"Come on, Francey, baby. You can do better than that." Nicky Cordaro egged his sister on—in the guise of encouraging her—as she faced Jake Scarlatta across the table on Thanksgiving Day. Francey and Jake were perched on opposite dining-room chairs, arms raised at right angles, palms interlocked, elbows digging into Grace Cordaro's heirloom, which had been cleared for their traditional arm wrestling contest. They looked incongruous in their holiday finery—a gorgeous violet calf-length dress for Francey and a sharp gray cotton sweater and matching pants for Jake. Dylan, too, had dressed up, in a blue silk shirt Beth had said made his eyes glow like sapphires.
"She's doing her best," Jake said dryly. "What can you expect from a girl?" To belie his words, sweat had beaded on his brow as he struggled to force her arm down.
A vein throbbed in Francey's neck. "Shut up, Scarlatta. Distracting me won't help."
Gus Cordaro smiled at them. "Ah, just like the good old days."
Dylan noticed the fleeting shadows of sadness on Diana Cordaro's face. Watching their children from the doorway, she leaned into her husband and he kissed her hair. She'd missed their growing up. It must be hard to be faced with that—especially on a holiday.
I don't celebrate holidays.
Dylan pushed thoughts of Beth away. As a firefighter, he'd gotten damn good at keeping images out of his head.
With a renewed burst of adrenaline, Francey edged Jake's arm back an inch. Their clasped hands vibrated.
"Come on, kiddo.” Francey's brother Tony, who was walking his cranky eleven-month-old son back and forth, put in his encouragement.
Francey's forearm muscles bulged.
Ben said, "Hold on twenty more seconds, honey, and you beat your record."
Despite his funk, Dylan smiled at them. Jake and Francey's arm wrestling was an ongoing contest that Francey was determined to win someday.
Jake put on the last push.
Ben counted aloud. "Fifteen, ten, five, okay, that's it.”
Slowly, Jake's arm took hers down.
"Ten seconds longer, France," her father proclaimed.
Alex, who'd been lounging near the sidebar, crossed to his wife. "You're getting better, sweetheart." He kissed her nose.
The look she gave him—part sexy, part unadulterated love—made Dylan's breath catch. He wanted that kind of devotion.
From Beth.
"At least I lasted ten seconds more on you." She scowled, marring her perfect brow. "Only five on Chelsea, though. I bet she could beat you."
"Not a chance." Jake’s voice and expression were all male.
The family laughed.
Restless, Dylan rose from the table and headed to the kitchen for a beer. Standing by the window, he watched the snow fall in heavy flakes around the bare trees. He checked the clock. Three. He didn't know how late she was working. Or even where she was. He wondered—worried—if the roads were slippery.
She hadn't come to him last night. She'd stayed at the academy to talk to Reed, and Dylan assumed she'd follow him home when she was done. She hadn't. He'd almost called her several times, but ultimately he'd gone to bed alone, wondering what was going to happen to them. He knew he was pushing her, but he simply couldn't settle for what she was offering anymore.
Sick of covering the same ground, Dylan wandered to the back of the house, where Ben and Gus had winterized a huge enclosed porch. With a wood stove in the corner, warm cedar paneling and windows highlighting the falling snow, the scene was Currier and Ives perfect.
Winter used to be my favorite time of year. It was so beautiful on the lake.
Damn.
He set his beer on the table and noticed a photo album there. Wedding. Francey had given one to all the attendants and her grandparents. Against his better judgment, he sat down and opened the book full of memories. The photos were blown up—
Francey and Alex, arms linked, smiling as if nothing could ever hurt them again.
Ben and Diana, their expressions revealing a deep and enduring love that had lasted through years of separation.
Gus and Grace. They'd just celebrated their fifty-fifth anniversary.
Tony and Erin.
Everybody's a couple, Dylan thought. Except him. Something that had been just fine before now.
He turned the page and there she was.
Beth wasn't fond of getting her picture taken. But the photographer had gotten a couple good shots of her. One photo caught her on the beach, splashing in the water. Pretty whimsical for Lizzie Borden. Another showed her standing next to Francey on the pier. God, that sarong made his mouth water. How had he ever thought her looks were ordinary? The last picture captured her face in a closeup. Smiling, he traced his thumb over the delicate arch of her brow, that full bottom lip. He smoothed his fingertip over a few freckles which had disappeared since then.
A shadow fell over the book, and he glanced up.
Jake stared at the open page. "Want to talk about it?"
Dylan sighed. "Not much to say."
"Something's going on between you two."
Since Beth had confided in Chelsea and Francey, Dylan felt comfortable telling Jake. "Yeah."
