He’d tried so hard not to care about Meghan

He’d tried to harden himself against her independent spirit that desperately needed someone to care. He’d tried to focus on the woman who worked overtime to pretend that she didn’t need anyone at all, not the world-weary soul underneath who needed someone to love her more than she’d probably ever admit to herself.

He wouldn’t deny the physical attraction that sparked like kinetic energy between them. But she wasn’t the woman he’d loved two years ago. This Meghan was tougher, stronger—and yet more vulnerable.

He was her friend. Her protector. Nothing more.

Except he was dangerously close to becoming the man who loved her.

Again.

Kansas City’s Bravest
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

THE TAYLOR CLAN

Sid and Martha Taylor: | butcher and homemaker ages 64 and 63 respectively
Brett Taylor: | contractor age 39 the protector
Mac Taylor: | forensic specialist age 37 the professor
Gideon Taylor: | firefighter/arson investigator age 36 the crusader
Cole Taylor: | the mysterious brother age 31 the lost soul
Jessica Taylor: | the lone daughter antiques dealer/buyer/restorer age 29 the survivor
Josh Taylor: | police officer age 28 at 6'3", he’s still the baby of the family the charmer
Mitch Taylor: | Sid’s nephew—raised like a son police captain age 40 the chief

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Gideon Taylor—It’s up to this arson investigator to figure out who’s burning down Kansas City one building at a time. But can he uncover the truth before the arsonist destroys a very special woman from his past?

Meghan Wright—Hot to the touch. Gideon once taught her about love and fighting fires. Now that a madman has her in his sights, she returns to the one place she feels safe—with Gideon.

Daniel Kelleher—The owner of four properties destroyed by fire is wondering if he made an unfortunate investment—or if the destruction is something personal.

Jack Quinton—Is the former convict back to his old tricks? Or is he passing on his fiery skills to an apprentice?

Saundra Ames—This reporter has the hottest story of the summer.

John Murdock—Is Meghan’s partner watching her back just a little too closely?

Dorie Mesner—For years she has taken in troubled children.

Pete Preston—The memory of that monster just won’t go away.

Alex—A former Westside Warrior. Who is a young man supposed to trust?

Edison—Just don’t call him that. He’s pretty darn smart for a ten-year-old.

Matthew and Mark—They are too young to understand the truth.

Crispy—Just like Meghan and her “boys,” this pooch wants a real home.

With thanks to

Germane Friends and Michael “Fireplug” Jordan of the Kansas City Fire Department for answering all my questions and sending me the wonderful pictures of real KCFD firefighters.

Any mistakes are mine.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

Too late. Too late.

The nightmare’s fiery talons cut deep into Gideon Taylor’s dreams.

The impact of raw, compressed air exploding into a ball of flame lifted him off his feet and dumped him on his backside.

“Luke!” The hoarse shout from Gideon’s ravaged throat echoed inside his mask.

Trapped in the throes of the hideous dream that wouldn’t die, Gideon twisted in his bed and struggled toward consciousness and peace. But the nightmare wouldn’t release him.

He needed her.

The groans of the ancient rafters in the condemned apartment building matched the groans of mortal pain sifting through the hiss of static in Gideon’s ear.

“Luke!” Gideon rolled onto his side, straining against his heavy gear, weighed down by a fearful extra burden of guilt.

It was alive now.

Ignition. Fuel to burn. Oxygen to live and breathe.

A simple yet deadly recipe for fire.

Gideon lurched to his feet. Stooping low, he closed his grit-filled eyes and concentrated on the sounds that could lead him to his partner. “Talk to me,” he whispered, willing the collapsing fortress to reveal its secrets.

The mournful howl of iron girders buckling from the intense heat taunted him from above. An invitation.

The tornadic gasp of air currents, rising and gusting ahead of the flames hit his chest and pushed him back. A warning.

The wheezing rasp of his best friend, urging him away from the heart of the fire where he lay dying, cried in his ear.

His destiny.

Gideon’s internal radar tuned in to that last, weak sound. He made the world go quiet inside his head. He forced his pounding heart and his own ragged breathing into silence.

He zeroed his horrible sixth sense in on Luke.

There.

Gideon plunged into the wall of smoke, lengthening his stride as much as he dared. He strode into the belly of the fiery beast to retrieve his friend.

“Taylor! Redding!” The order from the receiver inside his helmet went unheeded. “I said clear out!”

“Luke’s down.” Gideon’s brief reply spoke volumes.

He didn’t spare another breath to argue Deputy Chief Bridgerton’s orders. The chief would understand. A firefighter wouldn’t leave a man behind.

Feeling his way along the wall, Gideon tripped through the remnants of the blasted doorway into the boiler room and dropped to the floor. One knee hit concrete.

The other hit something softer.

Luke.

Gideon took his hand and squeezed it tight in his fist, offering a silent promise, trading an unspoken comfort. He stretched out beside his partner on the floor, peering through the six-inch window of clear air next to the floor. Luke was flat on his back. The burning bramble of rafters and twisted metal had pinned his right shoulder and chest to the floor.

“I’m here.” Gideon barely heard the words himself. “You with me?”

Luke’s helmet rolled back and forth as he tried to shake his head. “No good. Get— Sumbitch—”

“You insulting me?” Gideon crooked a smile as if Luke could somehow perceive it through his closed eyes and pain-filled delirium.

Gideon hooked his arms through Luke’s elbow and around his knee and pulled. Trapped.

He needed a pickax. A crane. Two more men.

If God was listening, he needed a miracle.

“Honey?” Gideon moaned out loud, desperate to escape the certain doom that awaited him in his dream. He needed to hear that taut, sexy voice—full of spunk and sass one minute, full of vulnerable tenderness the next. He reached out for her.

Gideon pulled his hand away from the metal framework. Sticky strings of melted rubber glommed onto the tips of his gloves, snagging his fingers in a deadly web.

Gideon swore. One vivid word that gave voice to his frustration and alerted Deputy Chief Bridgerton to the deadly danger they were in.

“Taylor! I’m counting you down in seconds now. Get out!”

Feeling Luke’s still form beneath him, Gideon resisted the urge to share the last breath of oxygen from his tank with him. He needed that air if either one of them stood a chance of getting out.

Gideon reached out and grasped the heavy metal bars, softened by molten heat, in both hands and rose to his feet. Spurred on by determination alone, he lifted the ceiling wreckage and shoved it off Luke into the ravenous mouth of black smoke. As the debris disappeared and crashed to the floor, Gideon’s glove went with it.

He breathed in deeply, absorbing his tank’s last hiss of clean air.

Then he was on his knees and lifting. Shoulder to gut. Hand behind knees. He pulled Luke’s arm around his neck and rolled to his feet, staggering beneath the weight of a full-grown man dressed in heavy gear.

“Chief!”

He was up. He was moving.

Gideon lurched down the hall toward the busted-out hole through which he and Luke had first entered the blaze. He leaned against the wall and followed it with his elbow. And when that ran out he followed blind instinct and stumbled toward fresh air and freedom.

“Taylor!” Gideon’s lungs fought for air, but there was none to be had. “Take him.” His knees buckled.

Bridgerton’s commands echoed through the blackness closing in on Gideon.

Before he hit the ground, the burden on his shoulders lifted. Hands were there to help him. To hold him up. To take Luke from his grasping arms.

Someone snatched off his helmet and his mask. His oxygen tank vanished. He was sucking clear, cold night air into his lungs, letting the oxygen pour like a cool compress through his throat. Then hands were lifting him, pushing a small plastic mask over his nose and mouth.

He saw flames—white and orange and laughing with victory—consume the midnight sky above him. The blackened skeleton of the condemned building was silhouetted against the blaze for one instant before another explosion rocked the earth and it crumpled into a heap of billowing smoke and flame.

“We’re clear!”

Those were the last words Gideon heard before he surrendered to the darkness.

When he came to in the swaying ambulance minutes later, he knew all was lost. The silence of the paramedics told him the truth. Luke was gone.

Still, he reached across the gap between their guerneys to touch his friend. “Sorry, buddy. I was too late. Too late.”

“Christ, Taylor. Your hand.”

It took one endless moment for Gideon to pull his gaze from the peaceful expression on Luke’s ashen face to focus on the blackened tips of the fingers on his left hand.

Shock gave way to pain as the flaking layers of seared skin registered with his brain. “No—”

“No—” The hoarse cry from his nightmare took shape and sound as a shard of phantom pain in his left hand woke him halfway toward consciousness.

He reached for comfort. Reached for solace. Reached for light and life and loving perfection.

“Meg?”

He held a cold pillow in his arms.

Full consciousness crashed in on Gideon with a cruel force as violent as the nightmare itself.

The bed was empty.

He stilled the needy grasp of his arms, breathing deeply to silence the pounding of his heart. He sat up and pushed the fingers of his right hand into the sweat-streaked hair at his temple. The damp sheet slipped down his naked chest and pooled around his hips.

The air-conditioning ran on high, and the humid city air of daytime had given way to a dark, moonless night outside. But his body was burning up beneath the twisted sheets.

He hadn’t had the nightmare for a month. Why now?

He reached out and caressed the empty bed beside him. The last two fingers on his left hand refused to curl into the pillow. But then, those two fingers hadn’t been able to do much of anything for the past year. Not since the night of Luke’s death.

Gideon snatched his hand back to his thigh and breathed deeply.

Meghan was gone.

She’d betrayed him by taking his heart and leaving him with nothing to hold in his crippled-up hands.

“Meghan.” Whispering her name was a strident cry of discord to his ears. “What did I do wrong?”

She hadn’t been there for him the night Luke died. She hadn’t been in his bed for two long years.

When would he get it through his thick heart?

Gideon Taylor faced his nightmares alone.

