Free A Bridge to Love by Nancy Herkness Page B

story.
    She
looked at the clock and said, “Time to do your reading. Go upstairs. I'll call
you if the oil tanks come back on.”
    Clay
and Patrick grumbled and dragged their feet as they trudged upstairs.
    Kate
was amazed by the weight of her concern for Randall Johnson. She had wanted to
scream at him to stop as he dashed into the flames. Evidently physical
intimacy, even with a virtual stranger, created ties she hadn't been aware of.
    Kate
called the boys when the news was back to the aerial view of the fire. All
three Chiltons were glued to the television as the camera cut back to the
reporter standing on the ground. “Just moments ago, a team of firefighters
returned from a rescue expedition carrying the two missing employees. The
unconscious men were whisked away in the RJ Enterprises helicopter, presumably
to a nearby hospital. Sources report that the tank feeds have been closed and
that the fires will soon be under control. Right now it's still a spectacular
sight as these flames leap hundreds of feet into the sky.”
    Kate
had stopped listening as she searched the group of rescuers milling around
behind the reporter. She watched two of them sit down on the side step of a
fire truck with their elbows resting on their knees and their heads dropped
forward. A medical worker rushed up to them but one lifted his head and waved
him off. Kate let out her breath. “That's Mr. Johnson sitting on the fire
truck,” she said to the boys.
    “He
looks tired,” Patrick said.
    “I'm
sure he's not used to rescuing people from burning oil tanks. It probably takes
a lot out of you. Now upstairs and to bed.”
    Once
they were settled, she pulled open the cutlery drawer.
    The
paper with Randall Johnson's private number on it lay just where she had put it
earlier.
    “Damn!
How can I not call a man who just risked his life on television? He won't be
there now so... so I won't have to talk to him. I'll just leave a polite
message. That's the decent thing to do,” she rationalized out loud, as she
picked up the paper and punched the number into her telephone. She heard two
rings and then the Texas drawl: “I can't take your call now. Leave a message
after the beep.” It was so typical of him not to identify himself on his
answering service.
    The
phone beep sounded. “Hello, Randall. It's Kate Chilton. I saw your oil tanks
burning on television. I just wanted to make sure that you were all right after
your dash into the flames. I hope that everything is under control now. Good
night.”

    The
telephone rang. Kate propped herself up on her elbows and peered at the
illuminated numbers on her clock: 3:45 A.M. Still half asleep, she picked up
the receiver quickly before it could wake the boys. “Hello,” she rasped,
wondering if this was a wrong number or a crank call.
    “Thanks
for the message, Kate.”
    Her
eyes flew open as she recognized Randall Johnson's voice. In the darkness, it
seemed as though it was coming from the pillow beside her, and she found
herself suddenly aware of every place where the sheets touched her skin. She
clicked on the bedside lamp. “Are you all right? I saw you sitting on the fire
engine, looking totally exhausted.”
    “I'm
exhausted, I'm filthy and I smell like burning petroleum, but I'm fine.”
    Kate
could hear the fatigue in his voice. “You sound hoarse.”
    “I
breathed in more smoke than I should have, but all I really need is a shower
and some sleep. Will you come scrub my back for me? I'm too tired to do it
myself.”
    Kate
chuckled. “Now I know you're fine.” Then she said seriously, “I'm so sorry
about the damage. Is your loss very severe?”
    His
voice changed. “We'll do an assessment tomorrow but the facility is insured.
I'm more interested in what caused the fire.”
    “I
assume that it was an accident?”
    “It
takes a hell of an accident for two tanks to burst into flames at the same
time.”
    “So
you think that someone set the fires?” Kate was appalled.
    She
could