Daire watched as Vince motored the rescue boat along Cook Inlet.
Summer had unofficially arrived in South-Central Alaska. Temps hovered close to seventy with the season change, even though white-capped mountains still bordered the 200-mile inlet that stretched from Anchorage to the Gulf of Alaska.
Daire was exhausted after his twenty-four-hour tour, but he couldn’t just sit around the house—thinking about her.
He’d tried to sleep beneath deck as they waited for a call, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the cold, blank way Silvia had glared at him—repeatedly. Her dark brown eyes had grown darker as the day progressed. Nothing he’d done on his first day with her was to her satisfaction.
“Ugh.” He grabbed the wooden dog attached to the wall and pulled himself out of the hull. “I hate her.”
Vince laughed. “Hate’s a strong word, kid. Is this her, whom you hate, the same woman you were professing love for last week?”
Daire rolled his eyes and hopped onto the pedestal seat opposite his brother. “Yeah, her. But to be honest, I couldn’t have really been in love with her, now could I? Other than a few beers—once—with other firefighters after our tour, we’ve never even gone out. And she…” He shivered internally as he thought about her cold scowl.
“Drives you crazy,” Vince finished.
“Yeah. That about sums it up.” Before he’d worked with Silvia, those dark eyes had been warm and inviting. At least, in his dreams, they had.
“I told you, kid. Women’ll kill ya! And they’ll take your last penny and clean pair of undershorts and run.”
Daire leaned back in the chair, pulling the rim of his hat low over his face. “Yeah, but it never stopped you from falling in love.”
“Damn straight. Nothing like loving a woman so much that she can break your heart.”
Pfft! “Not this heart. I gotta sleep, Vince. Before I know it, I’ll be back under her demanding gaze.”
“Tough break, kid!”
Daire stared up from beneath his cap. “Seriously, man. I’m twenty-three. How long you gonna call me kid?”
“Till you stop whining like a kid.”
Daire closed his eyes again. “With Sam always bitching at me and now Silvia, that could be a while.” He popped up in the chair. “Speaking of Sam… What the hell is his problem now? He’s been texting and calling me non-stop. He’s been cool since he settled down, but he’s fallen back into his old grouchy ways since Erik’s wedding. Is he mad because Erik and Kimi started up the horse ranch?”
Vince shrugged but said nothing, which was odd. Vince was the one person who could outtalk him.
“What’s up, Vince? Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”
“Who knows what goes on inside Sam’s head. You should call him, though.”
Daire chuckled. “I got too much on my mind to hear Sam tell me how I should be living my life. First, he wanted me to go off to college when I wanted to join the Midnight Sons. Then he complained he couldn’t afford an extra SAR team member. Then he got upset when I decided to become a firefighter paramedic full time. And I don’t know why he even complains. Nothing I do makes him happy. He didn’t do that to any of you.”
Vince looked out at the choppy water. “You’re our baby brother, Daire. No matter what, that’s never gonna change. When Dad died, you were just a child, so Sam felt he had to step up. Hell, I was still a kid myself. Sam’s done a great job; you need to give him a break.”
“Really? You’re gonna give me a hard time now, too?”
“I’m not giving you a hard time, Daire.” Vince’s tone was as sober as he’d ever heard it. Typically, nothing shook Vince’s good humor. Although separated by about seven years, Vince and he got along well and enjoyed hanging out together. “I’m just saying,” Vince continued, “that you need to give Sam a break.”
Daire blew out a breath through his nose and leaned back again. Maybe coming out today hadn’t been a good idea, but he knew Vince liked to have him for company whenever he could.
The radio crackled. “Midnight Sons Base to Midnight Sons Three.”
“Speak of the devil,” Vince said, his ordinarily chipper tone back to normal.
Daire popped up again, waving his hands. “Don’t tell Sam I’m here.”
Vince shook his head but clicked the handset. “Midnight Three.”
“You in the inlet, Vince?” No pleasantries. Sam was all-business—always.
“Affirmative!” Vince flashed Daire a wink and released the push-to-talk button. “Sam is a grouch, isn’t he? I don’t know how Nora stands him.”
Daire laughed. There was his pal Vince.
