Free High Stakes Bride by Fiona Brand Page B

of the old place, Tom?”
    Coughing and clutching at his chest, Tom swung down from the tractor. “Someone has. Don’t know how a fire could start in the stables. There’s nothing in there.” Wiping at streaming eyes, he reached for one of several shovels lying in the bed of the trailer and passed one to Carter. “Damned if it’ll get the house, though—or start a bush fire.”
    â€œYou still got that floating pump?”
    â€œIt’s in the implement shed. I was going to get that next.”
    â€œI’ll get it. If we drop it in the stream behind your house, we’ll be able to spray down the back of the barn.” His gaze switched to Dani. “You help Tom wet down the house with the garden hose.” His meaning was clear: if they didn’t stop Tom, he would keep going back into the sheds to rescue items.
    Within minutes of locating the hose and directing a steady stream of water at the side of the house closest to the blaze, Dani heard a siren. Seconds later the fire truck pulled into the parking area in front of the barn, followed by two smaller trucks. From the logos on the vehicles, they were forestry crews driving “smoke chasers”—trucks with light appliances on the back that could go off road. When a fire was reported, not only the Fire Service but any company with a forestry interest within a certain radius were obliged to attend. In a rural community like Jackson’s Ridge the fire-response teams were finely tuned, and lately, with the tinder-dry weather, they’d had to be. It was in everyone’s best interests to get to a fire early.
    Within seconds a steady stream of water was being pumped into the heart of the fire. The garden hose now superfluous, Dani went to help Carter with the floating pump.
    Carter was thigh-deep in the stream, fastening the hose to the pump. The coupling secure, he backed out of the water. The pump was designed to float and suck water up from an intake at its base, which made it ideal as a portable fire-fighting tool, although it was of more use refilling the water tanks of fire appliances than for spraying the actual fire.
    Dani uncoiled the length of hose sitting at the top of the bank, laying it out in a straight line pointing directly at the back of the barn. Retracing her steps, she picked up the end of the hose and hauled it down the bank, slipping and sliding in the mud and shale. As she passed the metal coupling to Carter, her sleeve peeled back from the makeshift bandage.
    Carter’s attention shifted to her arm. The towel was soaked red in places.
    â€œWhat have you done to your wrist?”
    â€œIt’s just a scratch.”
    â€œNot with that much blood.” With deft movements, Carter checked that the coupling was locked on tight, waded into the middle of the stream and yanked the cord on the pump.
    Blue smoke filled the air. The racket of the pump made any further conversation impossible. Pulling her sleeve down to cover the bandage, Dani climbed out of the muddy stream, her boots squelching.
    One of the forestry crew was standing with the hose, legs braced as water fountained. Dani recognized the faces of the men helping: amongst them Walter Douglas and Jim McCarthy, both of whom had been volunteer firemen forever, and Athol Pike, the foreman for one of the major forestry companies. Her stomach automatically tensed when she recognized George Lynch, a regular holiday resident who owned a bach on the waterfront. He had been at the wheel of the furniture removal truck she had hit six years ago. Because the cab had been up so high, he’d only received minor injuries, but he’d still had to spend a night in the hospital.
    A dark-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt stood out from the ranks of fire fighters and forestry workers, all of whom were dressed in coveralls.
    The crumping sound of an explosion jerked Dani’s head around.
    Tom’s expression was stoic. “There goes