Fade the Heat Read Online Free
to her since the horrible day he’d watched her dad die. But hearing the captain call her “Hurley” reminded Reagan that those days were gone forever—banished by far more than fear that the rest of the crew would accuse him of favoritism.
“I just had to pick up a few groceries,” she said quickly. Technically, while off sick, a firefighter was required to call the captain for permission to leave home. She’d often enough heard Rozinski complain that he had better things to do than play hall monitor to sick firefighters, but Reagan wondered if, in light of their recent disagreement, he would crack down on her today.
“So you weren’t at the doctor’s, hunting up a signature?”
“Uh, no. I already got that taken care of,” she lied, reasoning that by Thursday, when her crew returned for its next twenty-four-hour shift, she would have the issue covered.
“Really? Then you won’t mind dropping by the station with it this evening,” he suggested.
Cursing herself, Reagan wracked her brain for a suitable excuse. “I would,” she told him, her heart doing a quickstep in her chest, “but I had to take my car in to the shop. I accidentally left the form inside. And besides, I don’t have a ride right now.”
“So how’d you get your groceries?”
Suddenly sweating, she slipped off her jacket. He knew damned well she was lying. The question was, which of them would blink first?
“Peaches took me after we dropped off the car,” Reagan said, hoping the mention of her neighbor’s name would convince Rozinski to drop the subject. Though the captain had witnessed scores of gory accidents and gruesome deaths during his thirty-two years in the department, he lost all power of speech when it came to Reagan’s fun-loving neighbor.
Reagan supposed she should have warned the guys on her shift that despite her traffic-stopping curves, strawberry-blond bouffant, and world-class flirtingskills, Peaches had been born James Paul Tarleton of Amarillo. But only days before Peaches stopped by the station, Reagan’s co-workers had amused themselves on a frigid February night by encasing her Trans Am in ice, a mission they’d accomplished by repeatedly sneaking outdoors and misting it with a fire hose. They’d had a good laugh over the gag, but watching them make fools of themselves with Peaches had been worth every minute Reagan spent chipping and thawing her way into the car.
Despite her situation, the memory of their horrified reactions when they learned the truth about Peaches made Reagan grin.
“If you want,” she added, “I’ll give you Peaches’s number. She’ll be happy to confirm it, if she’s not out shooting pictures.” She waited, praying he would not want to risk the razzing he’d get if it got out that he had asked for Peaches’s number.
“I’m working a debit day on Monday,” Rozinski growled, referring to the extra shift each firefighter worked every three-and-a-half weeks. “Meet me here at the station at 0630—with the form and no excuses. Either that or I’ll assume you’re at the transfer office putting in for an ambulance position.”
He wanted her to return to her old station, where she would spend the better part of her career ferrying headaches, head colds, and head cases to emergency rooms because the patients lacked the insurance—or the good sense—to visit their own doctors. He’d been after her for months about it, since it became apparent that her “colds” were more than that. And last week, when she had coughed so hard she’d been unable to climb a smoke-charged stairwell with her usual seventy pounds of gear, he had finally shouted at her, “ Go home, Hurley. Go home ’til you can do the job, or damn it, don’t come back. ”
Stung by the demand that she transfer, Reagan lashed out like a wounded animal. “I joined this department to fight fires, like my dad. I’ve worked for years to get into suppression. I can handle it.”
He struck back with the
“I just had to pick up a few groceries,” she said quickly. Technically, while off sick, a firefighter was required to call the captain for permission to leave home. She’d often enough heard Rozinski complain that he had better things to do than play hall monitor to sick firefighters, but Reagan wondered if, in light of their recent disagreement, he would crack down on her today.
“So you weren’t at the doctor’s, hunting up a signature?”
“Uh, no. I already got that taken care of,” she lied, reasoning that by Thursday, when her crew returned for its next twenty-four-hour shift, she would have the issue covered.
“Really? Then you won’t mind dropping by the station with it this evening,” he suggested.
Cursing herself, Reagan wracked her brain for a suitable excuse. “I would,” she told him, her heart doing a quickstep in her chest, “but I had to take my car in to the shop. I accidentally left the form inside. And besides, I don’t have a ride right now.”
“So how’d you get your groceries?”
Suddenly sweating, she slipped off her jacket. He knew damned well she was lying. The question was, which of them would blink first?
“Peaches took me after we dropped off the car,” Reagan said, hoping the mention of her neighbor’s name would convince Rozinski to drop the subject. Though the captain had witnessed scores of gory accidents and gruesome deaths during his thirty-two years in the department, he lost all power of speech when it came to Reagan’s fun-loving neighbor.
Reagan supposed she should have warned the guys on her shift that despite her traffic-stopping curves, strawberry-blond bouffant, and world-class flirtingskills, Peaches had been born James Paul Tarleton of Amarillo. But only days before Peaches stopped by the station, Reagan’s co-workers had amused themselves on a frigid February night by encasing her Trans Am in ice, a mission they’d accomplished by repeatedly sneaking outdoors and misting it with a fire hose. They’d had a good laugh over the gag, but watching them make fools of themselves with Peaches had been worth every minute Reagan spent chipping and thawing her way into the car.
Despite her situation, the memory of their horrified reactions when they learned the truth about Peaches made Reagan grin.
“If you want,” she added, “I’ll give you Peaches’s number. She’ll be happy to confirm it, if she’s not out shooting pictures.” She waited, praying he would not want to risk the razzing he’d get if it got out that he had asked for Peaches’s number.
“I’m working a debit day on Monday,” Rozinski growled, referring to the extra shift each firefighter worked every three-and-a-half weeks. “Meet me here at the station at 0630—with the form and no excuses. Either that or I’ll assume you’re at the transfer office putting in for an ambulance position.”
He wanted her to return to her old station, where she would spend the better part of her career ferrying headaches, head colds, and head cases to emergency rooms because the patients lacked the insurance—or the good sense—to visit their own doctors. He’d been after her for months about it, since it became apparent that her “colds” were more than that. And last week, when she had coughed so hard she’d been unable to climb a smoke-charged stairwell with her usual seventy pounds of gear, he had finally shouted at her, “ Go home, Hurley. Go home ’til you can do the job, or damn it, don’t come back. ”
Stung by the demand that she transfer, Reagan lashed out like a wounded animal. “I joined this department to fight fires, like my dad. I’ve worked for years to get into suppression. I can handle it.”
He struck back with the
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