Page 19 of The Fire Between Us

I blink slowly, the white ceiling tiles coming into focus as my confusion recedes. Hospital. I'm in a hospital.

"—just tired, sweetheart. Mommy's sleeping." Mrs. Gunderson's gentle voice filters through my grogginess, followed by a familiar babble that sends a jolt of alertness through me.

Amelia.

I turn my head toward the sound, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. There they are—Mrs. Gunderson sitting in a visitor's chair by the window, Amelia on her lap, tiny hands reaching out toward me.

"Mama!" Amelia calls, her voice bringing immediate tears to my eyes. "Mama up!"

"I'm up, baby," I manage to say, my voice a hoarse whisper. "I'm up."

Mrs. Gunderson's face brightens. "Oh, thank goodness! You've been sleeping for hours, dear. How are you feeling?"

I take inventory—sore throat, mild headache, slight dizziness, but overall, much better than I expected.

"I'm okay," I answer, already pushing myself to sit up. "What time is it?"

"Just after nine in the evening," Mrs. Gunderson replies, rising with Amelia in her arms. "The doctor said you're doing well. The oxygen treatment helped considerably."

As she brings Amelia to my bedside, memories crash back—the cottage, the smoke, trying to get out through the window as my vision blurred. And then...Max. Max bursting through the smoke like some kind of mythical being, scooping me up and carrying me to safety.

"Mama!" Amelia demands again, leaning precariously from Mrs. Gunderson's arms. I reach out, and Mrs. Gunderson carefully transfers her onto the hospital bed beside me.

I pull my daughter close, burying my face in her soft hair, breathing in her baby shampoo scent. She squirms impatiently, placing her small hands on my cheeks as if checking that I'm really there.

"I'm okay, Amelia-bean," I whisper, kissing her forehead. "I'm okay."

"She's been very good," Mrs. Gunderson tells me, settling back into her chair. "We made cookies, read stories, had a lovely dinner. She never showed any signs of distress, which is remarkable given the circumstances."

Thank God for small mercies. If Amelia had been with me at the cottage... I shut down that thought immediately, holding her tighter.

"Thank you for taking care of her," I say to Mrs. Gunderson. "And for bringing her here."

"Of course, dear," she replies warmly. "Max called me right after they took you to the hospital."

Max again. The man who'd broken protocol to come looking for me, if what I'd overheard the paramedics saying was correct. The man who might have risked his job—his safety—for someone he barely knows.

"Is he...okay?" I ask hesitantly. "Max, I mean. I remember him carrying me out, but it's hazy after that."

"He's fine," Mrs. Gunderson assures me. "Called me about an hour ago to check on you again. Said he'd injured his shoulder a bit, but nothing serious."

He was injured? Because of me? I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's pain, especially not someone who was just doing his job—even if he went above and beyond it.

"He shouldn't have—" I start, then stop myself. What exactly am I trying to say? That he shouldn't have saved me? That seems ungrateful at best, ridiculous at worst.

Mrs. Gunderson regards me with understanding. "Max has always been one to follow his instincts rather than rules when it really matters," she says. "Been that way since he was in my sophomore English class. Some things never change."

I adjust my position, letting Amelia sit more comfortably beside me. She's already exploring the hospital bed, fascinated by the buttons on the side rail.

"I barely know him," I murmur, more to myself than to Mrs. Gunderson. "Why would he risk himself like that?"

"Because that's who he is," she replies simply. "A good man who couldn't live with himself if he didn't try."

A knock at the door interrupts our conversation. Mrs. Gunderson and I look up, and my heart skips a beat.

Max stands in the doorway, wearing a tight black t-shirt that highlights his broad shoulders and athletic build. His dark hair is damp, as if recently showered, and there are shadows of fatigue under his eyes. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he looks impossibly attractive—and worried.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, his deep voice sending a shiver through me. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. Can I come in?"

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