Page 22 of Knotting the Firefighters
I reach Juniper in six long strides, murmuring low reassurances that probably comfort me more than the horse. She's well-trained, though, standing rock-steady despite the chaos, letting me use her bulk as a windbreak while I assess our unconscious passenger.
The truck sits at an awkward diagonal, maybe twenty yards away, driver's door still hanging open like she'd abandoned it mid-thought. Smart positioning actually—far enough from the blaze to avoid immediate danger, close enough for quick access. Even panicked and rushing toward catastrophe, Chief Murphy'straining had maintained enough presence to ensure strategic parking.
Of course it did.
Because apparently, this woman makes a habit of running into burning buildings to rescue the helpless, consequences be damned.
I move quickly toward the vehicle, my longer stride eating up the distance while Juniper follows on instinct, reins trailing. The retriever lopes alongside, tongue lolling, but eyes never leaving the Omega I'm carrying like she's something precious and breakable.
I expected that after I cut the rope that it would scurry away to find its true honor, but I guess that wasn’t its current priority.
The ground rushes up as I kneel carefully, using my thighs to lower her with controlled precision onto relatively clean dirt. Her head lolls against my forearm, that riot of red hair spilling across the earth like spilled wine or autumn leaves or any other cliché my suddenly poetry-inclined brain wants to supply.
Breathing. Check if she's breathing.
Training kicks in with blessed clarity, cutting through the hormonal chaos her scent continues wreaking on my system. Two fingers to her carotid—pulse present, strong if slightly rapid. Chest rising and falling with reassuring regularity beneath the bundle of protesting kittens.
The relief hits so hard I have to brace my free hand against the ground, fingers digging into Montana soil with enough force to leave impressions. My breath escapes in a rush that sounds embarrassingly close to a sob, which is completely inappropriate for a fire captain who's supposed to maintain professional detachment in crisis situations.
But I've pulled too many people from flames who'd stopped breathing.
Hauled too many bodies that were already cooling, their last moments spent choking on smoke while I was still navigating burning hallways or fighting through collapsed doorways. The weight of those failures sits heavy enough on normal days—I don't need to add Chief Murphy's name to the mental roster of people I couldn't save in time.
Except Ididsave her.
She's breathing, alive, here.
The kittens' mewling intensifies, probably protesting the jostling or the temperature change or simply the general unfairness of being abandoned in a burning building. I carefully extract the bundle from her grip, noting the way even unconscious her fingers initially resist releasing their cargo, protective instinct transcending awareness.
Four tiny bodies tumble into my palm—calico, tabby, gray, and one pure black with white paws.
Maybe three weeks old based on the barely-open eyes and unsteady movements.
Someone's discarded inconvenience, left to burn because disposal is easier than responsibility.
The anger that surges is sharp enough to taste, metallic and bitter.
"Who does this?" The question emerges rougher than intended, directed at the universe rather than expecting answers. "Who abandons kittens in a structure fire?"
The retriever whines softly, nosing at Chief Murphy's shoulder with gentle insistence, and I realize the dog is probably tied to this story somehow. Left as bait, maybe, drawing attention to the blaze? Or genuinely abandoned alongside the cats by someone whose cruelty extends to multiple species?
Either scenario makes my jaw clench hard enough that my teeth ache.
I set the kittens aside carefully—they'll survive a few minutes of benign neglect while I ensure their rescuer doesn't require immediate medical intervention. My hands move with clinical efficiency, checking for obvious injuries, assessing the burn on her back that's already blistering through what's left of her dress.
Second degree at minimum, possibly third in places.
She'll need proper treatment, but nothing immediately life-threatening if we get her to medical facilities within the hour. The smoke inhalation concerns me more—her breathing remains steady but shallow, lungs probably screaming from the abuse, even if her unconscious brain hasn't registered the damage yet.
She ran into a burning building without gear.
Without backup.
Without anything except stubborn determination and a hero complex that apparently rivals my own.
The admiration mixed with my exasperation creates an uncomfortable cocktail of emotions I'm not remotely equipped to process while kneeling in dirt beside a woman who's systematically destroying my carefully maintained equilibrium.
Because this is Chief Murphy.