Chapter One

Red and white lights swirled into the interior of the five-story warehouse, flashing in through broken windows and shattered doorways to glance off the walls of smoke and flame and imminent destruction.

A torrent of water rained down over the heads of firefighters in black pants and coats. Their thick, black boots splashed through the flood gathering at their feet.

Though the sirens had been killed, the cacophony of dry, brittle timbers snapping beneath the heat and the thunderous rush of water limited communication to the tiny microphones and receivers mounted inside their clear face masks. But a faint sound, high-pitched and more frantic than the rest of the chaos reached Meghan Wright’s ears.

She handed off her hose to the giant of a man who stood behind her and dashed toward the sound.

“We don’t have containment yet. Get your butt back here.”

Meghan ignored her partner’s warning and plunged into the thick, gray smoke. “I know I heard something, John. I’m checking it out.”

The familiar rhythms of her equipment jangled against her back with each step, drowning out the faint, repetitive tapping sound she’d heard. Wearing more than forty pounds of protective gear didn’t slow her down the way it once had. Though smoke was rapidly filling the open areas of the building, the fire itself hadn’t yet reached the main floor. She trailed her hand along the cool wall and hurried down the corridor toward the tier of offices at the south end of the warehouse.

One choice expletive echoed in her ear. But she heard the relenting sigh in John Murdock’s deep bass voice and knew he was already maneuvering to back her up as she took point on the search and rescue. “Report your twenty every minute.”

“Roger.” She butted up against a wall and halted, orienting herself before choosing which hallway to follow. “I’m heading left. That’s east, going toward the outer wall.”

“Copy. Be careful.”

“You, too.” The gray and black wall of smoke lightened into a misty, translucent haze, rewarding her choice of direction. “Good girl.” She rubbed her gloved hands together at the small victory and moved on. She trusted her instincts now.

That hadn’t always been the case.

Four years ago, at the age of twenty-two, she’d been too broke to finish college. Needing a job that required little more than her ability to pass a physical, she’d enrolled in firefighter training. But the work proved hard, the challenges grueling. The sniping put-downs from some of her classmates had sent her home in tears or temper more than once. She’d been all set to fail.

Just as she’d managed to fail the other big challenges in her life.

But then Gideon Taylor had stumbled into her life, literally, tripping over the hose she couldn’t quite roll and carry on her own. He’d taken her under his wing and taught her confidence and patience. He’d taught her tricks to compensate for a lack of physical strength. He’d taught her to love the job.

He’d taught her to love, period.

Talons of flame shot up through the floorboards at Meghan’s feet, calling her wandering thoughts back to the present. The fire that had started in the warehouse basement was slowly climbing its way up toward the rafters. Gideon would tell her to keep calm. To tune out everything but the fire itself.

Let the fire talk to you, he’d say. It’ll tell you what to do.

Meghan tried to listen. The tapping sound had disappeared. She tried harder. She tried to remember everything he’d taught her.

Gideon.

She leaned against a wall and clutched her stomach, feeling an almost physical pain at the rush of memories that threatened to consume her.

She’d found a way to fail, after all.

“Meghan?” John’s sharp warning reminded her of the time.

She gathered her wits and pushed away from the wall. “I’m okay.” She scanned her surroundings and reported in. “I’ve gone about twenty paces. I’ve got flames up through the floor spaces, but it hasn’t caught yet.”

“Have you found the vic?”

“No victim yet.” A sharp, high-pitched cry turned her attention to the wall above her. “Wait. I’ve got something.”

It was the sound of fighting to survive against impossible odds. Meghan knew all about that kind of struggle. Staying alive was one of the few things she had managed to accomplish.

“I’m going up to the second floor,” she reported, keeping John apprised of her location.

The twin beams of the flashlights mounted on her helmet shimmered in the distortion of overheated air that rose and filled the old building. She quickly eliminated the old freight elevator as a means of transportation to the upper levels. A zigzagging series of ramps and stairways that led up to various loading and storage platforms would lead her back into the heart of the smoke.

That left the wrought-iron ladder that had been mounted directly into the brick facade. She reached for the rung above her head and gave it a solid tug. Dust and mortar bits snowed down on her helmet. When the downpour stopped, she pulled herself up onto the first rung and felt the give of anchor bolts popping out of the wall above her head. She ducked and held her breath. But the ladder settled and clung fast to its shaky mounts, supporting her weight. For once her trim build would work to her advantage. “I’m climbing.”

Hand over hand, foot over foot, she ascended the ladder. Though she was only a slender five-foot-five, she trained hard to maintain peak physical conditioning. What she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed and agility. As long as the fire cooperated and stayed below, she’d have no problem locating the victim and clearing the building with time to spare.

Meghan reached the second floor and swung her legs over onto the platform that ran the length of the dockside wall. Ages ago this building had been used as a storage and distribution facility for large bales of cotton to be shipped on the river. A giant iron hook and rigging attached to a support beam was still in place beside a boarded-up opening.

These days, though, the warehouse was nothing more than a hangout for teens with too much time on their hands and not enough direction in their lives. Or it served as a makeshift shelter for homeless vagrants looking to escape the dog days of August’s summer heat when the local shelters were full.

During some of the blackest moments of her life, Meghan had been a teen in trouble and a homeless runaway. She knew that whoever had come up here to escape the fire was scared to begin with. “I’m here to help,” she shouted, taking note of the smoke creeping into the open corridor below her. “Where are you?”

A plaintive cry answered and she drifted closer to the sound.

At the end of the platform was a boarded-up office. The door behind the crossed one-by-fours was closed. The window beside the door was boarded over. How could someone have gotten in?

She already had a suspicious feeling when she knocked.

The whine became a sharp, piercing bark.

“Oh, no.”

The Kansas City Fire Department made every reasonable effort to save pets and livestock involved in a fire. But extreme means of rescue were reserved for people, not strays.

“John? It’s a dog.” She reported her location and situation. “I’m here. I might as well get him out.”

She knew her partner wouldn’t appreciate endangering herself on behalf of a stray. But he was an innocent victim of this blaze and she didn’t intend to abandon him yet.

“Move it, Meghan. We’ve got fire on the main floor. We’ll lay down water at your end to try to suppress it.” He, too, knew it was too late to argue. “I’ll notify Animal Rescue.”

“You just lucked out, furball.” She spoke through the door to the creature inside, hoping to calm him. “The cavalry’s here.”

Meghan made a quick scan of her escape route and noted the accuracy of John’s report. The floorboards at the base of the ladder were burning now. And while brick didn’t burn, it could become too hot to touch. And the metal itself would conduct heat and soften, making it impossible for the ladder to sustain its own weight, much less hers and a dog’s. She needed to act fast.

“How’d you get in there, boy?” The answering cry from the other side cut straight through to Meghan’s heart.

She squatted and reached beneath the bottom board. But the door had latched and couldn’t be pushed open. “You closed it yourself after you crawled in, didn’t you?” The dog called to her again. “I’ll get you out. Don’t worry.”

Meghan reached behind her and lifted her ax from its shoulder carrier. She wedged the head between the door frame and the middle board and pulled back, using her own body weight as leverage to pry the board loose, then toss it aside.

She removed her insulated glove to check to make sure the door and knob were cool before she reached inside to open it.

A blur of tan and black shot out between her legs. “Whoa.”

Meghan danced to one side as what looked like a pintsize German shepherd dashed toward the ramp he’d undoubtedly followed to get up here in the first place. “Hey, come back. Here, boy.” She whistled. But the dog ignored her. Meghan shook her head. “There’s gratitude for you.”

It was time she made a hasty exit herself. She put on her glove and radioed in. “The pooch is on the loose, John. Let me know if he shows up outside. I don’t want him to get caught in traffic after going through all this.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“I’m on my way down.”

“Negative.” John’s order halted her from stepping onto the ladder. She shook it, testing its reliability. More mortar disintegrated and blew out in puffs of dust that vanished into the smoke clouds being pushed through the corridor ahead of the hoses. “Visibility is zero from our end. I can’t tell if the floor’s stable.”

While she watched her escape route being gobbled up by the smoke, a sudden movement in the corridor below caught her eye.

“Damn dog.”

Had she risked her life for nothing?

Her stomach clenched into a knot as she fought to control the instinctive response that boosted her pulse into overdrive. Meghan blinked and squinted through the haze. Something dark, darker than the smoke itself, darted back across the opening. “Did you see…?”

It was gone.

It had been little more than an after-image imprinted on her retinas. Had the pooch made it down the stairs that quickly? Though it seemed to have more mass to it than the dog she’d seen, the black shape hadn’t been bulky enough to be a firefighter in full gear. And it had moved so quickly.

But then, the heated air could play tricks on a person’s vision and depth perception. Maybe it had been a comrade-at-arms.

She spoke into her microphone. “Is the corridor clear?”

“Every man’s accounted for,” John replied. “Is there a problem?”

“I thought I saw someone below me.” It had to be the dog. She hoped he found a safe way out. “Never mind. It’s gone.”

“You should be, too.”

The memory of flames shooting up through the floorboards was impetus enough to send her toward the ramp. If the dog had gotten down that way, so could she. Maybe she could still find him down below and rescue him, after all. “I’ve got an alternate route.”

She picked up her ax and trotted toward the billowing rise of smoke at the far end of the platform. She checked her gauge and breathed deeply, verifying her oxygen intake before plunging in.

Going in blind was risky. Though she trailed her hand along the wall to find her path, any misstep could send her flying over the edge of the platform or plummeting through a hole or…

The dog charged out of the smoke, plowing into her shin and knocking her back a step. “Whoa! How’d you do that?”

A loud crack thundered in her ears and the whole floor tipped.

“Meghan!”