Sam offered the coordinates and rescue information and a few murmured tidbits Daire couldn’t make out over the wind. But Vince nodded along to everything Sam said.
“Copy,” Vince offered, then replaced the handheld mic. “Looks like we’re gonna have fun after all.”
Intrigued, anything to keep his mind occupied on something other than Sam or Silvia, Daire hopped up, ready to work. “Whatta we got?”
“Seems we got a boatful of young ladies who got themselves into a mess.”
Daire nodded and geared up, pulling on his dry suit. Cook Inlet water rescues could get cold and wet quickly.
Back at the firehouse for ten hours, and Silvia had run Daire ragged.
Since they hadn’t received any emergency calls, Silvia had him clean every inch of the ambulance, even down to the last crevice, with Q-Tips. Then he’d swept, dusted, and scrubbed the floors and walls around the rig and other parts of the station house.
And he’d thought Sam was a tyrant.
Now it was his night to cook. Well, he could be thankful to Sam for that lesson anyway. His eldest brother had taught him how to easily feed a large family. Before his brothers all got married and moved out, they had to cook one night a week. Daire just needed to double what he used to make for his brothers and mother.
Silvia walked in as he stuffed another taco shell with a mixture of sauteed chicken. She stared down at what he was doing, then crinkled her nose. “I thought you were making enchiladas.”
Daire held up one of his latex-covered hands. “Hey, lady! Your job is to tell me what to do out there. In the kitchen, I’m allowed to do things my way. And I am making enchiladas.”
“With taco shells? Where I come from, you do things right, or you don’t do them at all. FYI, enchiladas are made with corn tortillas that you roll up.”
Daire shook his head and went back to stuffing the corn shells. “Where you come from? You come from L.A., right? Since when does L.A. hold the market on proper enchilada preparation?”
She bit down on her lip and waved a dainty hand. “You’re right. Not my business.”
Daire cleared his throat. “It’s easier, okay? I can never get the corn shells to roll up and stay put, and they come out tough sometimes. Sam showed me this trick. It’s still corn, right? They’re just pre-fried. And look how easy.” He held up one of the stand-up taco shells, stuffed it with the shredded chicken, then plopped it onto the baking pan. “See. Now I just smother it with sauce and cheese. Mexican rice and beans on the side, and voila, dinner’s served.”
Silvia lifted her head, her tiny nose crinkling again. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. After you finish, I need you in the bay. We’re going to run some drills.”
Daire watched as she turned and walked off, disappearing around the wall.
“Drills,” he grumbled beneath his breath. “I’d actually look forward to some drills. But you’ll probably have me scrub the tile in the bathrooms with a toothbrush.”
Silvia popped her head back around the wall. “Keep bitchin’, probie, and I might do just that.”
Daire flicked the contents of the spoon in her direction.
She ducked around the wall before it hit her, then poked her head back up. “Now you have to clean up that mess.”
He couldn’t help but notice that Silvia had said the last words with a smile. She hardly ever smiled, but it made her look utterly cute when she did. So cute, he forgot she was his supervisor. Instead, his mind conjured images of him rescuing her and her being ever so grateful.
Not that she needed rescuing. As tiny as she was, the woman was a ball-buster.
What was it he fell in love with again? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he was. Maybe it was just lust. Perhaps if he got below her rough exterior, he’d realize she was nothing spectacular. But, man, oh man, he wanted to break through that tough outer shell.
Definitely not how he should be thinking about the woman who was making his life a living hell.
He finished stuffing the last shell, covered both baking pans full of stuffed tacos with red sauce, then sprinkled cheese over all except half of one pan. That left half a pan for the lactose intolerants in the group.
He stripped off the plastic gloves, then tossed the pans into the oven, set the Instant Pot on high for fifteen minutes, and the beans on the stove to low.
Finished, he set out to find Czar Silvia.
“Not bad, probie!” Silvia said as she gobbled down the last bite of chicken enchiladas. “Now, we have more scenarios to go over.”
Daire stared at her. There was no sense in questioning the woman. Her wish was his command—literally. LT had made it clear that the two of them would stay on ambulance duty until he deemed him ready. He never thought he’d miss Ivan the Terrible. He did, however, say a quick prayer for a call. Not a five-alarm call. Just something that would get him out of the station. Before dinner, Silvia had him fully equipped and running up and down stairs until he could barely feel his legs. The exercise was mindless since Ivan had already spent a year drilling him.
