minutes or less. Are ambulances started?”
The affirmative response gave him little comfort. Their small, local landing strip was located several miles outside town. If anyone had been in close proximity to an explosion violent enough to be felt this strongly at his fire station, they were going to need the coroner, not ambulances and EMTs.
Running, he grabbed his turnout coat, squashed his red captain’s helmet over tousled, sandy-blond hair and jumped aboard the first engine out the door.
There was a bright, shimmering glow in the night sky as the driver headed west. Something had not simply blown up, it was also burning. Mitch gritted his teeth. There was only so much they could do to preserve life and property, no matter how state-of-the-art their equipment might be, and Serenity Fire Department was always struggling to keep up with new technology for both firefighting and medical aid calls.
“Was it a plane crash?” the driver shouted.
“Don’t know.” Mitch’s heart was in his throat. “If it was, I sure hope they missed the industrial buildings out that way.”
“I wonder. Looks like a lot of fire for one small plane.”
“Yeah,” Mitch replied, releasing his breath in a whoosh. “It sure does.”
Siren blaring, lights flashing, the engine slued around the last corner that brought them face to face with the conflagration.
Mitch’s spirits sank like a stone in a bottomless lake. He could see the unscathed, white-enameled roof of the Pearson Products warehouse. However, part of the manufacturing building next to it was engulfed in flames and it looked as if that fire was about to spread to the attached, single-family dwelling—if it hadn’t already breached the common wall.
Acting from years of training and experience, he shoved his personal dread aside and raised his radio. “Engine three on scene. One industrial building on fire. Other structures threatened.”
As the first officer to arrive, Mitch was automatically in charge. “Engine two, follow me in. Engine one, lay a hose line and cover the rear.”
“Engine two, copy.”
“One copy.”
“Chief,” Mitch added, hoping and praying he’d get a quick answer, “are you responding?”
“Affirmative,” Jim Longstreet replied. “I’m right behind you. ETA less than one.”
“Be advised, we’ve got a rescue operation. Will you assume command?”
“Just pulling in now. I’ll take over.”
Tamping down the fear of what they might find if they were already too late, Mitch broadcast, “Thanks. A family of five lives here. We’ll lay a safety line and make access.”
“They got kids in there?” the engineer beside him shouted above the howling of the engine’s siren.
“Yes,” Mitch replied. “Three.”
Jill Kirkpatrick had formed the habit of monitoring local police and fire calls. It gave her more peace of mind when she knew what was going on in the country surrounding her isolated farmhouse, especially after dark.
Besides, she admitted to herself with a smile, she often listened in order to keep close tabs on Mitch Andrews. He was a very special person, the first and best friend she’d made in Serenity. They’d met when his fire department rescue squad had responded to the call for medical assistance after her husband’s fatal accident, and Mitch had remained her anchor in the stormy days that had followed.
Being new in town and widowed so suddenly, Jill didn’t know how she would have coped without his compassionate support and that of his fellow church members.
As she leaned closer to listen to the scanner, her long, blond hair swung against her cheeks and she tucked it behind her ears. She’d felt a strange shaking and heard a boom right before the radio had come alive. Something terrible must have happened. Not only was there a scary description being given of a fire, she could hear anxiety and dread coloring Mitch’s voice as he broadcast to his crew. No matter how much he might deny it, he was definitely worried. Therefore, so was she.
Her initial response was to grab a jacket and her car keys and head for the door. Pausing, she almost changed her mind before peering out the window. Her blue eyes widened. The whole northern horizon was painted orange, yellow and red. Billowing clouds of smoke were lit from below as they formed a plume that blotted out the stars and rising moon.
One hand fluttered at her throat. “Oh, dear.” That settled it. She had to go.
Quickly crossing the yard she climbed into her battered, well-loved red Jeep and started toward the glow in the sky.
Soon, acrid smoke was filtering in through the air vents. It carried pungent, unidentifiable odors that reminded her of melting plastic combined with household chemical cleaners.
“Lord, be with Mitch and whoever else is in danger,” Jill prayed softly, fervently, her hands clenching the steering wheel. “Please, please, please.”
She saw official vehicles converging at the far end of the one-runway airport so she pulled off the main road, parked where she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way, then proceeded on foot.
The closer she got, the worse the inferno looked. It had never occurred to her that any blaze could generate such a frightening roar. The noise reminded her of a crackling, pulsing jet engine and drowned out every other sound. Her eyes smarted. Her throat felt raw.
Knots of bystanders had gathered at the perimeter of the airfield. Men in yellow turnouts were busy shooting streams of water onto a house, apparently in an effort to save it from the encroaching flames.
Several of the closest casual observers were familiar to her from church so she greeted them with a somber look and a nod.
“Anybody seen Mitch Andrews tonight?” she asked, working to control her tone so no one would suspect how concerned she was. “I heard his voice on my scanner.”
One of the elderly men hooked a thumb toward the burning home. “Yeah. He came outta there with two little kids, then handed ‘em to the preacher’s wife and went back inside.”
Jill’s heart leaped. Raced. Fluttered. There were children in that fiery death trap? And Mitch was in there rescuing them?
The urge to do something, anything, was so strong she nearly forgot herself and ran toward the fire. Only her respect for Mitch and his work kept her rooted to the more distant spot where she could safely observe.
Where was he? Could he be in trouble? Flames were licking up under the eaves in spite of the deluge from the hoses and it looked as if the entire house would soon burst into flames.
Jill’s hands were fisted, her breathing shallow. “Come on, come on.” It was barely a whisper, yet it carried the intensity of a shout, the passion of a prayer.
Suddenly, a familiar figure came hurrying out the front door. She instinctively knew it was Mitch in spite of the black-edged breathing mask covering his face and the shadows cast by the brim of his dripping helmet.
Arms
