Page 51 of Knotting the Firefighters
Getting there had required commandeering a horse from Cole's stable—Luna, a palomino mare who'd tolerated my rusty riding skills with admirable patience. Because Sweetwater Falls, in its infinite backwards wisdom, maintains horse-friendly infrastructure throughout downtown while treating automobiles like temporary inconvenience.
Small-town logic at its finest.
The ride had felt endless, Luna's hooves pounding against packed dirt roads, wind whipping past as I urged her faster, each second stretching like taffy while my imagination supplied increasingly horrific scenarios.
Wendy trapped again.
Wendy injured.
Wendy unconscious in another burning building while I'm too far away to help.
The explosion had been visible from a mile out—massive fireball erupting from the heritage building's roof, sendingdebris and smoke mushrooming skyward in ways that made my stomach drop to somewhere around my ankles.
She's in there.
She's definitely in there.
She ran into an exploding building because saving lives is more important than self-preservation.
Luna had taken the final stretch at full gallop, my barely-adequate horsemanship skills tested by speed and panic and the overwhelming need to reach Wendy before?—
Before what?
Before she dies?
Before I lose the only person who makes this isolated existence bearable?
The scene that greeted my arrival was organized chaos—fire trucks positioned with tactical precision, crews moving with coordination I hadn't witnessed from Sweetwater Falls' department ever, ambulances clustered at safe distance, police establishing perimeter while civilians huddled in shocked groups.
Professional.
Efficient.
Completely transformed from the disaster crew I'd witnessed during previous calls.
But none of that mattered because my entire focus narrowed to single point.
Wendolyn Murphy, emerging from smoke and flames like avenging angel, turnout gear covering her frame, small child secured protectively against her chest.
Alive.
Safe.
Impossibly, miraculously, infuriatingly safe.
Relief hit so hard it made my knees wobble, made Luna sidestep nervously beneath me, made the world tilt on its axiswhile my brain struggled to process that she was here, whole, breathing.
Then she started stripping.
Not completely—unfortunately—but enough that my body responded with enthusiasm completely inappropriate for emergency scene. The turnout coat fell open, revealing white tank top beneath that clung to every curve like second skin, soaked through with sweat that made the fabric translucent in places I absolutely shouldn't be noticing.
The suspenders holding up her turnout pants created striking visual—thick red straps against white cotton, emphasizing her waist, drawing attention to the way the oversized gear hung from her hips in ways that made my mouth water.
Focus, Hayes.
She's injured.
Again.