Taking a seat across from him, Jake stretched out his legs on a worn hassock. "She looks at you like Diana looks at Ben."
Dylan's head snapped up. "Does she?"
"And you look at her the way Ben looks at Diana. You got it bad, buddy."
Running a restless hand through his hair, Dylan said, "Afraid so." He stared hard at Jake. Since his best friend Danny's fall from grace, Jake had been more introverted than ever. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"If you had to do it all over, would you marry Nancy again? Even though the relationship didn't work?"
"Things between us didn't work because I cut her out after Danny left town."
"Why did you?"
Jake shook his head. "Danny and I had done everything together—high school football, the academy, in each other's weddings, same crew in the RFD. Hell, our kids, Jessica and Derek were born only two months apart eighteen years ago. When Danny came unglued, I didn't know how to handle the situation.”
"Did you talk to anybody about this?"
"Nah. We didn't have a Reed Macauley in the fire department then. I kept my feelings inside." He stared at Dylan. "They’re still there, I guess."
"It's hard for me to understand keeping to yourself so much."
"Like Beth."
Dylan nodded.
"At least I had Jessie. She forced me to communicate more than I would have." Jake watched him intently.
The doorbell sounded. Dylan asked, "Who else is coming?"
Jake rose. "It's probably Jessica. She was going to try to get away from Nancy's for dinner here." Looking at the album, Jake playfully punched Dylan's arm. "Come on out with me. We'll get Jess and the family and play some poker before we eat."
Stop being maudlin, Grandma Katie would say. There's no point in wishing things were different. See where you are and what you can do with that. He also remembered Grandma Katie's resolution to live life to the fullest after his grandpa died. She'd played bridge, continued to read and even joined a widows' square dancing group. Her example was good for him. Dylan closed the album and stood, thinking, Okay Grandma, you win.
Following Jake down the hallway, he thought about where he was and made a list of what he had to be thankful for. He reached the living room just as he tallied up health, good friends and a job he loved as a very good place to be.
Ben, Diana, Alex, Grace and Gus all surrounded Francey, who stepped back from a big hug with their just-arrived guest. Dylan knew Francey and Jessica were close. But when Francey moved aside, he saw the newcomer wasn't Jake's daughter.
It was Beth.
* * *
The look on Dylan's face when he spotted her in the entry-way was almost enough to make Beth turn tail and run like a rookie panicking at his first fire.
But she didn't because the emotion revealed in his eyes only matched what she felt for him. For better or for worse, she was ready to pursue the relationship—totally.
In a flurry her coat was taken and she was ushered into the family room. Someone stuck a glass of Chardonnay in her hand. Then Jake's daughter arrived. All the while, Dylan tracked her with his gaze. All he'd said was, "Hello, Winters," but he'd watched her every move.
When they conned him into playing cards, she took the opportunity to devour the sight of him. He looked tired. He probably hadn't slept well. In her usual cowardly manner, she'd avoided him—and any pressure he might put on her—by going home last night. She laid in her bed and watched her fish and thought about Reed's words. In the middle of the night when she awoke from the nightmares, she'd gotten out her dolls and placed them on the mattress. They weren't Dylan's arms, but they helped.
"Any action today, Beth, on the ambulance?" Ben asked as he shuffled the cards.
"We had a save."
Dylan looked up sharply at the slang for rescuing someone that everybody thought was a goner. "Really?"
"An old woman took a bad tumble down the stairs. We managed to get her to Emergency in time, but we had to do some fancy footwork."
Jessica glanced at her. "Your job must be so rewarding."
"It is," Beth said.
But not rewarding enough to stay for another shift today. When hers had ended at two and they'd asked her to sign on for a second round, she'd opened her mouth to say yes. But then she remembered the woman who almost died, and she thought about dying herself—which hadn't scared her since before Tim and Janey's deaths. Today, the notion frightened her. So she'd gone home, changed into the green blouse Dylan had seemed to like and a short black skirt, and shown up at the Cordaros without phoning.
"Dinner's in half an hour," Diana called from the kitchen.
"Game's over, anyway," Gus told the group. "I got a royal flush."
Amidst the groans, the table was cleared and set for the meal. Since Beth had been told there was nothing she could do, she watched the activity from the sidelines. After a few moments she saw Dylan head for the stairs, probably to the bathroom.
Hmm.
When she was sure no one was watching, she followed him.
The john was at the end of the long second-floor hall. She could hear him inside. Leaning against the wall, arms closed over her chest, she waited until he opened the door.
He acted startled to see her.
For about two seconds. Then he dragged her inside, slammed the door and snicked the lock. "I'm goin' crazy not being able to touch you."