She ignored John’s call and braced her back against the wall to reverse course, zeroing in on the sound of the dog’s whine.

What the hell was going on here?

“The secondary escape route’s collapsing.” She panted the words into her mike and started to pray.

The dog charged her legs again, then circled her feet. He barked as he followed his nose toward clear air. Meghan honed in on the sound as if it was an outstretched hand.

Three steps later she was clear.

She scooped up the dog. “Good boy. I don’t know what miracle you just pulled, but you saved us both.” As she petted the dog, trying to calm its fears and her own, a few things became obvious. She wasn’t the only female fighting for her life in this building. “Sorry. Good girl. Let’s get out of here. John?”

“It’s no good.” She could hear the effort it cost her partner to keep the fear out of his voice. “The floor’s going. There’s no way we can get a ladder to you.”

No ladder. No ramp. No rescue.

The platform tilted another five degrees and Meghan scrambled for balance. If this platform gave way they’d crash through the main floor into the basement. If the fall didn’t kill them outright, the flames would consume them soon enough.

This was not how it was going to end.

When the world left her with no options, she made her own.

She’d coped with her mother’s death and her father’s abandonment.

She’d lived through aunts and uncles who cared and those who couldn’t care less.

She’d cheated death in a car crash one fateful, foolish night.

And she’d survived walking away from the truest man in the whole world.

An image of Gideon Taylor’s seal-brown hair and gentle smile blipped into her mind. She’d hurt him.

She’d never said how sorry she was for hurting him.

“Dammit!” she yelled, startling the dog into an answering bark. This was not her life flashing before her eyes! “We’re not going down without a fight.”

Galvanized by a fiery spirit that wasn’t done living yet, she pushed everything from her mind but thoughts of escape.

The hook and wench. The boarded-up windows.

“Meghan, talk to me!”

She dropped the dog and picked up her ax. She struck the first blow against the rotting wood before responding. “I’m going out the back window, John.”

“The foundation drops off to the river on that side. It’s four stories down. There’s no way to get a truck—”

She swung again. “I know how to swim.”

The first board split in two. She was breathing hard now as she jammed the ax beneath the next board and pried it loose. Sweat lined her brow beneath the tight fit of the mask and dribbled down her face. She blinked the sting of it from her eyes and attacked the next board. The platform groaned and teetered toward the heart of the fire, costing her precious leverage.

The dog barked. “I know. I know.” She scooted the mutt behind her and smashed the window. The sudden rush of shifting air pressures knocked her off balance. She scrambled back to her feet, climbing uphill now to reach the window.

Meghan cleared the glass around the frame, then pulled a rope from the gear on her back. She looped it around the bale rigging.

The floor pitched. The smoke crept up to the second floor and drifted toward her, as if just now discovering its two potential victims upstairs.

She said a nervous prayer while she knotted the ends around her hips and set up a rappelling line. “I gotta see my boys. They’re all I’ve got.” She scooped up the dog, unbuttoned her coat and slipped her inside. “You’d like them, too.”

Lifting her helmet, she peeled off her mask and shrugged out of her gear harness, shedding every excess pound she could before replacing the helmet and hoisting herself up to the window. The platform sank to a forty-five-degree angle, ripping away from the wall and surrendering with a fiery crash to gravity, age and fire.

“Hang on.”

Charcoal smoke gusted out around her head and shoulders.

Meghan held her breath and jumped.

FIRE CAPTAIN Gideon Taylor skirted the crowd in the aftermath of the fire, an unseen extra amid the swarm of uniformed professionals doing their best to secure the site, as well as to accommodate the press and curiosity seekers who had gathered to see the show play out on the long, cloudless afternoon.

He took note of several faces in the crowd, never ceasing to be amazed at how destruction brought people out of the woodwork. Some came to help, others to gawk, a few to give thanks that the tragedy wasn’t happening to them.

An interstate highway carried most people past this old industrial area on the north bank of the Missouri River. But, whatever their reason, plenty of folks had pulled off and gathered around the border of yellow tape that cordoned off the ruins of the old textiles warehouse.

He headed toward the white-and-red SUV that indicated the chief of the fleet of yellow fire engines parked in front of the remaining shell of the old Meyer’s Textile Company. He’d start with the official story from the scene commander, then see what the building itself had to say about the cause of the fire. He ducked beneath the yellow perimeter tape and paused. He’d bet this old girl had plenty to say about her demise.

Gideon adjusted the bill of his black K.C.F.D. cap and tipped his head back to study the outline of the 1920s brick skeleton. Wisps of steam and smoke still puffed up from its central core, though the flames themselves had been put out.

With care and money, this warehouse could have been renovated to its one-time glory and converted to office space or—God forbid—a casino, like the reclaimed-factory-turned-tourist-trap a half mile upriver. Silhouetted against the glare of the August sun, Gideon knew this old beauty would be torn down now. Its bricks would be sold for fireplaces and landscaping, and the land would be transformed into something with considerably less personality, such as a parking lot.

It was his third investigation in as many weeks.

Big fire. Gutted building.

Accidental? Natural? Intentional?

It was his job to determine the cause of the blaze. Now that the hydrants had been shut off and the paramedics had left the scene—now that the fire had died—it was his job to sort through the charred and water-soaked remains to determine its cause.

Arson investigator.

His job promotion following rehab put him in a safer position than life on the frontline had been. Better pay. Better title. A chance to carry a badge in his wallet and arrest the bad guys, just like his brothers who were cops.

He’d trade it all in a heartbeat for another chance to serve beside his comrades.

“Taylor?”

Gideon peered through his dark glasses at the short, muscular man striding toward him. “Chief.”

“You can call me Tom now.” Deputy Chief Bridgerton rested his forearms atop the rolled-down waist of his insulated fire pants and smiled like the grumpy old father figure he was.

“Some habits die hard.” Gideon pulled off his sunglasses and shook hands with his former boss. “Good to see you again. What ya got?”

Old friend or not, Tom Bridgerton understood the urgency of the business at hand. Fire clues could be buried beneath rubble or blown away with the wind. The sooner the investigation started, the better chance Gideon had of pinpointing the cause of the blaze.

The chief turned toward the building and indicated areas with an inclination of his head. “The fire started in the basement. Don’t know how long it was burning before we got a call this morning from Westin’s casino up the road saying they noticed smoke. They knew the place was abandoned and called it in. A few of the casino workers drove over to check it out. They were the only ones on scene when we arrived. One of the police officers took their statement.”

“Any idea if the Meyer family had something stored in the basement?”

“Like a pile of rags?” Bridgerton scratched at the silver hair beside his temple and frowned. “This place hasn’t been used to store textiles since the Meyers moved out in the early eighties. It’s changed hands a couple of times since then. Now it’s owned by a Daniel Kelleher. He’s in real estate.”

“Has he been notified?”

Bridgerton nodded. “I called him out of a meeting. He’s on his way.”

Gideon made a mental note to speak to Kelleher when he arrived. Meanwhile, he’d start nosing around on his own. “City hall says this place was out of use, but not condemned. Any ideas?”

“The boiler was out of commission, the gas line disconnected.” The chief shrugged. “Maybe one of the vagrants who camps out here was trying to keep warm and lost control of his fire.”

“In this heat?” The summer drought left the air hazy with dust that filtered through the atmosphere from dried-up farms in neighboring counties. The moisture from the river and thick bands of trees caught in the haze, forming a canopy that pushed the heat index up past one hundred for the seventh day in a row. Maybe he should look at this a little less clinically and with a little more heart. “There weren’t any casualties, were there?”

“Just one.” The chief grinned. “She was treated for first-degree burns on her paws and tail and released.”

“A dog?”

“If she saw anything, she’s not talking.”

His brief moment of concern eased and he joined the chief’s laughter.

A round of applause from the crowd, punctuated by a couple of “Woo-hoo!’s,” diverted Gideon’s attention. He turned and noticed the bright lights of press cameras angled toward the gap at the center of the crowd. A crush of reporters, waving microphones and snapping pictures, blocked his view.

He glanced down at the chief. “How come they’re not interviewing you? I count at least three news vans here.”

Bridgerton laughed. “I gave my statement. But it seems they have a real celebrity today from over at Station 16. We had quite a rescue. Channel Ten and the others wanted shots of her instead of me.”

Her? The reporters were interviewing a dog instead of a veteran, command-level firefighter?

The chief slapped him on the shoulder and backed away. “I’d better get back to cleanup duty. Good to see you, Gid.”

“Same here, Ch—” He doffed a two-fingered salute and corrected himself. “Tom.”

“Call us sometime. The guys over at the Twenty-third would love to see you.”

“Yeah.” The chief snagged a young man by the arm and pulled him along with him to take care of the next task at hand.

At thirty-five, Gideon wasn’t—by normal standards—anywhere close to being over the hill. But he was out of touch. A young pup like the one jogging off to do Bridgerton’s bidding probably considered himself invincible.

Gideon knew better. A hero like Luke Redding would be just a name in the wall of a memorial to that kid. And Gideon would be that old guy who used to fight fires. The one who couldn’t cut it anymore. The one who couldn’t save his partner.

He was top brass now. A desk jockey. Gideon stared down at the nearly lifeless fingers on his left hand. Yeah, the new recruits could learn a lot from an old warhorse like him. He tucked his hand into the pocket of his black chinos and pushed the thought aside, not knowing if that was sarcasm or wishful thinking.

Maybe he’d do better to avoid a visit to his old station house and the memories—both bitter and sweet—it held.

Gideon put his sunglasses back on and calmed his emotions on a slow exhale of breath.

He strolled toward the building, pulling out his notepad and pen. He jotted a few particulars from his conversation with Deputy Chief Bridgerton and walked the perimeter of the fire scene before going inside.