The buzzer sounded.
Aww yeah.
Lights lit up blue over the door frame and on the ceiling. The electronic voice belted out: “Medic.”
“That’s us!” Daire said before Silvia had a chance. He pushed his plate aside and was on his feet, heading to his gear in seconds, Silvia on his six.
Geared up, Daire hopped into the driver’s seat of their rig, and Silvia stepped inside two seconds later. He thought about teasing her that he’d beat her to the punch, but he needed to earn all the positive points he could with her.
Silvia pulled on her headset and fired up the tablet. She read out the address, then pointed south. “Do…mes…tic,” she said, her voice cracking as if she hadn’t spoken all day when, in fact, she hadn’t stopped ordering him around. “Police are already on scene.”
Since she didn’t call for sirens, Daire flipped on just the emergency lights, watching all the side streets as he tore down the road.
Silvia tapped her fingers against the door, seemingly anxious to get to the scene. On all the calls he’d been with her, she never came off as nervous. She craned her head, trying to get a visual before they even arrived.
Daire approached the long rectangular building, which looked more like a cheap hotel that Norman Bates might oversee than livable apartments. He inched the LSV past several patrol cars parked alongside the road as an officer waved him into a dirt parking area.
Sparse patches of green grass ran parallel between the rear of the parking area and a swath of trees. Plastic children’s toys, including a miniature slide, littered the area. Even though it was summer, the few kids Daire saw weren’t playing. Instead, the little boys and girls hovered behind their guardians. Their tiny hands gripped pantlegs, and their wide eyes searched for danger.
Silvia removed her headset, grabbed the med bag, and hopped out before the rig stopped moving. Daire smacked the shifter into park and raced to catch up with her.
As Daire rounded the ambulance, he saw a woman sitting on the dirt, her head resting on her knees. A strip of thin white gauze circled her head, the wound already bleeding through. Not too unusual that she’d already received first aid. Police often carried medical supplies.
A female police officer stood beside the woman. Behind them, several male officers encircled a shirtless man standing just under a rickety excuse for a porch that spanned the six residences.
Silvia knelt down beside the injured woman but looked up at the officer for information. “What happened?”
Daire squatted next to Silvia, waiting for her direction.
The officer pointed to the woman’s head. “She had a deep gash in her forehead that couldn’t wait. She says she fell, but the neighbor who called 9-1-1 said she and her man were fighting. Again.”
The woman on the ground lifted her head in the officer’s direction long enough to whimper, “I’m…fine.” Then her head lumbered back to her knees.
“Can you look up for me?” Silvia asked.
The woman tried to lift her head, but it lolled just above her knees, then swayed back and forth.
“Ma’am, can you tell me your name?” Silvia coaxed.
“Ja…ness…a,” she slurred against her ripped jeans.
“Have you been drinking, Janessa, or have you taken anything I should know about?” Silvia reached for the woman’s right wrist. “Can you hold your head up so I can see your eyes?”
The woman raised her head again, and Daire held back a gasp. Not that he wasn’t accustomed to blood and gore, but he hated seeing a woman who’d clearly been beaten up. Blood trickled from beneath the head bandage, and her lips were busted up bad. Both eyes were blooming different colors. Definitely not a fall.
“Ma’am,” Silvia said again. “We need to check you out inside the ambulance. Can you stand?”
“She’s fine,” shouted the man standing with the other police officers. “She just had too much to drink and fell.”
Silvia reached for the woman’s other hand. “Let’s get you checked out.”
The woman jerked back. “I don—I don’t wanna…go…an…where.”
“It’s okay,” Silvia said, her voice low and calm as if speaking to a child. “We don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll take care of you inside the ambulance, okay? I just want to check your wounds, okay?”
“She’s fine!” the man shouted again.
Silvia glared at the police officers, then the man. “I’m sure she is. I just need to make sure.” Silvia nodded to Daire and reached for the woman’s left hand and waist.
Daire followed suit, taking the woman’s other hand.
“Janessa, just stand with me, okay?” Silvia placed her free hand beneath the woman’s elbow, and Daire copied her motions.
