke Redding would be just a name in the wall of a memorial to that kid. And Gideon would be that old guy who used to fight fires. The one who couldn’t cut it anymore. The one who couldn’t save his partner.

He was top brass now. A desk jockey. Gideon stared down at the nearly lifeless fingers on his left hand. Yeah, the new recruits could learn a lot from an old warhorse like him. He tucked his hand into the pocket of his black chinos and pushed the thought aside, not knowing if that was sarcasm or wishful thinking.

Maybe he’d do better to avoid a visit to his old station house and the memories—both bitter and sweet—it held.

Gideon put his sunglasses back on and calmed his emotions on a slow exhale of breath.

He strolled toward the building, pulling out his notepad and pen. He jotted a few particulars from his conversation with Deputy Chief Bridgerton and walked the perimeter of the fire scene before going inside.

A burst of laughter from the crowd caught his attention. Pocketing the notebook, he altered his course and crossed over to see this celebrity pooch that was causing such a media stir. At a solid six-two, he was tall enough to stand at the fringe of the audience and see over most of them.

A bulky television camera blocked his view of the dog, but he recognized the tall, auburn-haired woman holding the microphone from the evening news. She looked straight into the light of the camera without blinking. “Saundra Ames, Channel Ten news, at the scene of a devastating warehouse fire in north Kansas City, between the Missouri River and Levee Road.”

Somehow she managed to relay the basic details of the blaze while continuously showing off a perfect set of porcelain-white teeth. He had to admire a woman who didn’t even pop a sweat when she was in the spotlight on a one-hundred-degree day. The lady was a real pro.

“Now I’d like to introduce you to one of Kansas City’s bravest—the firefighter who saved the puppy we met earlier.” The reporter thrust the microphone toward her interviewee. The cameraman shifted positions.

Gideon’s world froze for a heartbeat in time.

Meghan.

His heart lurched in his chest. His lungs constricted so tightly, for a moment he felt as if he were breathing in hot, toxic air.

She’d stripped her gear down to her royal-blue K.C.F.D. T-shirt and regulation black pants.

But her wholesome beauty was just as uncomplicated and straightforward as he remembered. She wore her hair pulled back in what she’d called a French braid. In shades of amber and wheat and champagne, a few wavy wisps clung to the damp sheen of her soft, honey-freckled skin.

She looked fresh and young, with no makeup except for the blush of color on her cheeks and the natural, peachy tint of her lips.

And though she smiled at the mutt that squiggled in her arms and licked her chin and sniffed the microphone, her big brown eyes still held the same guarded expression he’d come to know so well in the months they’d been together.

It was really her.

Time moved forward again as Saundra Ames asked her next question. “Are there a lot of women firefighters?”

Gideon drank in every nuance of Meg’s expression, every detail of beauty that resonated through his body—waking dormant yet familiar desires.

He breathed in heavily, trying to dampen his body’s incendiary response to the mere sight of her. He didn’t want to feel anything. Not for her. Not anymore.

“There are a few of us,” she answered. “More and more with each graduating class from the academy.”

“How long have you been a firefighter?”

“About four years.”

As the interview progressed, Gideon began to notice the way Meghan shifted on her feet, betraying the self-conscious tension she’d once tried to hide behind a tough-act facade. What had started as a physical awareness moved on to other parts of his body that were harder to control. His compassion. His curiosity. His heart.

“And yet you risked your life for a dog. Why?” the reporter asked, clearly not understanding the size of Meghan’s heart.

Meghan’s gaze went out of focus and she frowned. “She needed me.”

Gideon shifted with a bit of tension himself.

If she pressed her lips together, then he’d know her emotions were getting the best of her. Meghan could handle anything if she set her mind to it. But she’d never really liked to call attention to herself.

She squinted against the bright light shining in her eyes.

“How does it feel to be a role model for young women in the Kansas City area?”

“Role model?” Meghan’s lips flattened into a straight line. She stuttered to find her answer. “I—I’m…just doing my job. I’m not trying… Please don’t set me up to be something…” She squeezed the dog in her arms.

Gideon pulled off his sunglasses and stepped forward, obeying an unspoken impulse to move in closer to protect her. To support her. To remind her she wasn’t alone. The poor kid had always been so alone.

Meghan’s gaze flew past the reporter, past the cameraman, past the crowd, and connected with his. As if somehow she had known he was there. As if she needed him.

Her eyes widened in startled recognition. Her lips parted in a silent gasp.

Their gazes locked. A familiar, dynamic energy flowed between them. Quickening his pulse. Filling him with want and need and questions and regrets.

Meghan blinked with the force of a slamming door, severing the connection and shutting him out.

Her downcast eyes refused to meet his again.

Stale air from a breath held too long rushed out of Gideon’s lungs. Hell. What had he been thinking? As his heart hammered back to life in his chest, his compassionate instinct died and common sense took its place.

God. Two years. And he still hadn’t gotten her out of his system.

These weren’t old times.

Meghan no longer wanted his help. She’d made that abundantly clear. She’d turned down his proposal and walked out of his life.

And he’d walked straight into hell.

Throwing up a stoic wall of silence that was starting to fit him like a second skin, Gideon turned and walked into the rubble of the gutted building.

At least fire was a demon he could understand.