A burst of laughter from the crowd caught his attention. Pocketing the notebook, he altered his course and crossed over to see this celebrity pooch that was causing such a media stir. At a solid six-two, he was tall enough to stand at the fringe of the audience and see over most of them.

A bulky television camera blocked his view of the dog, but he recognized the tall, auburn-haired woman holding the microphone from the evening news. She looked straight into the light of the camera without blinking. “Saundra Ames, Channel Ten news, at the scene of a devastating warehouse fire in north Kansas City, between the Missouri River and Levee Road.”

Somehow she managed to relay the basic details of the blaze while continuously showing off a perfect set of porcelain-white teeth. He had to admire a woman who didn’t even pop a sweat when she was in the spotlight on a one-hundred-degree day. The lady was a real pro.

“Now I’d like to introduce you to one of Kansas City’s bravest—the firefighter who saved the puppy we met earlier.” The reporter thrust the microphone toward her interviewee. The cameraman shifted positions.

Gideon’s world froze for a heartbeat in time.

Meghan.

His heart lurched in his chest. His lungs constricted so tightly, for a moment he felt as if he were breathing in hot, toxic air.

She’d stripped her gear down to her royal-blue K.C.F.D. T-shirt and regulation black pants.

But her wholesome beauty was just as uncomplicated and straightforward as he remembered. She wore her hair pulled back in what she’d called a French braid. In shades of amber and wheat and champagne, a few wavy wisps clung to the damp sheen of her soft, honey-freckled skin.

She looked fresh and young, with no makeup except for the blush of color on her cheeks and the natural, peachy tint of her lips.

And though she smiled at the mutt that squiggled in her arms and licked her chin and sniffed the microphone, her big brown eyes still held the same guarded expression he’d come to know so well in the months they’d been together.

It was really her.

Time moved forward again as Saundra Ames asked her next question. “Are there a lot of women firefighters?”

Gideon drank in every nuance of Meg’s expression, every detail of beauty that resonated through his body—waking dormant yet familiar desires.

He breathed in heavily, trying to dampen his body’s incendiary response to the mere sight of her. He didn’t want to feel anything. Not for her. Not anymore.

“There are a few of us,” she answered. “More and more with each graduating class from the academy.”

“How long have you been a firefighter?”

“About four years.”

As the interview progressed, Gideon began to notice the way Meghan shifted on her feet, betraying the self-conscious tension she’d once tried to hide behind a tough-act facade. What had started as a physical awareness moved on to other parts of his body that were harder to control. His compassion. His curiosity. His heart.

“And yet you risked your life for a dog. Why?” the reporter asked, clearly not understanding the size of Meghan’s heart.

Meghan’s gaze went out of focus and she frowned. “She needed me.”

Gideon shifted with a bit of tension himself.

If she pressed her lips together, then he’d know her emotions were getting the best of her. Meghan could handle anything if she set her mind to it. But she’d never really liked to call attention to herself.

She squinted against the bright light shining in her eyes.

“How does it feel to be a role model for young women in the Kansas City area?”

“Role model?” Meghan’s lips flattened into a straight line. She stuttered to find her answer. “I—I’m…just doing my job. I’m not trying… Please don’t set me up to be something…” She squeezed the dog in her arms.

Gideon pulled off his sunglasses and stepped forward, obeying an unspoken impulse to move in closer to protect her. To support her. To remind her she wasn’t alone. The poor kid had always been so alone.

Meghan’s gaze flew past the reporter, past the cameraman, past the crowd, and connected with his. As if somehow she had known he was there. As if she needed him.

Her eyes widened in startled recognition. Her lips parted in a silent gasp.

Their gazes locked. A familiar, dynamic energy flowed between them. Quickening his pulse. Filling him with want and need and questions and regrets.

Meghan blinked with the force of a slamming door, severing the connection and shutting him out.

Her downcast eyes refused to meet his again.

Stale air from a breath held too long rushed out of Gideon’s lungs. Hell. What had he been thinking? As his heart hammered back to life in his chest, his compassionate instinct died and common sense took its place.

God. Two years. And he still hadn’t gotten her out of his system.

These weren’t old times.

Meghan no longer wanted his help. She’d made that abundantly clear. She’d turned down his proposal and walked out of his life.

And he’d walked straight into hell.

Throwing up a stoic wall of silence that was starting to fit him like a second skin, Gideon turned and walked into the rubble of the gutted building.

At least fire was a demon he could understand.

Chapter Two

“Yeah, yeah. Fifteen minutes of fame, my ass.” Meghan chucked John Murdock’s big shoulder to show the guys she worked with that she knew they were teasing and that she would give it right back. “You guys are just jealous that Saundra Ames didn’t give any of you her card.”

She endured their oohs and ahhs and manly remarks about prowess with women by rolling her eyes and clicking her tongue. It had taken her a long time to learn to take their flirty remarks in sisterly stride—to understand that their teasing was a means of inclusion, not criticism. Now that she was part of their team, the men usually curbed their locker room chatter around her. It also didn’t hurt that the biggest man in the unit, John Murdock, had been assigned as her partner—to compensate for her smaller size, no doubt. She knew him to be a big teddy bear who preferred books to football, despite his pro-wrestler stature. But, intimidating by looks alone, nobody messed with John.

So, normally, the nine men who shared duty with her were on their best behavior. Tolerable, at least.

But right after battling a multialarm blaze, they needed to blow off some steam. And if giving her grief about her instant stardom was the way to do it, she’d let them.

“I keep telling you boys that women like men with a sensitive side.” They paused in a circle around her, waiting for her insight into the secret ways of women. “Go get a puppy and the women will be knocking down your door to meet you.”

Another round of hoots and laughter followed her as the crowd of onlookers began to disperse.

One of the rookies thumped his chest. “I get to rescue the mutt next time.”

“My wife would shoot me if I brought home a dog.”

“Hey, I put up with my girlfriend’s cats. Isn’t that sensitive enough?”

“Let’s get back to work, guys.” Meghan pocketed the number from the animal rescue worker who would be taking the dog to the shelter for a thorough check from a vet. Since the dog had been spayed, they also wanted to run the collarless pup’s description through their database to see if she was someone’s missing pet.

But if no one claimed her, Meghan had a pretty good idea where the miniature, German shepherd-marked mutt could find a home. She knew four boys who would benefit from the unconditional love a pet could bring them.

When she’d spotted her team heading toward the trucks to pack up their gear, it had given her the perfect excuse to escape the glare of the Channel Ten spotlight. The whole idea of girls looking up to her as some kind of role model had turned her stomach into knots.

You freak. I’ll make you a real woman.

That degrading voice, slurred by booze and accusation, had suddenly bombarded Meghan’s psyche from the hidden recesses of her memory, robbing her of her temporary confidence. Her skin crawled with the memory of cruel hands and a whiskey-soaked mouth.

She hadn’t known whether to scream or to run or to faint—in front of a crowd, on television—as old wounds felt real again.

But then she’d seen Gideon.

Live. In the flesh. Not a memory.

Tall and perfectly proportioned.

Dark brown hair, trimmed short to control its tendency to curl, was half hidden beneath an omnipresent baseball-style cap. His sturdy shoulders tapered to a trim waist, and she knew his legs would be long and well-muscled. His eyes were as she remembered, rich and dark and as inviting as her strong morning coffee.

The strength of his quiet presence had calmed her like the soothing stroke of his hand or the gentler caress of his silky whisper in her ear. For one cherished moment she’d breathed easier. The remembered pain receded.

But then she’d noticed the changes in him.

His rugged features etched in unsmiling stone. New lines of strain marring the taut, tanned skin beside his eyes and mouth.

The cold shutters of distrust that suddenly dulled the warmth of his gaze.

And why should he smile at her?

She didn’t deserve that kind of support from him. She had no right to ask. Not anymore.

So she’d blinked and turned away like a coward before she did something foolish such as run to him or call out his name or beg his forgiveness.

By then, Saundra Ames had been talking again. The camera rolling. Meghan had dug deep into the reserves of her composure and come up with a cogent answer. By the time she’d felt brave enough to look again, Gideon had disappeared.

Thank God she had her work. The physical and mental challenges, the sense of duty and purpose, had given her something to concentrate on besides questions about her past and what advice she could give young, career-minded women.

Her co-workers had gathered at the edge of the impromptu audience to egg her on about getting out of cleanup work. Nine men in K.C.F.D. T-shirts, each eye-catching in his own way, attracted their own sort of attention from the crowd, providing the distraction she’d needed to slip away from center stage to gather her wits and hide her wounds.

Some of the men were still talking about puppies and outrageous ways to impress the ladies as they reached the Station 16 trucks and went to work. There were hoses to fold and stack, ladders to mount on the engine, gear to stow.

Meghan didn’t want to shirk her duties, or she’d never hear the end of it at the station house. She figured her TV interview would already earn her enough razzing to last a week. She picked up a wrench and two axes and opened a compartment door near the cab of Engine 31. Fitting together like a three-dimensional puzzle, each piece of equipment had its assigned place, making the most efficient use of the truck’s limited space.

She slipped the wrench in first, then pressed each ax into its mounting clips. After latching the compartment door shut, she climbed up onto the running board beside the open cab to gather the rigging equipment that had been tossed inside. She plunked down onto the passenger side seat to rest while she rolled a nylon rope between her fist and elbow. She had the length of it tied into a bale before she noticed the conspicuously unofficial item resting in the folds of her black turnout coat on the floorboards at her feet.

“What the hell…?” Meghan stowed the rope beneath the seat and frowned as she bent to pluck a long-stemmed yellow rose from her coat. With the stem caught lightly between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, she rested the silky soft bud in the palm of the other. “Where did you come from?”