Janessa stood but moaned in the process.
“Good,” Silvia cooed. “Right this way, okay? Just walk with me.”
“I don’ wanna…go an…where,” the woman repeated.
“At the moment, we’re just going to check you out,” Silvia assured her. “As long as you’re fine, we don’t have to go anywhere.”
At the back of the ambulance, Silvia and Daire tried to help the woman up, but she gasped in response. Daire didn’t need any help. Although Janessa was tall—five-eight, he’d guess—she probably weighed twenty pounds less than Silvia. Janessa was an absolute stick. Definitely a tweaker.
Daire motioned with his hands that he could pick her up, looking to Silvia for the okay. She nodded and mouthed: Carefully, then hopped up into the rig.
Daire placed his hands beneath Janessa’s armpits and lifted her inside the ambulance.
Silvia helped Janessa to the cot, then looked into her eyes. “Have you been drinking, Janessa?”
“A li’l bit.”
“How did you get hurt?”
“I don’ know.”
“These injuries look pretty bad. Are you sure someone didn’t hit you?”
“I…fell.”
Silvia sighed. “Janessa, if you let me, I can help you—”
“Stop…asking…me. I fell.”
“I understand,” Silvia said, then continued her examination. The woman gasped when Silvia touched her ribcage. “You may have a broken rib, Janessa.”
The woman groaned, then her head fell to the side, eyes closing.
“And she just passed out,” Silvia said. “Time to go. It’s no longer her decision.”
Daire hopped down from the back, closed the doors, then jogged toward the driver’s door.
“Hey!” yelled the shirtless man. “I said she’s fine.”
Daire motioned to the cop who’d been beside them. “Janessa just passed out, and she may have a few broken ribs. She definitely didn’t fall down the stairs.”
The officer nodded and walked back toward the boisterous man. Apparently, without Janessa’s confession, they weren’t going to arrest the man for abuse, but they could damn sure hold him.
“Stop!” the man yelled again and made as if he were going to charge Daire.
When one of the officers reached to detain the man, the loser elbowed the officer, busting his lip.
“Well,” Daire called as he hopped back inside the rig, “looks like her partner’s heading for jail for assaulting an officer.”
Janessa groaned, and Silvia soothed her. “We got you, Janessa. He won’t hurt you again…tonight.”
As Daire drove, he listened to Silvia speak softly to Janessa, even though he was confident the woman was still out of it. He couldn’t make out all the words, but Silvia talked to Janessa as if they were friends. As if she knew this wasn’t the first time the man had beaten her up.
~ Silvia ~
Two domestic calls in the same night. Who did I tick off?
Because of her desperate need to help women suffering from domestic abuse, she’d chosen a career as a paramedic. Still, she hated witnessing the hopelessness and terror women went through. Especially when they had to choose between getting medical help or facing their spouse’s wrath when they returned home. She hated that ninety-nine percent of the time, all she could do was offer the women a metaphorical band-aid for an internally bleeding wound that would eventually kill them.
She also hated if her team had to wait to enter a residence because the police hadn’t arrived. She’d learned the hard way why her supervisors enforced that protocol, though.
An abusing spouse’s greatest fear wasn’t for the safety of their injured partner but that they weren’t caught.
Not a year into her new career, when she’d been a probie herself, she’d received a glass liquor bottle to the back of her skull when she leaned down to check for a pulse. Since then, Silvia had learned that no matter the situation on a domestic call, she always made sure that police officers were on-scene.
As Daire drove the long brick driveway, passing the patrol cars, Silvia stared up at the deep green wood siding, clearly painted to blend in with the surrounding woods. The picturesque house with the redwood deck and three-car garage trimmed with stone sat on more than an acre of property hedged by beautiful quaking aspen. The wind rustling through the leaves should have felt calming. Silvia only thought about how far the residence was from the neighbors, which meant no 9-1-1 calls ensued because of screaming or slamming doors.
Close to a million-dollar difference in housing value between the last residence and this one, and yet it was the same scene—more or less. This time, though, the husband had called 9-1-1 when the situation had gotten out of hand. His wife had apparently drunk too much and then fell down the stairs. Always, she groaned internally. The lie was always that the wife or child had fallen. After all, what else could explain multiple contusions and broken limbs and ribs?
