Free Hearts on Fire by Bree Roberts Page A

slapped against her hip with the tick-tick-tick of a clock that was running out of time.
    “I found the baby,” she shouted into her radio. Her voice sounded shrill to her own ears. “It’s unconscious. Be ready.”
    The crash of a collapsing ceiling joist whooshed behind her, missing her helmet by three inches but snagging the air tank strapped to her back. Surprise clouded her face as she found herself falling backwards onto the burning pile of rubble. A tingle of pain skittered through her back, but she ignored it; the thought of her oxygen tank sitting on a pile of burning debris was the bigger concern. Panicked thoughts swam through her head but years of training took over and her body twitched instinctively into action. She tried to scramble to her feet but the tank was caught on something.
    With one hand grasping the baby, the other unhooked the strap that secured the tank to her back and she slid out of it, but in the process her mask, still attached to the tank, was ripped from her face, dislodging her helmet. Jess gasped in surprise, drawing in a breath of the acrid black smoke. Immediately her lungs screamed for fresh air as intense heat slapped her in the face. Struggling to hold her breath and cling to the baby, her eyes, now blind by the sting of smoke, squeezed themselves shut in protest and involuntary tears leaked down her face.
    Jess felt along the hallway toward what she hoped was the front door. The smoke was so thick, visibility had degraded to a mere half a foot. Ahead she could see the door through squinted eyes, Chief Clay standing there like a lighthouse beacon, his arms outstretched, waving her urgently on. She couldn’t tell through his mask if the look in his eyes was concern or anger. Likely both.
    Chief Clay grabbed the bundle from her arms and sprinted from the burning building. Jess’s gear slowed her up but she managed to stumble away too, other arms pulling her along in her blindness just moments before a flashover blew through.
    Hands of other firefighters were slapping her back in triumph as another was holding an oxygen mask to her face. She looked around for the baby, but it was already being loaded into a waiting ambulance to be whisked away to the hospital.
    “Was the baby alive?” was all Jess could croak out as she stripped off her baclava and wiped sweat from her brow. A long, honey-blond braid curled around her head like a turban, stray wisps sticking to her damp skin around the edges of her concerned face. Grabbing a bottle of water someone offered her, she took a long, cool drink.
    The Chief shook his head. “I handed it off immediately, so I don’t know.” He turned to face Jess, placing his hands on her shoulders, his disapproving stare boring into her eyes. “Next time I give you an order, you follow it. Understood?”
    Jess grinned wickedly. “Hell no.”
     
    Jess washed away the last of the smoke and smudge, tugging on a blue V-neck sweater and jeans. She combed her fingers through her wet hair, gave it a quick tousle, and slammed her locker door shut. As she exited the locker room, she stopped short and all color leached out of her face.
    He was standing there in Chief Clay’s office like a bronzed god, wearing a T-shirt bearing the word “Hotshots” that stretched tight over the expanse of his chest and hugged the rippling muscles of his arms. Except that his body was more chiseled, he looked exactly as he had one year ago. The surprise on her face was quickly replaced with ire as she hissed in a breath, her eyes narrowing, the glowering ice-blue of her irises shooting daggers toward the man who had not yet seen her.
    A memory flashed through her mind of the last time she’d seen him, nearly one year before. At six-two, he’d towered over her five-four frame, his chestnut brown hair perpetually mussed, five o’clock shadow forever present. It had been Valentine’s Day, and he was standing right there outside that same office, telling her goodbye, that