An unbidden urge of feminine curiosity made her lift the petals to her nose. Its sweet, fragrant scent tickled her sinuses and nearly gave her a headache. But it was soft to the touch, as gentle as a caress as she stroked it against her cheek. What a sentimental gesture. What a generous gift. Except…

Meghan looked through the windshield and scanned the scattering crowd for any indication of someone watching her reaction to the discovery. Everyone seemed to have a purpose to keep him or her busy that had nothing to do with Meghan. She hopped out of the cab and turned to sift through her coat. Where had it come from? Thirty minutes ago, she’d deposited her gear and had tried to tuck her hair back into its braid before talking to those reporters. It hadn’t been here then. And there was no clue, no note of explanation, for its appearance now.

A giant shadow fell across her shoulders, diverting her attention. She looked over her shoulder into John Murdock’s curious expression. “What’s that?”

“I found it lying in the truck on my coat.”

“You been holding out on me?” he teased. “Who’s it from?”

“Do you really think it’s for me?” She glanced down. Wright stared up at her, the name label clearly visible on the front left placket of her coat. “I don’t want to assume.”

“Since I’m not the rose type, that’d be my guess.” She looked up to see his mouth curved in an indulgent smile. “You’re the only lady on the crew. I’d take it and enjoy it.”

“But it doesn’t say whom it’s from.” She found the idea of an anonymous admirer unsettling rather than charming. Someone had to know something about it. “You didn’t see anyone put it here? Anyone messing with the front of the truck in the last half hour or so?”

Those big shoulders shrugged and blocked out the sun. “I was watching you on TV with the rest of the guys. I suppose anybody could have put it in here. Don’t you like flowers?”

“Well, sure, but roses are a little fancy for—”

“Is Ms. Wright still on duty? I have a few follow-up items I’d like to clarify with her.” Meghan froze, hearing the succinct, curious female voice on the other side of the truck. That damned reporter again.

Her stomach cramped right on cue as the tension set in. She tightened her fingers into a fist, forgetting all about the flower until a thorn pricked her palm. “Ow. Damn.” She tossed the worrisome gift into the truck and pressed her lips against the tiny wound and muttered, “I’m not up for this again.”

“Here.” John pulled a blue bandanna from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “Get out of here.” He nudged her elbow and nodded toward the abandoned building. “Hide out for a few minutes. I’ll cover for you.”

Meghan breathed a deep sigh of relief. John might be built like a grizzly, but he was definitely a teddy bear. She squeezed his hand and mouthed her thanks. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a bunch. Now scoot.”

She gladly did as ordered and quietly slipped away from the truck. She moved quickly and within a minute was leaning back against an interior wall of scorched brick, breathing deeply and trying to even out both her pulse and her nerves.

At last. She was alone.

She needed the quiet to regroup and to get her dealing-with-people facade back into place.

That rose had been a kind gesture from someone too shy to reveal himself. But on top of everything she’d gone through today, it felt like an invasion of her privacy. Saundra Ames’s incisive reporting had already stripped her down to her most vulnerable fears. The rose was just the kicker that sent her over the edge into panic. There’d been a hundred or more onlookers in the parking lot watching her. It was probably a gift from one of those girls Ms. Ames had said she inspired.

Meghan breathed a little easier now that she was alone. She removed John’s bandanna and inspected the puncture wound on her hand. The bleeding had stopped. Maybe she shouldn’t read too much symbolism into the idea of being cut open to expose all her insecurities.

She’d always healed best when she was alone. For her, alone was the safest place to be. The only place where being imperfect didn’t matter.

Tucking the bandanna into her belt, she tipped her chin up to study the empty shell of what had once been a magnificent building bustling with people and commerce. Now it echoed like a cavern.

Though the outer walls and most of the ceiling structure were basically undamaged, the interior was riddled with piles of blackened debris, some of it still steaming from the force of the fire and the heat of the day. The distinctive imprint of acrid smoke tingled her nostrils. Meghan pressed her knuckles to the tip of her nose to conquer the urge to sneeze.

Curiosity as well as a sense of mourning prompted her to push away from her hiding place and to take a walk over to where she had rescued the dog. She picked her way carefully across the wooden floorboards, knowing that even this far from the central source of the blaze, the support structures could be weakened.

Water still grouped in puddles in the sunken places on the main floor, and she could hear the steady drip of it working its way down to the basement level. The corridor where she’d first entered and followed the sounds of the dog’s cries had been reduced to twin piles of ash and rubble.

She stopped near the edge of the last solid board and looked up at the back wall. The second-story platform was gone. The heavy beam and its iron rigging—with her rope still tied to it and hanging out the broken window—was the only structure left. She looked down into the exposed basement area. The rest of the support system had collapsed into a fiery pit.

She and the pooch had been damn lucky to survive.

“Revisiting the scene of the crime?”

Meghan sucked in a breath and clutched her hand at her waist, startled by the familiar voice. When she turned to face Gideon, the thudding of her heart still hadn’t stopped. “I thought I was the only one in here.”

His watchful eyes seemed to bore right through her. “I’m doing the preliminary walk-through on my investigation.”

“That’s right.” Without the courage to meet the questions in his expression, she settled for talking to the center of his broad, streamlined chest. “I heard you got promoted to Investigator.” Unexpectedly hungry to reacquaint herself with the strength and dimension of his body, she let her gaze drift up past the point of his chin to the classic male contours of his mouth. But she wasn’t quite ready for eye contact. Gideon had always been able to read her emotions like a book. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

A subtle movement at his waist dragged her gaze downward again. He’d tucked his hand into his pocket. He’d always had such wonderful hands. Nicked and calloused enough by life to give them character, with the strength and control that could soothe or arouse, by turn.

Sweet, tender memories flooded her, raising goose bumps of anticipation along her skin as she remembered his touch—so very different from the creepy sensations that had assaulted her earlier during the TV interview.

But then she realized he’d angled the left side of his body away from her. She’d been staring at his wrist above his pocket, wishing for things that could never be. Wanting something she had destroyed two years ago.

“Sorry.” She mustered a smile and shrugged, not sure what she was apologizing for. Staring? Or breaking this good man’s heart?

“So you’re the one who made the great escape.” Gideon was looking up at the rope and beam now. “You always were as agile as a monkey. Still, that must have been a close call.”

“For once it paid to be scrawny.” She wanted to thank him for changing the topic. Work was one thing she could talk about. It might be the only safe topic where Gideon was concerned. “I don’t think that platform could have held a full-size man.”

“Looks like it didn’t hold you, either. You took a big risk.”

For one brief instant Meghan’s insides went all drizzly with warmth. Was that concern she heard? The smooth texture of his deep-pitched voice melted her momentary resolve into a pile of goo.

Though Gideon had always been the strong one in their relationship—the whole one, the one with his head on straight—he almost sounded as if he was the one who needed reassurance now.

“I’m okay. I know how to handle myself on the job now.” Meghan looked around the angle of Gideon’s shoulder and forced herself to make eye contact with him. It was impossible for her to look away from the raw hurt and hunger she saw there. “Really. I learned from the best. I’m fine.”

“Scrawny, hmm?” A sudden blaze of heat shattered the lingering walls of doubt and distrust in his expression. His warm brown gaze caressed the lines of her face and hair, then explored the subtle jut of her breasts, triggering a pebbling response at the tips as if he’d touched her with his hands. “As I recall, there were plenty of curves in all the right places on that body of yours.”

Meghan crossed her arms and shivered at her body’s wanton response to his hungry look and suggestive words.

She tried to come up with some kind of joke, some excuse to deny the powerful effect he still had on her. But she was trapped by desire, caught up in the memories of how good it felt to be close to this man, how exciting and scary it had been to have him want her. The meaning of this flood of heat eluded her, but she couldn’t turn away.

When he reached up and traced the curve of her cheek with the tip of one finger, she closed her eyes and savored his touch. This was too good, too sweet, too wonderful to be real.

She tilted her face, urging him to repeat the caress along her jaw, her brow. He rested the weight of his finger against the arc of her lower lip.

A familiar coalescence, like warm, sweet syrup, gathered inside her and moved with nearly painful deliberation toward the juncture of her thighs. The pressure built with agonizing slowness. There. Deep in her belly.

Behind the scars.

Meghan flinched beneath the delicate stroke of his finger along the straight line of her nose, fighting the intrusion of memory. Fighting off the past that would rear its ugly head and destroy Gideon’s magic.

“Meg?”

He caught the tip of her nose between his thumb and forefinger in a playful gesture one might use with a child.

A child.

She lost the fight. The spell was broken.

Meghan’s eyes snapped open and she backed off a step, not sure whether to dredge up an apology or a thank-you.

“You had some soot on your nose.” Gideon splayed his fingers in front of her face, showing her the greasy black residue.

“Oh.” Embarrassment couldn’t begin to describe the emotions trying to break through. She pressed her lips tightly together and waited for control to kick in. Gideon wouldn’t want her to have any feelings for him—grateful or sexual or otherwise. She’d long ago killed any feelings he had for her. So she made a joke. “Well, you know me and makeup. I never get it quite right.”

Gideon didn’t laugh and neither did she. Instead he strode away from her and climbed down a ladder into the basement. It was an easy movement that betrayed no reaction to the heated moment they’d just shared. “I want you to have a look at something I found earlier.”

If she was smart, she’d turn around and walk the other way. But then, she’d never been able to resist one of Gideon’s challenges. And if it was work-related…

That was where their relationship had started in the first place. As a probationary recruit about to wash out of basic training, Gideon had taken her under his wing and turned her into a real firefighter. She’d learned her skills at the foot of a master. This was her career now. This was who she was and who she needed to be. She’d be foolish to turn down the opportunity to learn more.

Carefully watching her step and keeping her distance, she followed him down the ladder. “What is it?”