As Silvia stepped through the doorway, she eyed the two-level staircase. Not very far to fall. Carpeted. Wide and flat. Possible, but doubtful the woman had fallen based on the officer’s account of the patient’s injuries.
Silvia walked toward the living area to the right of the foyer. Her patient sat on the coffee table. Her husband stood over her, hand on her shoulder.
Support or control? Silvia hated making assumptions, but the husband or boyfriend was usually the guilty party in most of her domestic calls.
The house was lush and immaculate. Pristine wood floors. Fifty-five-inch flat screen. A plush sectional sofa—probably full-grain leather—would seat twelve or more people. Wide and thick ornate-wood-framed outdoorsy prints of moose and bear. Cute, cabin-like, and yet, elegant and costly. More than likely, a summer home of a well-to-do executive.
Silvia’s eyes fell on the glossy wood bar at the back of the room, complete with a granite top, wraparound armrest, and even a brass footrest. Rows of whiskey, vodka, rum bottles, and even a built-in beer tap took up the entire wall.
Alcohol always seemed to be the common denominator for domestic calls. It seemed too-much alcohol paved the way for most marital or family disputes.
Had the wife not cleaned something to his liking? Turned off a game he was watching? Or had she confronted a cheating spouse?
Silvia inhaled deeply and approached the woman whose right arm rested limply in her lap.
The man could blame her injuries on falling down the stairs all he wanted. He couldn’t explain the red welts circling the woman’s upper arm. Had he pulled the damn thing out of joint when he’d screamed something akin to: Don’t walk away from me?
Pushing aside her pre-conceived assumptions the best she could, Silvia approached the woman. “Ma’am, can you stand, or would you like me to bring a stretcher? That arm is going to need attention.”
The woman looked up at Silvia, fear evident in her ebony eyes.
“It’s okay,” Silvia said with a small forced smile. “I’ll take care of you.” She extended her hand, and the woman reached for her. Silvia always did everything possible to get a battered spouse away from their partner before asking personal questions or administering care.
“Excuse me,” the man said, all dignified in his button-down oxford and pressed khakis. “How do you know she needs medical treatment? My wife said she just sprained her arm when she fell.”
“It’s my job to know.” As much as Silvia wanted to point out the red welts, she held her tongue. She just needed to get the woman to somewhere she felt safe.
The man snorted. “You’re a paramedic; you didn’t go to medical school. You can check her out here.”
Unlike their earlier calls, when Daire had stayed at her eight o’clock, this time he stepped just slightly in front of her. “You would rather someone who didn’t go to medical school working on your wife here?”
“Well…umm…” the man stuttered.
“It’s okay, Anthony,” the woman said as she stood and stumbled next to Silvia. “I think my arm does need attention.”
Her husband stepped forward. “Well, I’ll go in the ambulance with you, then.”
Daire impeded his path. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s against regulations. And we can’t have anything interfering with your wife getting the best possible medical treatment, can we?”
Silvia bit down on her bottom lip to hold back a smile. Too often, her superiors accused her of getting too personal. It seemed Daire understood what was going on, too. Well, that was something to respect in the probie.
The officer casually moved next to Daire. “Gentlemen,” she said, and both Daire and the man stepped apart.
Silvia took the opportunity to escort the woman to the ambulance. “Your arm does need medical attention, so I recommend that we head straight to the ER. What’s your name?”
“Katrina. Katrina Marrs.”
Daire popped his head into the back. “ER?”
Silvia nodded and turned back to Katrina. “Is this the first time?”
Katrina didn’t utter a word, just nodded as a tear slipped down her cheek. Based on her impeccable face, it was the first tear she’d shed this evening. Like many women, it appeared she’d gotten used to the pain. Her tears weren’t for her pain; they were for what she knew had to come next.
Silvia knew that these soft tears—not wails—were her chance to help an abused woman. She’d seen it enough times. At this point, a victim had given up, meaning she might be open to help, or she was ready to end the pain herself. Silvia had researched all her domestic calls, looking for the common denominators, the clues she needed to fulfill her ultimate purpose. Too many women who’d reached this point had either gone home and taken out their oppressor or, worse, committed suicide. Either choice was a death blow, leaving a path of destruction for the woman and her loved ones.
