Page 15 of The Fire Between Us

"I'm approaching from the main house," I inform him, already jogging across the yard. "Possible mother and infant inside."

I reach the cottage's small porch just as Grant rounds the corner. "Davidson? I thought you were with the primary victim."

"Lewis has her," I say shortly. "Let's clear this structure."

He nods, no further questions. Good man. We approach the front door together, and I try the handle—unlocked. I push it open, and we're immediately hit with a wave of smoke that's seeped in from outside.

"Fire department!" I call. "Anyone inside?"

For a moment, there's no answer, and relief begins to wash over me. Maybe Jennie and Amelia aren't here after all.

Then I hear it—a faint cough from somewhere inside.

"Jennie!" I shout, pushing forward. "Jennie, where are you?"

Another cough, followed by a weak voice. "Here—kitchen—"

Grant and I move quickly through the small living area toward the sound. The cottage's layout is simple—living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. The smoke isn't as thick as in the main house, but it's disorienting enough for someone without equipment.

We find her in the kitchen, on the floor near an open window she's clearly been trying to climb out of. She's conscious but struggling, her face streaked with soot, eyes red and watering.

"Jennie," I say, kneeling beside her. "It's Max. We're going to get you out."

Recognition flashes in her eyes. "Max," she gasps. "Amelia—"

"Where is she?" I ask urgently, scanning the room.

"Not—here," Jennie manages between coughs. "Mrs.—Gunderson—"

Relief floods through me so powerfully I almost sway. "She's with Mrs. G? She's safe?"

Jennie nods weakly.

"Victim located, conscious, no infant present," Grant radios to command. "Preparing for evacuation."

"Copy that," Brock replies, tension evident in his voice. "Get out of there now. Fire's extending toward the cottage roof."

I don't need the warning. I can hear the crackling of flames growing louder from the direction of the main house. The cottage won't stay safe for long.

"Can you walk?" I ask Jennie, already positioning myself to carry her if necessary.

She tries to stand but stumbles, light-headed from smoke inhalation. Without hesitation, I scoop her up in my arms, cradling her against my chest. She's lighter than I expected, barely a weight against my turnout gear.

"I've got her," I tell Grant. "Clear us a path."

He leads the way back through the living room to the front door. Outside, the situation has deteriorated—flames are now visible on the main house's roof, and embers are flying toward the cottage. Ollis has repositioned to protect the exposure, directing a hose stream between the structures.

I carry Jennie well clear of both buildings, heading straight for the paramedics stationed at the perimeter. Her arms are wrapped around my neck, her face pressed against my coat, and I can feel her breathing—too fast, too shallow.

"I need oxygen here!" I call as we approach the ambulance. The paramedics rush forward with a stretcher, and I gently lay Jennie down, reluctant to let her go.

"Smoke inhalation, possible five to ten minute exposure," I report as they place an oxygen mask over her face. "No visible burns, but she was getting disoriented."

One of the paramedics—Sarah, who I've worked with dozens of times—nods sharply. "We've got her, Max."

I step back, suddenly aware that I've gone completely off-protocol. Brock is striding toward me, his expression thunderous beneath his helmet.

"Davidson! What the hell was that?" he demands. "I ordered you to focus on your primary victim!"

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