She stepped down into a half-inch slush of water and dirt and debris. While the muck oozed around the soles of her boots, Gideon directed his flashlight across the floor.

“There.” He lifted one of the charred planks piled in the middle of the floor and tossed it aside. “You can hardly see it through this slime, but it’s there.”

She moved to help him clear more boards to prop them up in a makeshift dam until they’d exposed a four-foot square of old stone tile. He used the beam of his flashlight to point out crisscrossed markings burned into the floor that were a darker shade of black than the surrounding charcoal and ash.

Meghan squatted for a closer look. She wiped her hand clean on her pant leg and reached down to touch one of the charred lines. Her finger came back sticky. “What is it?”

Gideon hunkered down beside her, testing the tacky residue as she had, but bringing a sample up to his nose to sniff it. “My guess is a petroleum distillate, like kerosene or gasoline.”

“A catalyst. Does that mean what I think it does?”

Gideon nodded. His serious expression left no room for doubt. “Arson. Someone set it deliberately.”

A cold, cold feeling of alarm stilled the skittering pulse in her veins. The shadowy figure darting across the corridor before the platform collapse suddenly made sense. It hadn’t been the dog at all.

“Gideon?” What she’d seen had been more hallucination than fact. Her description wouldn’t give Gideon or the police much to go on. But it might be important. “You didn’t find any trace of a body, did you?”

“No.”

The quirk of his eyebrow told her he was interested in what she had to say.

“Then I think I saw who set the fire.”

Chapter Three

Meghan didn’t know which disturbed her more—her sudden notoriety or seeing Gideon again.

At least the congratulatory phone calls at the station and the bouquets of flowers from her battalion commander and three animal rights agencies would go away after a few days.

Memories of her time with Gideon Taylor would haunt her forever.

After she’d given her brief statement to Gideon, she returned with her team to the station house. Off duty for the next sixteen hours, Meghan had showered, changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a navy tank top, shoved her feet into a pair of slip-on tennis shoes and sped off in her pickup truck. She’d delivered all but the commander’s bouquet to the Truman Medical Center, and stopped by the animal shelter.

She’d been efficient. An hour and a half later, she was pulling up to a house in the Kansas City suburb of Ray-town, Missouri, not too far from Kauffman and Arrowhead stadiums. She parked her Ford Ranger in the long asphalt driveway in front of the white, two-story, barn-style house that felt more like home than her own apartment.

Meghan rolled down the window and killed the engine before leaning back into her seat and taking the first unfettered breath she’d enjoyed since the station dispatcher had sounded the alarm that morning. She sat in the driveway and studied the house with its detached garage. The gold shutters needed a new coat of paint and the shrubs out front needed some pruning.

There was a normalcy about a house that was truly lived in, which Meghan envied. But it wasn’t the need to tend something, or the towering pine trees, or even the massive yard that brought her back here every evening and weekend she was free. It was the people.

Her boys, to be more precise.

No. Dorie Mesner’s boys. Or, most accurately, the four boys who were orphaned or legal wards of the state who had been assigned to live in Dorie’s group home.

The same group home where Meghan had spent one relatively safe year of her life before turning eighteen and moving out on her own.

She leaned across the bench seat and stuck her fingers through the grate of the plastic pet carrier. She smiled at the cold nose that butted her hand and laughed at the warm tongue that licked her fingers. “Don’t be nervous. I was at my first visit, too. But Dorie’s a nice lady. She comes on all tough in the beginning, but by the end of the day she’ll be baking you cookies. Or, in your case, sneaking you dog treats.”

The plaintive whine from the pooch, which the vet had officially labeled a terrier mix, struck a familiar chord in Meghan. The seven-month-old dog had been abandoned. The dog’s life as a runaway had left her traumatized by the fire, with sore paws and two thumb-nail-size patches of bare pink skin on her tail where she’d been singed by flying embers.

Basically, Meghan had agreed to be the dog’s foster parent. “Come here. We girls have to stick together around here.” She opened the carrier and let the dog climb into her lap so they could cuddle and trade comforts.

With the animal shelter full, she was to watch the dog until they could determine where she belonged. In the meantime, Meghan had to try to take care of her without becoming too attached—just in case the dog had to go away again. She scratched the base of the dog’s ears, reassuring her of her good intentions without actually making the promise that she could stay.

Meghan had heard that promise and seen it broken more than once.

“Whatcha got, Meghan?”

Edison Pike. A gangly ten-year-old with a shock of two-toned blond hair stood at the open truck window. She should have known he’d spot the dog right away. His observant blue eyes didn’t miss much. He was as smart as his namesake, but she knew better than to call him that.

“Hey, Eddie.” The dog propped her two front paws on the door and sniffed at her potential playmate. Eddie, on the other hand, held himself perfectly still. “It’s okay.” Meghan thought he might be leery of the dog’s eager greeting. “She’s friendly. She doesn’t bite, though she might try to lick you on the nose.”

“What’s wrong with her? She’s missing fur on her tail. What are the bandages on her paws for?” Ah, yes. Asked with all the detachment of true scientific curiosity.

A nice cover for a boy who wasn’t willing to risk his emotions. Meghan could relate.

“She was caught in a fire I worked today. The vet said the injuries aren’t severe. No smoke inhalation to worry about, only a few minor burns. We just have to watch that she doesn’t scratch or chew on the raw skin. We get to watch her for a few days.”

Eddie inched a step closer. “Does she have a name?”

“Not yet.” He lifted the back of his hand to within reach of the dog’s nose. The dog snuffled Eddie’s hand, then twisted her neck to press the top of her head into his palm, demanding to be petted. “I think she likes you.”

The dog was doing all the work, but Meghan was pleased to see that Eddie hadn’t pulled his hand away. “I think we should call her Crispy.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s lucky she didn’t get burned to a crisp,” Eddie reasoned.

“Crispy it is, then. Here.” She hooked a leash to Crispy’s new red collar and handed her through the window to Eddie. “Keep a good hold on her. Why don’t you run her to the backyard where the fence is? Make sure the gate’s shut tight.”

“Okay.”

Pleased with his new friend and new responsibility, Eddie set the dog on the ground and took off toward the back of the house. Meghan moved at a much slower pace. As stress and adrenaline let down, fatigue set in. She picked up the carrier and a sack of pet supplies from the back of the truck, and hiked up to the front door. With her hands full, she nudged the doorbell with her elbow.

Seconds later the door sprang open. “Meghan.”

Dorie Mesner, her cap of snow-white hair flying out in frizzy curls all around her head, uttered the robust greeting and pulled the grocery sack from her arms all at the same time. She stuck her nose inside the sack. “What have you done this time?”

Meghan grinned. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

“Oh.” Dorie grimaced and ushered Meghan inside. “Come in, come in.”

Meghan followed the seventy-year-old woman through the house into the kitchen, then set up the carrier and bowls with food and water on the screened-in back porch. “Crispy is going to stay with us for a few days, until the humane society can verify whether she’ll go up for adoption or not.”

“Just like those boys. It’s a darn shame, living in limbo like that.” Dorie picked up a wooden spoon and stirred something wonderfully spicy and aromatic on the stove. “Don’t mind my fussin’. She can stay. My Jim had huntin’ dogs the whole thirty-six years I was married to him. That backyard was made for pets.” She covered the pot and rinsed the spoon in the sink. “I just hope those boys don’t get too attached in case she does have a home to go to.”

“I know. It’d be hard on all of us. But we’ll be there for each other, right?” Meghan smiled, well aware of the other woman’s penchant to helping anyone—or anything—in need. With shameless curiosity, Meghan opened the pot Dorie had just stirred. “Mmm. Homemade spaghetti sauce. Mind if I stay for dinner?”

Dorie propped her hands on her ample hips. Her green eyes twinkled. “Have I ever turned you away?”

Meghan crossed the room and traded hugs. “Thankfully, no.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Dorie dashed into the family room and Meghan stepped into double time to follow. “You’re going to be on TV. They showed a picture of you and that awful fire on the news teaser.” She perched on the vinyl couch and picked up two remotes. “I tried to program the VCR to record Channel Ten, but I never can tell if I got the right thing. Oh. There you are.”

Dorie’s infectious excitement lost its appeal when the familiar image of the old Meyer’s Textile warehouse flashed across the screen. The camera shot panned down across the crowd, as if drawn like a beacon to Saundra Ames’s striking red hair.

“That Saundra Ames is a real looker, isn’t she?”

Definitely, Meghan silently agreed. She looked like a small, pale shadow, by comparison, standing beside the statuesque reporter, clutching the dog. Meghan looked as if she’d been working a hard job on a hot day. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead in the light of the camera, while Saundra commanded attention with the just-powdered perfection of her taut cheekbones and bright blue eyes. The reporter’s soft blue silk suit looked stunning, while Meghan’s sweat-marked T-shirt and slacks just looked tired. Like her.

What kind of woman are you, anyway, freak? You can’t look the part, or act it, can you.

That was Uncle Pete’s wretched voice taunting her inside her head. Meghan squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block the vile memory. She couldn’t watch this. She could only see herself through Pete Preston’s eyes, and the image wasn’t very flattering.

She couldn’t even remember what lame answers she’d given Ms. Ames, but she was sure she didn’t want to listen to herself drone on about fire safety and her hopes that the young women of Kansas City would set goals and pursue them no matter what life threw at them.

Even if it threw you one doozy of a curve ball. Over and over again.

It was only in the past year or so that Meghan had learned to believe that a strikeout wasn’t her only option. A few times, in fact, she’d managed to take one of those curve balls and turn it into a hit. Her therapist had advised her that her past didn’t necessarily have to be a handicap. She could use it as a tool to help others.

That’s when she’d called Dorie to ask if she needed an extra hand at her group home.