He backed her against the wood panels, framed her face with his hands and devoured her mouth. Her response was gratifying.
Then he raised his head and, with shaky fingers, unbuttoned the green blouse. Pulling down her bra, he suckled her voraciously.
She groaned—and then started to giggle.
"What's so funny?" he asked, sliding his hand up and down her thigh.
"You are. For weeks you've been ragging on me for more than sex. Now you're like an animal."
He looked at her, and what she saw in his eyes leveled her. "This is what commitment does to me," he said simply.
Swallowing hard, she drew his head down and whispered against his lips, "To me, too."
Minutes later, Francey knocked on the door. "Ah, Dylan, or whoever, dinner's ready."
Dylan called out, "Enjoy it, France."
Beth giggled again.
They were barely under control when they came to the table, Dylan first, then Beth a few moments after. No one commented that they were absent together or seemed to notice the telltale flush on both their faces. But someone had seated them next to each other.
After everyone took a place at the table, Beth felt a second of panic when she realized where she was—at Thanksgiving dinner—and what that meant. She hadn't sat down to a holiday meal since she was twenty years old. Half a lifetime. Dylan's hand crept to her knee. Under the table, she entwined her fingers with his as Ben raised his glass and grasped Diana's hand.
"I want to make the toast. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone, and today, I'd like us all to be thankful for new beginnings."
He clinked his glass with Diana's.
Francey clinked hers with Alex's.
Dylan turned and clinked his glass with Beth's, then echoed Ben's sentiments. "To new beginnings."
* * *
On the following Saturday morning, Dylan lazed in Beth's bed, clothed only in navy sweatpants, one of the fish books spread open on his lap. Taking her concession about Thanksgiving to mean real commitment, he'd never been happier. He just hoped he could keep the mood light enough to let her get used to the idea and not spook her.
"Listen to this," he said with a marked note of mischief in his voice.
Beth was ironing her uniforms. Dressed only in a flannel shirt he'd left at her house along with some other clothes, she looked adorable. "I can't wait," she said dryly.
“The mating habits of your fish are interesting. Take the betta. The male courts the female with a graceful dance. If she's interested, the female folds her fins. He nibbles at her scales and may even bite her."
"Typical male." She shook her head as she passed him to hang up a shirt.
When she got close enough, he grabbed her arm and nipped the flesh. "Wanna let me bite your fins, baby?"
She swatted his hand away, but chuckled all the same.
Dylan continued to read, and she began to press her trousers. "When he knows he's got her, the male betta builds a nest for the eggs, leads her under there, entwines himself around her and turns her on her back."
"Sounds familiar."
"Hush. The angelfish is more fascinating. In order to entice the female, certain species of the male change colors. Then he makes excited swimming movements. The courtship takes ten to twenty minutes."
"Not enough foreplay," Beth said. Good, he thought. She was getting into this.
"The fairy basset's the best. At dusk the male displays to a nearby female." Dylan lifted each arm and took turns flexing a muscle. "Think that's displaying?"
Giving him a sideways glance, she said, "I think you've lost your mind."
Dylan read on. "His dorsal fin and spines stand upright. Hey, sort of like an erection."
"You're making that up, O'Roarke."
"Honest to God, it's right here. Anyway, this fish gets his spines and fins up and swims backward and forward to show off his body. Then he rubs against the chosen female's belly and—"
"Stop, this is nuts."
"Okay, I'll go on to their spawning habits." He searched the page. "Here it is. The female betta releases her eggs, then the male fertilizes them. When they're done, he kicks out the female because she may eat them. He guards the nest until the eggs hatch."
When she didn't comment, he continued, "The male clown fish also guard the eggs and often care for the young until they reach sexual maturity, when they leave to find their own anemone."
Still, she didn't say anything.
"Beth? Is something wrong?"
"No, go ahead, I'm listening."
His brow furrowed. "Here it is again. When the female angelfish lays the eggs, the male tirelessly guards them—fans water across them, defends them against big fish." Dylan put the book down. "This whole fish kingdom is really into male nurturing. That kind of appeals to me."
He noticed then that she'd gone perfectly still.
"What's the matter, honey?"
She switched off the iron, crossed to the bed and sat down facing him. Her eyes were huge and unhappy. "Dylan, do you want kids?"
"Yeah, of course. Don't you?"
"No. I'm never going to have children."
He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t when a thought hit him. Finally he said, "Can you have them?"
"Well, I'm forty, so it's late to conceive. But I'm physically capable." Briefly her eyes darted away, then returned to his. "But I never will, because emotionally I couldn't risk the loss. So if taking this any further—" she made a gesture that included the bed, her room, him and her "—is dependent on having kids, maybe you should reconsider seeing me."