This is when Silvia knew she could—had to—step in…before the violence ended a woman’s life. “I can help if you’ll allow me.”
Katrina’s eyes flicked to the driver’s door as it opened.
Daire hopped in and backed up the ambulance, then made a three-point turn. He lifted the radio and called the hospital, notifying them of their patient and ETA.
On the road, the house long behind them, Katrina rested her usable hand on Silvia’s knee. “Yes, I need help. I wasn’t drinking tonight; my husband was. We’ve only been married a few years, and his drinking has progressively gotten worse and, with it—” She choked on her words. “He—I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me, but…” She blinked the tears out of her eyes. “I can’t allow him to hurt me again.”
Silvia nodded and pulled out her phone. She waited for her friend to pick up, then said, “It’s me. Can you meet a new friend of mine, Katrina Marrs, at Mat-Su Regional?”
“Of course, Silvia,” Jean said. “Give me ten minutes.”
Back at the station and with her mind slightly clear because of Katrina’s willingness to seek help, Silvia now thought about her own circumstances. She rarely slipped up, and yet, she had.
Over stupid enchiladas of all things.
She’d stayed beneath the radar for eight years because she always stuck to her rule—no personal relationships.
When you put your life on the line for your coworkers and vice versa, you inevitably grow strong relationships. Sheer time together and circumstances made you family. But that was all she ever allowed—brotherly and sisterly love. The bonds she’d created with her firefighter comrades had made it easy—well, easier—not to think about all she’d left behind.
Until Daire came into her life.
In the last year, he’d driven her crazy. She disliked everything about him. Or did she? Was it her attraction to him that made her find fault?
She’d let down her guard for the first time, teasing him the way she teased all her brothers—the way they teased her, and yet, with Daire, she’d revealed something from her past.
One of the first things she’d learned as a firefighter—perhaps even more critical than firefighting itself—was not to get offended. Firefighters were often childlike in their teasing, playing pranks and making up names for one another. Often, it felt like kindergarten all over again. But it was a necessity, she realized. A way to blow off steam. A way to push aside the horrors they witnessed on a near-daily basis. Few jobs require that you live and work together for twenty-four hours at a time. Hell, few relationships spent twenty-four hours together in a week.
Even when her father lived with her family, she was lucky to see him for an hour or two, from when he came home to when she went to bed. And then he’d be off to work before she woke up.
Still, even with all the fun and teasing, Silvia had never revealed anything from her previous life.
Until Daire ended up on her tour.
“Enchiladas,” she grumbled under her breath. “As if I’m the authority in cooking. I don’t even like to cook.”
Why had a stupid act of Daire preparing enchiladas pushed her to make a significant snafu, which might have him questioning where she was from?
She knew why. Deep down, she knew what had upset her so much.
Enchiladas reminded her of home… Of her abuela preparing them. Of a time when she had zero worries. Before she’d become a rebellious teenager. Before her rebellion had created a terrifying existence. She missed her childhood home.
Not the fake home she’d described in L.A., but her real home in Arizona.
Even though Silvia had been born in Phoenix, her mother and abuela had been from Central America.
Silvia closed her eyes and pictured her abuela’s golden-brown wizened hands as she held her tiny hands, showing her how to make the tortillas they would eat for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even dessert. She loved spending her days with her abuela while her mother worked. Her abuela would spend hours smacking her hands back and forth, never even paying attention. She made hundreds a day while watching her telenovelas. Her abuela’s one-bedroom house always had a wood fire blazing, even when it was a hundred degrees in the shade. And Spanish daytime drama flowed from the old console television that looked like a piece of furniture more than an electronic device.
Silvia had played off Daire’s remark about L.A., but now, she realized how stupid she was to think she could interact with him at all. One comment about enchiladas had gotten him questioning her home in California. Even though he probably hadn’t thought about his question once since he’d asked it, it proved what she’d known for the last eight years. Anyone would easily see through the paper walls she’d built around her new life if she let down her guard. If Daire questioned the simple truth of where she was from because of enchiladas, what would he doubt next?
She couldn’t allow that. She couldn’t take a chance that anything would lead to her past—to the far from over nightmare that would never be over.