Chapter Two

“Yeah, yeah. Fifteen minutes of fame, my ass.” Meghan chucked John Murdock’s big shoulder to show the guys she worked with that she knew they were teasing and that she would give it right back. “You guys are just jealous that Saundra Ames didn’t give any of you her card.”

She endured their oohs and ahhs and manly remarks about prowess with women by rolling her eyes and clicking her tongue. It had taken her a long time to learn to take their flirty remarks in sisterly stride—to understand that their teasing was a means of inclusion, not criticism. Now that she was part of their team, the men usually curbed their locker room chatter around her. It also didn’t hurt that the biggest man in the unit, John Murdock, had been assigned as her partner—to compensate for her smaller size, no doubt. She knew him to be a big teddy bear who preferred books to football, despite his pro-wrestler stature. But, intimidating by looks alone, nobody messed with John.

So, normally, the nine men who shared duty with her were on their best behavior. Tolerable, at least.

But right after battling a multialarm blaze, they needed to blow off some steam. And if giving her grief about her instant stardom was the way to do it, she’d let them.

“I keep telling you boys that women like men with a sensitive side.” They paused in a circle around her, waiting for her insight into the secret ways of women. “Go get a puppy and the women will be knocking down your door to meet you.”

Another round of hoots and laughter followed her as the crowd of onlookers began to disperse.

One of the rookies thumped his chest. “I get to rescue the mutt next time.”

“My wife would shoot me if I brought home a dog.”

“Hey, I put up with my girlfriend’s cats. Isn’t that sensitive enough?”

“Let’s get back to work, guys.” Meghan pocketed the number from the animal rescue worker who would be taking the dog to the shelter for a thorough check from a vet. Since the dog had been spayed, they also wanted to run the collarless pup’s description through their database to see if she was someone’s missing pet.

But if no one claimed her, Meghan had a pretty good idea where the miniature, German shepherd-marked mutt could find a home. She knew four boys who would benefit from the unconditional love a pet could bring them.

When she’d spotted her team heading toward the trucks to pack up their gear, it had given her the perfect excuse to escape the glare of the Channel Ten spotlight. The whole idea of girls looking up to her as some kind of role model had turned her stomach into knots.

You freak. I’ll make you a real woman.

That degrading voice, slurred by booze and accusation, had suddenly bombarded Meghan’s psyche from the hidden recesses of her memory, robbing her of her temporary confidence. Her skin crawled with the memory of cruel hands and a whiskey-soaked mouth.

She hadn’t known whether to scream or to run or to faint—in front of a crowd, on television—as old wounds felt real again.

But then she’d seen Gideon.

Live. In the flesh. Not a memory.

Tall and perfectly proportioned.

Dark brown hair, trimmed short to control its tendency to curl, was half hidden beneath an omnipresent baseball-style cap. His sturdy shoulders tapered to a trim waist, and she knew his legs would be long and well-muscled. His eyes were as she remembered, rich and dark and as inviting as her strong morning coffee.

The strength of his quiet presence had calmed her like the soothing stroke of his hand or the gentler caress of his silky whisper in her ear. For one cherished moment she’d breathed easier. The remembered pain receded.

But then she’d noticed the changes in him.

His rugged features etched in unsmiling stone. New lines of strain marring the taut, tanned skin beside his eyes and mouth.

The cold shutters of distrust that suddenly dulled the warmth of his gaze.

And why should he smile at her?

She didn’t deserve that kind of support from him. She had no right to ask. Not anymore.

So she’d blinked and turned away like a coward before she did something foolish such as run to him or call out his name or beg his forgiveness.

By then, Saundra Ames had been talking again. The camera rolling. Meghan had dug deep into the reserves of her composure and come up with a cogent answer. By the time she’d felt brave enough to look again, Gideon had disappeared.

Thank God she had her work. The physical and mental challenges, the sense of duty and purpose, had given her something to concentrate on besides questions about her past and what advice she could give young, career-minded women.

Her co-workers had gathered at the edge of the impromptu audience to egg her on about getting out of cleanup work. Nine men in K.C.F.D. T-shirts, each eye-catching in his own way, attracted their own sort of attention from the crowd, providing the distraction she’d needed to slip away from center stage to gather her wits and hide her wounds.

Some of the men were still talking about puppies and outrageous ways to impress the ladies as they reached the Station 16 trucks and went to work. There were hoses to fold and stack, ladders to mount on the engine, gear to stow.

Meghan didn’t want to shirk her duties, or she’d never hear the end of it at the station house. She figured her TV interview would already earn her enough razzing to last a week. She picked up a wrench and two axes and opened a compartment door near the cab of Engine 31. Fitting together like a three-dimensional puzzle, each piece of equipment had its assigned place, making the most efficient use of the truck’s limited space.

She slipped the wrench in first, then pressed each ax into its mounting clips. After latching the compartment door shut, she climbed up onto the running board beside the open cab to gather the rigging equipment that had been tossed inside. She plunked down onto the passenger side seat to rest while she rolled a nylon rope between her fist and elbow. She had the length of it tied into a bale before she noticed the conspicuously unofficial item resting in the folds of her black turnout coat on the floorboards at her feet.

“What the hell…?” Meghan stowed the rope beneath the seat and frowned as she bent to pluck a long-stemmed yellow rose from her coat. With the stem caught lightly between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, she rested the silky soft bud in the palm of the other. “Where did you come from?”