Rescued by Her Rival Page 16

  Red water ran down the side of his face from his dark hair. His nose was also clearly never going to be the same. She almost regretted slapping him.

  “Can you stand up?”

  He coughed more, then looked in the direction they’d come from, and the even closer fire.

  No direct answer, he just accepted her hands in assistance and staggered to his feet.

  The protective gear he wore weighed him down, and he began stripping out of it. “Go.”

  “Not without you.”

  “Drag him to the boat. I’ll come. Don’t come back. Go.” He breathed hard and fast, and even with the water rushing she could hear wet sounds in his rasping breaths.

  Disobedient as she was, she didn’t start moving until she’d helped him out of the pants, leaving him in sodden shorts, T-shirt, and boots.

  “Go,” he said again, and since she couldn’t help them both at once, Lauren did.

  They weren’t far from the boat, Beck had said, but she wasn’t sure how far, only knew she had to get there.

  As she dragged the stretcher, it began to come apart. Forty or fifty yards to a short stretch of pebbled shore where a motorboat had been pulled onto the shore. She dragged the now canvas sled and man there to find the dog waiting.

  Wasting no time, she heaved the man into the boat, as careful as she could be of his leg, given the situation, coaxed the skittish dog in as well, then ran back for Beck.

  She’d never felt fear like the thousand icy needles down her back. His head had to have hit hard to make it bleed like that, didn’t it? Was he even still up and walking? Breathing? He’d breathed in water, and with those rocks he’d probably broken ribs.

  She almost ran smack into him as she got around a bend, and ducked under his arm, spun, and slung an arm around his waist to give him something to lean on.

  “I said...” he started. But when he looked into her eyes, and the tears she could do nothing to stop, whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.

  There was no time to explore it, no time to reflect. No time to let him rest, even if it felt cruel to make him continue. She could feel the heat from the fire now as it moved fast over dry brush. They needed to get to the boat, get the boat into the water, and figure out how to make it go—the one part of this she had no idea how to do, or even if he’d still be conscious by the time they got there.

  “If you think I’m going to leave you here, you’re too stupid to do this job.” The hiccup that came from her at the end of her half-shouted words surprised them both.

  Something like horror shrouded his dark eyes, an expression she knew she mirrored in the face of bright, red blood running more thickly now down his cheek.

  “Shut up,” she shouted, although he hadn’t said anything, and sped up, making him walk faster than she knew he should be.

  Every step pained him, she heard it in his breathing and the occasional gasp when she squeezed a little tighter to keep him upright—it seemed he was always about to fall over.

  It felt like it took a year to make it to the boat, and there was a brief argument about him wanting to help push it into the water—as if he could—and she finally got them in.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Motor,” he said, then took a ragged breath. “Works like a lawnmower.”

  “Okay.”

  “Pull the cord.” He gave the steps, with several pauses. Ending with, “Don’t go fast.”

  Right. Because if she crashed them into something, the water would get them, not the fire.

  The river became wider and more shallow dozens of yards downriver, and as it broadened out, it became less fast-moving.

  “Your comm working?” Beck was still with it enough to keep her focused, prompting her to call in once the way got smoother.

  Treadwell answered, and she asked for two ambulances and followed his instructions on where to take the boat. Through the miracle of GPS, he’d been monitoring their progress and was ready for them.

  It wasn’t far or long. A couple of miles of awkward boating until they reached a bridge where two ambulances sat, lights on, doors open, EMT teams and police on the shore with stretchers, ready to pull them in.

  Beck didn’t put up a fight about being strapped onto the stretcher, and if she hadn’t been worried before, she would’ve been then.

  He’d gone quite pale, whiteness around his mouth speaking of the pain she knew he was in, and maybe reduced lung capacity—his breathing sounded so bad.

  She and Treadwell climbed into the ambulance with him. The police took custody of the heroic border collie, and the other ambulance took the still-unconscious Henderson.

  “What happened out there?” Treadwell asked her, and she wasn’t entirely sure, but filled in what she knew. Beck had gone back for the dog, something had happened, he’d fallen. She’d fished him out.

  The report didn’t take long, and the only reason she knew Beck wasn’t unconscious or asleep was the whiteness of his knuckles where he gripped the sheet.

  Decisions that had been brewing in her mind came to a head all at once.

  It wasn’t because he hadn’t wanted her to go today, or because she felt any confusion about where she belonged—whatever questions she’d had were answered. But she wanted to do this right, out in the open. Before she lost her nerve she said, “Chief, I need to tell you something.”

  Beck’s eyes whipped open, skewering her over the short distance to where she perched at the foot of his stretcher. The chief opposite her watched her with equal attention. She turned her gaze back to the man in control of her career, focusing there.

  “Before the first jump this season, I had never actually finished my skydiving training...”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DESPITE NOT KNOWING whether she’d be allowed at the camp come Monday, Lauren had the good fortune of being in for now and given the honor of a four a.m. ride the next morning by a local policeman Treadwell called in.