But healing was a long process. What had still been an open wound two years ago was now a thin scar that could withstand day-to-day encounters with her co-workers and a few close friends. But she still wasn’t ready to see herself paraded in front of a camera as a potential object of ridicule. As a pariah who couldn’t quite measure up. One who wasn’t good enough or whole enough to be a success in a modern woman’s world.

She might never be.

Let Dorie satisfy her curiosity. Meghan wanted no part of this. “Been there. Done that.” She had already backed up to the open doorway. “I’ll just go hang with Eddie in the backyard.”

The older woman nodded without tearing her gaze from the television screen. “The little ones are outside, too. Would you mind checking on them?”

“Sure.”

The evening air didn’t feel any less scorching than this afternoon’s. But Meghan inhaled a muggy breath, grateful for the chance to be outside, far away from the uncomfortable image of her freckled face plastered on the news for all of Kansas City to see.

She stood at the top of the stoop and let the worries of the day fade into the present. Crispy charged across the length of the yard, with Eddie and a tiny toddler in hot pursuit. Little Mark Grimes had just turned two. About the same size as the dog, Mark’s dark brown curls bounced atop his head with each stiff-kneed waddle. His chubby fingers reached out for the dog, though he wasn’t catching anything but air. And his delighted giggle as Crispy changed course and circled around him could only be described as a chortle.

So young, so innocent. Orphaned six months ago by a tragic house fire, all he wanted was someone to love him.

Meghan did.

As he toddled past, she dashed down the stairs and scooped him up into her arms. “Whee-ee!”

Mark laughed. He stuck his arms out like an airplane and she twirled him around, finally setting him down in the middle of the yard where Eddie and Crispy were wrestling. Meghan plopped down onto the ground next to Mark and let him climb on her as if she were a jungle gym.

Mark was an adorable little tyke who would have been snatched up by adoptive parents in an instant if it wasn’t for one not-so-small thing. His brother.

Speaking of which…

With Mark and Eddie occupied, she let her gaze slide around the perimeter of the yard. The swing set was empty, the sandbox unused. The remote-control car on the patio sat untouched.

A tight fist of unease gripped her stomach.

She plucked Mark from her shoulders and sent him toddling off after the dog again. “Eddie?” She rose to her knees, then purposely climbed to her feet. “Where’s Matthew?”

Eddie’s thin chest rose and fell as he panted for breath. He pointed to the garage. “Last I saw, he was in there.”

Unlike his brother Mark, four-year-old Matthew Grimes remembered the night his home was destroyed and his parents were killed. The brothers were a matched set, legally and emotionally bonded to remain together. And Matthew was definitely a much harder sell to any prospective parent. Though child therapists had worked with him, he refused to talk about that night.

He refused to talk, period.

Feeling more than a twinge of concern tingling in her belly, Meghan hurried to the faded side door that opened onto the backyard. With the main door closed, the interior of the garage was dark and stale with humidity. She stood with her hand resting for a few moments on the peeling paint of the door frame, giving her vision a chance to adjust to the shadows. “Matthew?”

Not that she expected him to answer. She couldn’t imagine the terror and grief that must have shocked the boy into such a sullen silence. She scanned the interior, much as she would a smoke-filled building, holding herself still and patiently waiting for some sound or smell to give away the location of any victims trapped inside.

Dorie must have mowed today. The air in the garage was pungent with the scents of cut grass and gasoline. But she detected no light, soap-water scent of boy. Until…

The creak of old wood and the rattle of metal on metal turned her attention to the workbench that had once belonged to Jim Mesner. Perched on top, with his short legs hanging over the edge, sat Matthew.

“Hey, big guy.” Meghan greeted him with a smile and walked slowly toward him. The tension in her stomach eased a fraction at having located the boy, but the sadness in his eyes kept her from celebrating. “What are you doing out here? You know the garage is a ‘no’ place. Dorie wants you to play outside or in the basement or in your room. With the van and the tools—” not to mention the pesticides and can of gasoline for the lawnmower “—this isn’t a safe place to play.”

His gaze drifted over to her shoulder without really looking at her. Meghan climbed up beside him on the bench. Maybe he was making progress, after all—he didn’t slide over or jump off to get away from her.

“I’ll bet you didn’t come here to play.” She knew he hadn’t. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually seen him holding a toy or chasing a ball or doing anything as carefree and therapeutic as letting loose and running through the yard with a child’s energy and abandon. She tucked her hands between her knees and continued in a gentle voice. “Did you come in here to be alone?”

She’d almost given up hope of getting any kind of answer when he slowly nodded his head. Meghan pressed her lips together to keep herself from startling him with an effusive smile.

“I like to be alone sometimes, too.” She shrugged her shoulders with an honest sigh. “Especially on a day like today.” She skipped any talk about the fire. “Did you know I was on TV? Dorie’s making a tape. I looked pretty silly holding that dog. Did you meet Crispy?”

Matthew was watching her face now. This was the kind of therapy his counselor had said he needed. Just keep talking to him. Keep interacting. Keep including him in day-to-day activities. Eventually, when he was ready, he’d join in. He’d start talking when he had something he wanted to say.

With his brown hair and brown eyes, Matthew was a miniature version of Gideon. Instantly the illusory pain in her belly returned.

Just keep talking. “I met an old friend of mine today.”

Well, not exactly a friend. Not anymore.

“He looks a lot like you. Dark brown hair. Dark eyes.” She offered him a gentle grin. “He’s taller, though. I imagine you’ll be just as tall one day.”

Nothing.

“His name is Gideon Taylor.” She’d steer away from his being a firefighter and wouldn’t mention his big family. That left her with, “He’s a very special man. Strong. Quiet, like you. Sometimes he communicates without using any words at all.”

Matthew made eye contact.

Meghan’s smile wavered. “I wish you could meet him.” He’d make a perfect daddy. “He’s patient.” Matthew’s eyebrows lifted into a questioning frown. “That means he takes his time to do things. He doesn’t push anyone to go faster than they need to.”

Her mind drifted back to all those evenings Gideon had worked with her after a training session to help her build her strength or to teach her a new skill. She thought of all those nights when he’d patiently shown her the way a man and woman could please each other. He hadn’t minded the scars that showed on her belly. He’d treated her as if he thought she was beautiful. She remembered all the mornings after when they’d cuddled in bed and talked.

He’d made her feel as if she was a beautiful person—almost.

“He was a wonderful teacher.” Her breath hitched on an unexpected gasp. Oh, God. Were those tears stinging her eyes? Meghan turned her head so Matthew couldn’t see.

She was the one who had screwed things up. She was the one who had broken Gideon’s heart without an explanation. He’d been willing to take a chance she couldn’t allow him to take.

She didn’t have the right to cry.

“The grass on that lawnmower must be getting to me.” She’d never had an allergy in her life. Meghan wiped her hand across her eyes. “You’d like him.”

On impulse, needing the human contact as much as she suspected Matthew did, she leaned over and hugged him. She squeezed him tight and pressed a kiss onto the crown of his silky fine hair.

Matthew didn’t hug her back. But he didn’t push her away, either.

This was as close as she’d ever come to having a child of her own. So she held him close a few moments longer, inhaling his sweet, clean scent and damning the fates for making her so flawed in the first place.

“Meghan!” Eddie’s young tenor voice nabbed her attention before he appeared at the side door of the garage. Was there a problem with Mark? Crispy? She left a comforting hand on Matthew’s shoulder and focused in on the rapid-fire delivery of Eddie’s words. “Dorie says you have to come into the house right away. There’s a phone call. It’s Alex. I think he’s in trouble again. She looks like she’s gonna pass out. You gotta come.”

Alexis Pitsaeli was the oldest boy who lived at the group home. He was all of sixteen and ready to take on the world. Unfortunately he didn’t always choose the smartest way to conquer it.

Meghan jumped down off the workbench and took Matthew’s hand. She never released him as he climbed down. Pulling him along behind her, she picked up Mark and followed Eddie into the house.

They found Dorie standing in the kitchen, grasping the disconnected phone in one hand and the counter in the other. Her skin had faded to an alarming shade of ash and her cheeks were splotched with color. This wasn’t good.

“What’s wrong?” Meghan asked, depositing Mark into Eddie’s arms and sending the three boys down to the basement. She hung up the phone and guided Dorie to the table to make her sit.

“It’s Alex. He’s at a police station in downtown K.C. The officer said he’d been in a fight.” Dorie breathed in shallow puffs of air and patted her chest. “I can feel my blood pressure going through the roof already. I hope he’s all right.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, or the officer would have said otherwise.” She hoped. “How can I help?”

“Will you go down to the precinct office for me? I don’t think I can handle the paperwork or his attitude right now.”

“I’ll go.” She turned Dorie’s wrist between her thumb and fingers and checked the older woman’s racing pulse. “You been taking your medication?”

“Yes. And watching my diet. There’s not a lick of salt in that spaghetti tonight.” Her vehement protest faded on a pant of breath. “It’s just stress. And my seventy-year-old heart.”

Meghan frowned. She fully intended to help Alex understand the consequences of his actions. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll feed the boys, and when I get back with Alex I’ll bring you some dinner.”

Dorie shook her head. “Nonsense. I can feed the little ones. You just bring that teenager home so I know he’s safe.”

“I will.”

Reluctant to leave Dorie alone, but understanding that this was the best way she could help, Meghan pressed a kiss to her grandmotherly temple and hurried toward the front door. She slowed her pace as she neared the entryway, thinking something looked odd. She stopped when she realized what was out of place. A large bouquet of yellow roses sat on the hall table. Long-stemmed and studded with statis and greenery. Meghan released a long, low whistle. Someone had spent a fortune.

On one very sick idea of a joke.

