Fan the Flames by Katie Ruggle Page A

Beauty!” Soup called from across the room. His name was actually Mercer Warhol, but no one called him that. “You bring us a new recruit?”
    Before Ian could answer—or Rory could pull her arm free and make a run for it—Junior Higgins said, “Rory! What are you doing outside the compound?”
    Steve Springfield gave Junior’s shoulder a shove. Since Steve was a burly monster of a man, and Junior, at five feet, six inches, lived up to his name, he stumbled back several feet before catching his balance.
    â€œWhat?” Junior asked plaintively.
    Steve gave him a stern look. “Don’t be rude.”
    â€œRory.” The chief walked toward them, smiling. “Thinking of volunteering?”
    Feeling uncomfortable under the curious stares of a dozen pairs of eyes, Rory gave Early a tight shrug, trying to return his smile. “Ian invited me to training. I thought maybe I’d give it a trial run.”
    â€œGreat!” The chief gave her a boisterous pat on the upper arm. Rory had to firm her stance so she didn’t go flying like Junior had. “For tonight, I just have a waiver for you to sign. Then give it a few training sessions and see if it’s for you. We could use some women in the ranks.”
    â€œYeah.” Junior’s eyes lit. “Feel free to recruit any friends. Especially the hot ones.”
    This time, Ian cuffed the back of Junior’s head. “Knock it off.”
    As Junior rubbed the back of his skull and sulked, Steve nodded at Rory and gave her one of his rare, sweet smiles that were usually directed only at his kids. Despite his size and normally serious expression, Steve had a gentle way about him and an old-fashioned sense of gallantry. It was impossible not to like him. “Good to see you.”
    â€œYou, too.” She racked her brain for a conversational topic and seized, as always, on guns. “How’s that Kimber rifle working for you?”
    Steve grimaced. “Haven’t been able to touch it. Brady, my thirteen-year-old, used it on our elk hunt last fall. He liked it so much, he’s claimed it as his.”
    Smiling, Rory relaxed a little. “Come in sometime, and we’ll find you a replacement.”
    Before Steve could reply, the chief handed Rory a clipboard holding a release waiver and called for everyone’s attention. “Got a new portable tank we need to get wet. A couple of people”—he eyed Junior, who dropped his gaze to his boots—“need a refresher in how to operate the trucks, especially where to find the tank-to-pump switch. Steve, you’re heading up training tonight. Soup, get the lights. Go.”
    As the firefighters scattered, Rory signed the form and handed it back to the chief. After that, she just tried to stay out of the way, but Ian gestured for her to join him. She climbed into the cab of the truck he’d just started, and she eyed the unfamiliar controls with interest. He drove into the parking lot, joining two other trucks.
    â€œThis is one of our tenders,” Ian explained as he backed the truck toward the portable tank some of the other guys were setting up. The tank looked kind of like a large kiddie swimming pool. “It carries water to the scene.”
    â€œNot many places out here with hydrants, I suppose,” she said, and he shook his head.
    â€œExactly. We’re going to set up the portable tank and draft water from that to the engine.”
    Rory frowned. “Why not just hook the tender to the engine and skip a step?”
    â€œSometimes we do,” he agreed. “With the tank, though, we can dump the water and then take the tender back for more. That works the best when we’re a ways from the nearest water source.”
    â€œDo you get the water from the reservoirs, then?”
    â€œReservoirs, creeks, rivers, plus we have underground tanks scattered around the district.” Ian opened his door, and the