  She’d been looked over immediately upon arriving, deemed perfectly fine aside from some dehydration, and released before nightfall. Beck hadn’t been so lucky. His injuries required admittance in the hours in between. Treadwell had been kind enough to bring her updates about his condition after finding her loitering in the hallway outside his room, unable to go inside.

  Concussion.

  Fractured ribs.

  Water in his lungs he hadn’t been able to cough out and they were forcing him to now.

  Prognosis: he’d live.

  But he was out for the season.

  Now, at five in the morning, she soaked in the tub, waiting for the sun to come up so she could call her father.

  She’d made decisions over the long hours in the waiting room to learn Beck’s condition, and even without knowing whether or not she’d be welcome at camp come Monday, she knew she wouldn’t be returning to her family’s station in San Francisco. She wanted to tell him that. Tell him everything, actually. Not to gloat, she didn’t have that in her, even if she now knew beyond any doubt she was doing what she was meant to.

  It was just time. Get her life in order. Make hard decisions. The only thing she could control was living her life without fear of what other people would say. Whatever Dad said didn’t matter as long as she was satisfied with herself.

  She couldn’t pick her family. She loved them, and had to figure out how to deal with them and have a relationship.

  But with Beck? They hadn’t exactly talked about what they were going to do after camp, but she’d hoped there would be an after. Now all she could think was that she couldn’t stay with a man who either held her back or had a death wish.

  Death wish might not be fair. He had been trying to survive, walking to her through the pain that made him move at a slow stagger, the head injuries messing with his balance... He hadn’t said so, would never say so,
but he’d been trying to reach the boat.

  Death wish wasn’t a fair label. Martyr might be.

  Someone who wanted his death to mean something?

  Someone who wanted his life to mean something?

  When the bath started growing cold, she climbed out, pulled on a robe, and went to get her phone.

  Her father answered on the first ring, and in a tone so calm she even surprised herself, Lauren laid it all out for him. Her harrowing day. Her lie. Her possibly being fired before she was actually hired. The man they’d saved. That she wouldn’t be returning home to work again.

  “So, you’re asking me to help you transfer to another house?”

  “No, Dad. I’m not asking you for anything,” she said, and then the thought occurred... “Actually, there is something you can do for me if you’re willing.”

  “What?”

  “My friend? His mom died and was swept away by the river near their house up here about fifteen years ago. Never found her that he knows of. If I can get you his DNA, do you think you can get one of your cop buddies to run it against any Jane Does they’ve found in the past fifteen years?”

  “How are you going to get his DNA?”

  “His toothbrush is here.”

  “Don’t know if it’ll fly, legally, but for another member of the service I’ll ask. I know some people.”

  Of course he did. Chief Richard Autry knew everyone. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You let me know where you land, sugar bean.”

  Her lower lip wobbled, but she managed to say, “I will. Love you.”

  She hung up before the tears really started to pour.

  * * *

  The smell of antiseptic was as far from a forest as possible, and made every second he was forced to spend in the hospital suck.

  What made it worse was Lauren not being there. He couldn’t believe he’d grown so hooked on her presence in such a short period of time. And he didn’t want to believe what her absence probably meant.

  Treadwell, currently sleeping in the recliner beside Beck’s bed, had kept him awake for the first twenty-four hours by playing cards, making him do crosswords, play along with game shows when he found them on TV, narrated a fishing show in such a fashion that no one could sleep through it, and refused to listen when Beck told him for the thousandth time to go home.

  “Here for vitals,” a woman in scrubs announced when she came in, waking Treadwell.

  Beck stuck out his arm.

  “Is he getting out today?” the chief asked.

  Beck grunted, “You’re getting out today.”

  “Briefly, maybe.”

  “Have to wait for the doctor to come by, but probably not. Want to make sure his lungs have recovered enough to be let loose in the wild,” the nurse said, then gave him an encouraging smile that did nothing to encourage him. “You’re one of the smokejumpers who brought in Mr. Henderson, right?”

  “Yeah.” Beck wanted to hear about Lauren, but Treadwell had refused to talk about her any of the times he’d asked. Hearing about Henderson was the next best thing. “How’s he doing?”

  Her smile widened and she wrote down Beck’s vitals as she took them. “He’s awake.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. They’re taking good care of him.”

  “Good news,” Treadwell said softly from the recliner. “You and Autry made a good team.”

  Made.

  Past tense.

  Beck’s stomach churned, but he held his tongue until the nurse was done prodding him. He wanted to contradict the chief, make a good team, but she might no longer be willing to put up with him.

  When they were alone, he asked, “Are you talking about her now?”

  “You’re better.”

  Well enough to hear bad news. “Have you talked to her?”

  “On all my trips out of your rooms until the wee hours.”

  “She’s all right?”