Meghan felt a corresponding tension quiver through her muscles, setting her entire body on edge. She looked over her shoulder to Dorie. “Where did these come from?”

“Oh, those came for you while you were out back. After that phone call, I forgot to tell you.” Dorie pressed her hand over her heart. “Imagine. A dozen roses. You must have an ardent admirer.”

Meghan frowned. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all. “There are only eleven roses.”

“I didn’t notice.” The older woman shuffled into the foyer beside her. “Did the florist make a mistake?”

“I don’t think so.”

One anonymous rose she could write off as a little weird and donate it to the hospital with the rest of her flowers.

Eleven golden mates showing up on the same day to complete the gift was downright creepy.

“Did you see who delivered them?”

“The doorbell rang during the news.” She could hear the agitation in Dorie’s voice as she picked up on Meghan’s tension. “By the time I got to it, the bouquet was on the doorstep and a white van was backing out of the driveway. The sun was reflecting off the windshield and I didn’t have my glasses on.”

“Was there a name on the side of the van?”

Dorie shrugged an apology. “If I remember, there were some red letters or markings on the driver’s door.”

Meghan pulled a thorny stem aside to get a closer look at the blank envelope. “And you’re sure they’re for me? There’s no name.”

“Honey, my Jim’s been dead goin’ on ten years now. Who’d be sending an old girl like me flowers?”

Meghan traded worried looks with Dorie. “How did they know where to deliver them? Why didn’t they go to my apartment?”

Only John Murdock and the chief knew that this was her second home. And she doubted anyone at Family Services who knew she volunteered here would be sending flowers. She supposed someone could have tried to deliver them at the station house and been redirected here. But John was off duty, too. Who else knew to find her here? Had she been followed?

Dorie tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t stand there gawkin’ at ’em. Open the card and see who they’re from. Maybe that’ll solve the mystery.”

An uneasy feeling settled around Meghan’s shoulders as she plucked the envelope from its plastic mount. That uneasy feeling knotted into a combination of fear and anger—a sense of violation deep in her gut—as she pulled out the card and read it.

“That’s odd.” Dorie’s confusion echoed her own. “It doesn’t say.”

Meghan crammed the note into the pocket of her shorts. The discomfiting words were already emblazoned in her memory.

You are truly Kansas City’s Bravest.

You know I love you.

Only one man had ever claimed to love her.

And she’d thrown his proposal back in his face and walked out of his life forever.

Chapter Four

The drive into downtown Kansas City gave Meghan plenty of time to plan what to say to Alex, and then dismiss each version of her speech three times over. She wasn’t his mother. She wasn’t even his legal guardian. She was just a friend. He was a young man who needed someone he could count on. He needed a role model to learn from—someone who could teach him to make smarter choices without compromising his self-respect.

Meghan didn’t think she was up to the task. But she had to try. She had to put her own self-doubts on hold, ignore her nagging curiosity about that odd bouquet of roses, and be there for him. Whether he’d admit he wanted someone around who cared or not.

The drive also gave her plenty of time to fuel her paranoia. Every flash of white on the road seemed to catch her eye. Trucks. Cars. Even a white van.

But no red letters on the side. No florist’s logo.

Hundreds of nameless, faceless travelers shared the highway with her. Did one of them know her? Had someone followed her from the warehouse fire to the station house? To Dorie’s? Was that someone following her right now?

Or was someone from the station playing a tasteless practical joke on her?

If it was a joke, she wasn’t laughing. And if she had picked up a resourceful secret admirer, flattered wouldn’t be the word she’d use to describe her feeling about the anonymous flowers. She had no interest in gifts from admirers, secret or otherwise. If that admirer thought his boldness or cleverness would be appreciated in return, he was sadly mistaken. She just wanted to know the truth, and then she wanted to put an end to it.

But first things first. Though it was nearly 8:00 p.m., the summer sun was still bright in the sky, giving her the flagging energy of a never-ending day as she pulled up to the white stone building that served as the Fourth Precinct headquarters. By the time she’d secured her visitor’s badge at the front desk and pushed the button for the elevator, Meghan had made only two clear decisions. Her first priority would be to make sure Alex hadn’t been hurt.

And the eleven roses were going into the trash.

Beyond that? She took a deep, fortifying breath to prepare herself for whatever Alex’s story might be. She’d never had much luck with long-term plans, anyway.

The elevator opened up to a maze of desks and partitions, set apart from the hallway by a tall, circular work station. A bank of offices with blinds at each window lined the opposite wall. A handful of men and women, dressed in professional street clothes, sat at their computers or talked on phones. The bulk of the night shift seemed to be made up of uniformed officers, though, wearing their familiar light blue shirts and black slacks.

Meghan clutched at the ID card hanging around her neck and crossed to the sergeant’s desk. A tall, female officer with a strawberry-blond braid down her back was arguing with someone on the phone.

“You can’t do that.” The woman swallowed hard, probably schooling her temper. Unsuccessfully. “Dammit, Danny. You can’t keep her this weekend. You know I’m going to Minnesota to see my family. Let me talk to her. Danny?”

She held out the receiver and glared at it for several moments before finally setting it down in the cradle of the phone. The Danny who had her so upset must have just hung up on her. The woman stood and stared at the phone for several moments.

When it seemed as though she might be calming down a bit, Meghan cleared her throat, subtly diverting the woman’s attention. “Are you all right?”

The female officer laughed as she turned around to face her. “Sure, why not?” But her red-rimmed eyes looked as if they were fighting back tears. She nodded toward the phone. “My soon-to-be ex. Need I say more?” Shutting off the emotional pain she must be feeling, the officer shifted into cop mode. “Thanks for asking. I’m Sergeant Wheeler. How can I help you?”

“The front desk sent me up here to pick up Alex Pitsaeli.”

Several minutes passed as the sergeant verified Meghan’s ID and typed the information into the computer. “I’ll have him brought out. We’ve had him in one of the interrogation rooms, just to separate him from his buddy.”

Buddy? Not good. Like the other woman, Meghan clenched her teeth and held her emotions in check. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger or disappointment trying to make itself heard—probably a combination of the three. “Do you know what they were fighting about?”

Sergeant Wheeler shook her head. “The preliminary report doesn’t say. But from the looks of the kids when they came in, it might be gang related. His buddy’s got a Warrior tattoo.”

Definitely not good. One of the conditions of Alex remaining in Dorie’s home was that he sever all connections to the Westside Warriors. Though he, too, sported a stylized W tattoo on the back of his right shoulder, his career as a gang-banger had ended.

Supposedly.

“Is he free to go?”

Sergeant Wheeler nodded. “The papers will give you the date he has to appear in juvie court.” She pointed to a row of empty chairs beside the elevator. “Have a seat. He’ll be right out.”

Meghan chose to pace rather than sit. “Police reports. Court dates.” She swiped her loose hair up behind the nape of her neck, then let it filter through her fingers down her back. “How are we going to handle this one?” She supposed most kids had families they could count on. They’d have a parent or sibling who could guide them through their trouble. Right now, all Alex had was her. She cocked her eyebrows into a wry frown. “There’s a comforting thought.”

About as comforting as the anonymous love note that pressed against her hip inside her pocket. Meghan stopped in her tracks. Why hadn’t she pitched the thing? Now it was calling to her. That all-too-suspicious voice inside her head that longed for security was demanding answers. Closure.

She pulled out the wadded card and smoothed it flat between her palms.

You know I love you.

Maybe John had sent the roses, and she was blowing this whole thing out of proportion. They were getting to be pretty close friends. But a dozen roses as a platonic gesture? And wouldn’t he have signed the card? Or confessed to leaving her the rose in the fire truck?

She didn’t have any family to speak of, at least none alive who’d claim to love her.

Of course, there was always…Meghan caught her breath at the crazy possibility. She’d run into Gideon this afternoon—after almost two years apart from each other. Though he’d touched her so tenderly, his mood had been distant. Cool. As if he was trying to hide something. Surely, he didn’t still feel…he couldn’t.

Her heart did a crazy flip-flop in her chest. But she quickly squelched the foolish hope with common sense. The reasons she’d had to leave were the same now as they’d been two years ago. Gideon had talked about kids and family and forever.

How long would his love have really lasted when he found out she couldn’t guarantee him any of those things? And noble son of a gun that he was, he’d have probably stayed with her anyway—not because she made him happy, but because he thought it was the right thing to do. She refused to sentence him to a life of sacrifice like that.

Maybe the flowers were just a misguided thank-you from a dog lover who’d seen her after the fire. But then, the note didn’t make sense.

You know I love you.

She didn’t want anyone to love her like this.

She slipped the card back into her pocket, no closer to finding answers than she’d been earlier.

Her therapist had told her that she needed to tell Gideon the truth, that that would be the only way to bring closure to that chapter of her life. She’d come a long way in the past two years, developing the emotional courage she’d lacked for so long. But along with that courage came a sense of responsibility. Gideon deserved to know why she’d turned down his marriage proposal, running out of his apartment and his life with little more than a backward glance. But he didn’t deserve any more pain. And she wasn’t sure how the truth could do anything but hurt him all over again.

It seemed both a curse and a blessing to have someone else’s troubles to worry about for a change.

“Alex.” She recognized the sixteen-year-old by his short, stocky dimensions as a young police officer escorted him down the hall to meet her. What the sixteen-year-old lacked in height, he packed on with muscle. He was perfect for the wrestling program at the local high school. He’d even made the varsity team his sophomore year. But that had been last winter. Since school had gotten out for the summer, he’d been moody and mysterious and had missed Dorie’s curfew more than once.

Now he’d been detained for disorderly conduct. If he was lucky, the judge would only order community service and not assign him to a probation officer. Meghan shook her head, wishing she knew what had caused his backslide from reformation success to juvenile delinquent.

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