"Beth, this isn't something that has to be decided now."
"It's already been decided."
"You really mean this, don't you?"
"More than I've ever meant anything. And don't think I'll give in like I did on Thanksgiving. This isn’t negotiable."
His back stiffened. "Thanks for informing me."
"I just don't want you to have any false expectations or get your hopes up."
That made him mad. "You're something else, you know that?"
"What do you mean?"
"What do you think this—" he made the same sweeping motion with his hand as she had "—is all about?"
She stared at him blankly. A vein pulsed in her neck.
"I already have expectations and high hopes." When she remained silent, he said loudly, "I love you, damn it."
Still, no response.
"You don't feel the same way about me, do you?" he asked tightly.
She pinned him with an angry glare and said between clenched teeth, "Yes, as a matter of fact I do."
His heart rate went into arrhythmia. He thought he might explode with joy. He hadn't known how much he needed to hear that. When he collected himself, his mouth quirked. "Don't be so mushy about all this, Winters."
Though her smile was sad, she did bestow it on him. Inching over on the mattress, she looped her arms around his neck. "I love you, Dylan. More than I thought I could love anyone again."
Holding on to her waist, he swallowed hard.
Against his lips she whispered, "Your declaration wasn't exactly all hearts and flowers, either."
He whispered back, "I've never said those words to a woman before. I love you, Lizzie. So much it makes me crazy."
She touched her forehead to his. "We are crazy. There's too much against us."
"We can compromise. If you won't have kids because you can't handle the risk of losing them—like you've lost all the others in your family—I'll accept that if you promise to give me everything else."
She waited a very long time. Which was all right with him because he wanted her to be sure. "I can do that, eventually. Just don't rush me, okay?"
"Okay." He held her a moment longer, then eased her back to the bed. "Now, fold up your fins and let me rub my spines against your belly."
* * *
Hoyt Barnette smiled as two of his favorite instructors, O'Roarke and Scarlatta, told the recruits about night evolutions.
From his perch on a desk off to the side, Lieutenant O'Roarke was in good humor. "You're gonna get your first taste of night fires, kiddies. Be ready."
Scarlatta continued, "Night firefighting is a whole new ballgame, ladies and gentlemen. The rules change in the dark."
Hoyt couldn't wait to get into that burning building and show his stuff. He'd perform better than he had in those damn practicals if it killed him. He couldn't believe he'd messed up a week ago when the recruits were finally asked to demonstrate what they knew. Faced with a phony patient to assess, he'd choked.
His recriminations were interrupted by Instructor Winters skidding into the doorway, her face red, breathing fast. "There's been an accident out front. Ben was pulling in when a vehicle veered off Scottsdale Road and hit the academy sign. Quint/Midi Twelve's on its way, but Ben wants all certified medical personnel out there." She threw Lieutenant O'Roarke his jacket and shoved her arms into hers, momentarily setting down the ever-present ALS bag. "Let's go."
O'Roarke was out the door in a flash. Lieutenant Scarlatta stood up in front of the recruits. "Grab your coats. But don't interfere. You might as well see this firsthand."
Blustery late November wind hit Hoyt in the face as they exited the front door. They crossed the grass to about ten feet back from the car. Hoyt huddled next to the other recruits and watched the scene. Man, this was great. This was what the job was all about.
The late-model SUV had crashed head-on into the school sign. The rear of the vehicle was intact, indicating the gas tank was safe, but the front was crunched metal and shredded tires. The roof was partly concave. The car rested precariously at an angle on the passenger side. The elderly seat-belted driver was pinned by the activated air bag.
Battalion Chief Cordaro stood on the left side of the vehicle. Winters hovered behind him, as did O'Roarke and Scarlatta. "Door's jammed," Cordaro said, "and the car fell at a bad angle. Gas tank is safe, but the position isn't. The thing could tip over at any time. Stay back, everybody."
"I hear moans." O'Roarke stepped closer to the door. "Driver's conscious." In gloves, but no mask or goggles— Winters would get him for that, Hoyt thought—he reached through the broken glass of the window. "Slow pulse. She's having trouble breathing. She needs immediate intervention."
Sirens sounded, still far away. Stabilizing and extrication equipment would arrive, but would they have time to save her? Hoyt realized this must be what it was like to make life-and-death decisions.
* * *
Trevor Tully watched with excitement as Winters crossed to the end of the grass and craned her neck to peer down the road. "The trucks are coming." She'd cupped her hands around her mouth to yell back to them. "They'll be here in seconds."
