The Rescue Call

The dispatch call came in mid-afternoon. Belinda Rainiere grabbed her kit before the dispatcher finished the address. Station 7. Firefighter down. Possible head injury.

Her partner, Mark, hit the sirens as she settled into the passenger seat. Station 7 was the old brick firehouse on Jefferson, the one with the historic bell tower and the captains everyone whispered about. She'd heard the rumors. Men who ran that house with military precision, each commanding in his own right. She'd never had reason to find out if the gossip was true.

Until now.

The bay doors were open when they pulled in. A cluster of firefighters in turnouts stood near the engine, and at the center of them, a man sat on the floor with blood dripping down his temple. Belinda's training kicked in. She was out of the rig before it fully stopped, her bag in hand, her focus narrowing to the patient.

"Clear a path," she said, her voice carrying the authority she'd earned over six years on the job. The crowd parted. She knelt beside the injured firefighter, a young probie whose name tag read "Martinez." His eyes were glassy but tracking.

"What happened?"

"Ladder slipped," he said. "Caught me on the way down."

She ran her fingers through his hair, finding the wound. A two-inch laceration, superficial but bleeding heavily. Scalp wounds always did. She pulled out a gauze pad and applied pressure.

"I'm going to need you to hold this right here," she said, guiding his hand to the spot. "Keep pressure on it while I check your vitals."

"Yes, ma'am."

She was halfway through taking his blood pressure when the first captain appeared.

He came from inside the bay, his footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. Belinda looked up and forgot to breathe for a second. He was tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders that strained the fabric of his navy uniform shirt. Short-cropped dark hair. Steel gray eyes that assessed her with the same clinical precision she used on patients. The badge on his chest read "Stoneark. Captain."

"How is he?" His voice was low, rough, all business.

"Laceration to the scalp. No signs of concussion. Pupils are reactive. He's stable, but he needs stitches and a CT scan to be safe."

Evan Stoneark nodded once. His gaze swept over her, taking in her uniform, her stance, the way her hands moved. Something flickered in his eyes. Approval, maybe. Or just curiosity.

"You're good," he said. It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation.

"I know."

His lips twitched. Almost a smile.

The second captain arrived before she could say anything else. He was shorter than Stoneark, but built like a fighter, all dense muscle and coiled energy. Dark curly hair, golden skin, eyes so brown they were nearly black. He moved with a swagger that screamed confidence. His badge said "Cotswell. Captain."

"Martinez, you're scaring the new guys," he said, his voice warm with a hint of an accent. "Can't have that."

"Sorry, Captain," the probie muttered.

Rayburn Cotswell turned his attention to Belinda. His smile was slow, deliberate, and entirely too charming.

"And who do we have here?" He looked her up and down, not hiding his appreciation. "I don't remember ordering a beautiful paramedic."

"Belinda Rainiere," she said, keeping her tone professional even as heat crept up her neck. "I'm with Metro. You must be Captain Cotswell."

"Rayburn," he corrected. "Captain is for formal occasions. And I have a feeling you and I are going to be very informal."

"That's enough, Cotswell." The third voice came from behind her. She turned to find a man leaning against the engine, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his face. Sandy blond hair, bright blue eyes, dimples that made him look like he'd just told a joke. His badge read "Wisbergh. Captain."

"You're making her uncomfortable," Nate Wisbergh said.

"I'm not making her uncomfortable. I'm being welcoming."

"You're being a flirt."

"I'm being a host."

Belinda bit back a smile. "I'm fine. I've dealt with worse than a little flirting."

Nate's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, I like her."

"Of course you do," Evan muttered.

The probie shifted beneath her hands, and she refocused. "Keep pressure on that," she reminded him. "Mark, can you grab the suture kit?"

Her partner, who had been standing uselessly by the rig, jumped into action. Belinda worked quickly, cleaning the wound, numbing the area, and placing the first stitch. The three captains watched her the entire time. She felt their eyes on her like a physical weight, but she didn't let it shake her. She'd performed procedures in parking lots, in alleys, in the middle of highway accidents. A little audience wasn't going to throw her off.

"Almost done," she said to Martinez. "You're going to have a hell of a scar, but it'll make a good story."

"Can I say I fought a bear?"

"You can say whatever you want. I'm not your PR team."

Rayburn laughed, a rich sound that echoed through the bay. "I like her even more now."

Belinda finished the last stitch and applied a bandage. She helped Martinez to his feet, checked his pupils one more time, and nodded. "You're good for now. But you need to follow up with your doctor. If you get dizzy, if you vomit, if your vision blurs, you go straight to the ER. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She packed her kit and stood. The three captains had formed a loose semicircle around her. She felt like she was being evaluated for something, though she wasn't sure what.

"Thank you," Evan said. His voice was gruff, but there was something softer underneath it. "You handled that well."

"It's my job."

"Not everyone does their job that well." He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. His gray eyes were unreadable, but she felt a pull, a current of something unspoken.

Rayburn stepped closer. He was near enough that she could smell him, soap and smoke with something warm underneath. "You ever come to Station 7 before?"

"First time."

"Then we've been missing out." His hand brushed her arm, light, casual, but the contact sent a jolt through her. "You should come back. We're having a barbecue next Saturday. Nothing fancy. Just the crew and some good food."

"I don't usually socialize with patients."

"She's not our patient," Nate said, pushing off the engine and joining them. "She's the person who fixed our probie. That makes her a hero. And heroes get invited to barbecues."

"It's a firehouse tradition," Rayburn added. "We feed the people who save our asses."

Belinda looked between them. Evan stood a few feet away, his arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable expression. Rayburn was close, his brown eyes warm and inviting. Nate was grinning, his dimples deep, his posture open and easy.

Three very different men. All of them looking at her like she was something interesting.

She should say no. She had a shift the next day, laundry piling up at home, a dozen excuses ready.

But there was something about the way they looked at her. Like they saw her. Like they wanted to see more.

"Saturday?" she asked.

"Six o'clock," Nate said. "Bring an appetite."

"And nothing else," Rayburn added, his voice dropping. "We'll take care of everything."

Evan shot him a look. "Cotswell."

"I'm being hospitable."

"You're being yourself."

"That's the same thing."

Belinda laughed before she could stop herself. The sound surprised her. She didn't usually laugh around strangers. She didn't usually feel this at ease, this drawn in.

"Okay," she said. "I'll think about it."

"Think fast," Nate said. "We're very persuasive."

"I've noticed."

She picked up her kit and walked toward the rig. Mark was already in the driver's seat, looking at her with raised eyebrows. She ignored him. She could feel the three captains watching her leave. Their gazes were warm on her back, and she had to resist the urge to turn around.

She climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door.

"Okay," Mark said. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"They were all over you. All three of them. And you were eating it up."

"I was being professional."

"You were being flirted with. By three fire captains. At the same time." He shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it."

Belinda didn't answer. She was thinking about gray eyes and warm smiles and the way Rayburn's hand had felt on her arm. She was thinking about Saturday. About a barbecue. About men who had looked at her like she was the most interesting thing they'd seen all day.

She was thinking about going.

"Drive," she said.

Mark put the rig in gear and pulled away from the station. Belinda watched the firehouse shrink in the side mirror. The three captains were still standing in the bay, watching her go.

She smiled to herself.

Maybe she'd stop by that barbecue after all.