  “She’s uninjured. Don’t know about all right.”

  Of course she wasn’t completely all right. He knew he’d scared her. He just hadn’t really been able to consider how much until she’d come back for him, and pushed him along through her own tears. Lauren crying... Finally giving in to the tears she usually contained. The idea slammed him in the guts every time.

  “Does she get to keep her job?” he asked, because he couldn’t not ask.

  Treadwell waited for him to look over and nodded. “She does. I let her know last night, but I’m busting her back to pure rookie status. No more jumps until training is over, and I’m making her lead a talk about what you two went through today.”

  “But you know she can do it, she doesn’t need to go back a step.”

  “I know she can do it. Just like I knew you didn’t need to go through the training to do your job. But it still helped you.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  Beck could tell him the truth. Tell him everything, the things he didn’t talk about to anyone but Lauren. The things she’d said Treadwell deserved to know. But he might think the training had had a less positive impact on Beck than he’d thought.

  “Are you glad she told you? We’d already remedied the situation.”

  “I need my people to trust I’ll have their backs when the situation arises, that I’ll make the right call for them and everyone else.”

  Treadwell couldn’t have made a more loaded statement if he’d spent the whole night crafting and polishing the words.

  Whether or not Treadwell knew that Beck still struggled with that, Beck knew.

  She’d been brave. Her telling the chief the truth was a much bigger risk than him telling the chief now.

  It wasn’t so much that he wanted to hide these things, it was just hard to think about, to talk about. And there was something to be said for avoiding pity...

  But he didn’t want to be the mess he’d become. He wanted to be better. Be someone deserving of Lauren, not some pale shadow of her bravery.

  Even if he’d already screwed up too badly to ever get her back, he could follow her example.

  “Will you go home and get some sleep if I tell you what’s been going on with me?” As the words came, Beck had already started shaking his head at himself. “I don’t want you having another heart attack from the antiseptic stench and lousy food.”

  * * *

  Lauren opened the door of the cabin after a long day, and stumbled over the single step up.

  Beck sat on the sofa, calmly watching her.

  Something gave her the power to grab the doorframe and stop herself going down at the last second and avoid eating floor.

  “Hey...” she greeted him, as if it hadn’t been nine days since she’d seen him.

  “Hey,” he said quietly in return, sitting forward slowly on the sofa. “I hope it’s all right for me to come in while you’re out. I realize it’s not exactly my cabin anymore.”

  “It’s fine. I mean, your stuff is still here.” She swept her arm toward the bedroom he’d occupied, and saw it standing open with a stuffed duffel bag acting as a doorstop.

  He probably shouldn’t be carrying that. Broken ribs didn’t heal overnight, and it only felt like forever since he’d been smashed along the river. “You should let me carry that for you.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He reached out and tapped a mason jar full of salts on the table before him. “Thought you could probably use another batch, and now I see you, I know you can. You look wiped out.”

  “I’ve been doing extra PT.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure I’m as strong as I can be,” she lied. Funny how easy it was to fall back into patterns to cover those vulnerable spots. She’d sworn off them and proclaimed she was going to live in the open air, but with Beck... “Actually, I’ve been doing extra
every day so that I sleep well.”

  “Why aren’t you sleeping well?”

  “I’m sleeping okay. I just want to be extra tired so I’ll go right to sleep.”

  His gaze sharpened, and she noticed how dark he was beneath his eyes, a shadow deeper than simple sleepless nights.

  “Are both of your eyes black?”

  “Smashing into rocks with my head did it.” He gestured to the place on the side where she remembered him bleeding. “Treadwell said it knocked some sense into me. I’m not sure it was the rocks.”

  “Did something else hit you?”

  “Just you. Like a fire truck.”

  The imagery was so mixed she didn’t know whether it was meant to be good or not. Hitting like a truck didn’t sound good; knocking sense into him did...

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

  “You did,” he said so softly she wouldn’t have been sure she’d heard it if she hadn’t been watching his mouth form the words. “Why do you want to go right to sleep? Don’t want to lie there thinking about how badly I screwed up?”

  Assigning blame to their catastrophe felt like a betrayal. He’d screwed up, she’d screwed up. They were both screwed up. “Don’t want to dwell on what could’ve been. I guess.”

  Her throat tightened as she spoke, until the end when her voice cracked, unable to contain the emotion, even without looking at him and the sadness she knew she’d see.

  It was enough to get her moving again, straight past the sofa into the little kitchenette where she’d stashed a cooler and drinks.

  Her hands shook hard enough that the wet plastic bottle of electrolyte-imbued drink shot from her fingers, bounced between her feet, and ricocheted backward across the kitchen floor before she’d even touched the lid.

  It rolled over the linoleum, then suddenly stopped.

  When she turned around, Beck had picked up the bottle and now wiped down the wet exterior on the comfortable-looking gray T-shirt he wore, then opened it for her.