Trevor's excitement turned to horror as O'Roarke called out, "We don't have seconds,” reached for the back left door and pulled it open. The car shimmied with his action.
Cordaro called from the other side, "O'Roarke, what the hell are you doing? The car's gonna—"
Trevor couldn't believe his eyes. O'Roarke climbed in the back seat.
"Dylan, don't!" The shout came from Winters as she raced from the road.
Shivering now because of the cold fear inside of him, Trevor rubbed his hands together. "Damn, why'd he do that? They told us a thousand times never to touch a vehicle unless it's been stabilized."
Ace Durwin huddled next to him. "He felt the pulse and knew the victim was ready to buy it. He'll stabilize her head with his hands and do a jaw-thrust maneuver to keep her airway open."
"A calculated risk," Wanikya put in.
"That could very well get him killed." Durwin again.
"Killed?" Trevor blanched.
"The car's in bad shape. The roof looks ready to cave. If it does, O'Roarke could be hurt bad. Or he could be trapped. And if the gas tank's affected when the car shifts…"
Cordaro shouted to everyone to stay back. Scarlatta made sure no one was close to the car. Instructor Winters stood by, cool and calm, her face devoid of emotion.
Trevor felt sick inside. O'Roarke was a great guy. Jeez, no one had ever been as nice to him as the lieutenant. If something happened to him…Trevor felt like bawling and puking at the same time.
Sirens sounded, closer now.
Please, God, let help get here. Let him be all right.
* * *
Connie Cleary watched Quint/Midi Twelve arrive and dismount the truck. As the captain in charge spoke quickly to Battalion Chief Cordaro, Connie moved around the car. Ms. Winters stepped back as the accident team set up their equipment.
Hesitantly Connie crept up behind her instructor. Everybody thought Ms. Winters was a cold fish, standing there unaffected by the danger Lieutenant O'Roarke was in. The guys were making comments about the Ice Lady. But Connie suspected something different.
As Quint/Midi Twelve took the few necessary minutes to stabilize the vehicle, the earsplitting roar of the generator rent the air. Ms. Winters flinched. Her face was white, her hands shaking. The woman didn't like any show of affection, Connie knew that. Still, she clasped Ms. Winters's shoulder. The instructor turned, surprised by the contact. When Connie witnessed the stark terror in her mentor's eyes, moved in even closer. Beth Winters was hurting. She looked at Connie with undiluted fear, then she turned back to the scene.
Connie didn't say anything but she left her hand where it was and watched the firefighters set up the well-known extrication tool, the Jaws of Life. In seconds, the men inserted the tool in the jamb in the driver's side and pried open the door. With another tool—a ram—they jimmied the roof. The ambulance crew behind the two firefighters passed the rescuers a neck brace and readied the backboard. Connie only half watched as they secured the patient, eased her out and settled her onto a stretcher. O'Roarke was still in the back seat. Now Ms. Winters trembled all over.
A cheer went up from the recruits. The victim was alive. Thank God.
A rumbling noise from the site of the crash.
The car shifted.
And the roof caved in.
Instructor Winters moaned and clapped a hand to her mouth in horror. Connie blinked back tears. Lieutenant O'Roarke was trapped inside.
"Get him out of there!" Ace Durwin said under his breath. The other recruits, except Cleary, remained rooted to the ground. The cold November wind whipped around them as they battled their emotions.
Once the elderly patient had been wheeled away, they all held their collective breath. The expert firefighters stabilized the station wagon with more chocks, then one guy ducked his upper body into the back seat.
"I need the smallest ram," he yelled back.
A burly firefighter handed it to him.
Precious seconds ticked by, and Ace knew each one did not bode well for O’Roarke. Finally, the firefighter eased his head and torso out of the car and backed up. Arms outstretched, he had O'Roarke's under the armpits and dragged the lieutenant away from the vehicle and onto the ground. At first Ace wondered why the team hadn't braced him as they had the victim. Please, don't let him be dead.
Praying like he'd never prayed before, Ace watched as the firefighters formed a wall around their brother, making it impossible to see what was happening.
Then Ben Cordaro shouted, "He's alive."
The firefighters shifted, and Ace could finally see.
O'Roarke was sitting up on a blanket. His sleeve was ragged. A bruise darkened and swelled the side of his face. Several small cuts bled minimally.
Cordaro knelt, said something to O'Roarke, then stood and turned away. His hands were fisted and his jaw was tense. In a booming battalion chief voice for all to hear, Cordaro called over his shoulder, "Beth, get him inside and fix him up. Then let me at him. I'll have his ass for this."
Ace looked at the instructor.
Or to where she'd been standing. He scanned the area.
Beth Winters was gone.