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  “I need to talk to you.” Ashley pointed down the hallway.

  Belinda rolled her eyes but dried her hands on a dish towel and followed Ashley to a place out of earshot from Irvel and the others.

  “Where’s Lu?” Ashley crossed her arms.

  “She’s busy.” Belinda was matter-of-fact, just short of being rude.

  “Tell her I want the job.”

  “Old Irvel got to you, huh?” Belinda’s expression was just short of a sneer. “Fine. Take the job. But don’t come in here all high-and-mighty, thinking you’re going to rescue Irvel.” Belinda lowered her chin, the sarcasm gone. “Sometimes life’s hard. I found that out the day my husband walked out on me. So what, right? Get over it. Didn’t get much education growing up, so I work here. Tough, right? Break my back every day to make a living. That’s life.”

  She paused, her eyes hard. “Ever heard of Vicodin?”

  Ashley shook her head. Why was Belinda telling her this? To make up for her attitude earlier?

  “Vicodin kills pain. I take it every other day just to survive. That’s what working with these dear, sweet, old folks has done for me. Lifting them into the bath, heaving them into a chair, picking them up off the floor. It’ll kill you eventually.” She grabbed a quick breath. “So don’t think you’re going to be some kind of savior. People like ol’ Hank die. That’s life. The more the patients here understand that, the better off we all are. And that’s why Irvel and her friends need to be grounded in the present day. It’s what their families want, and it’s part of the job. If you don’t like it, maybe you should think about another line of work.”

  Ashley could think of a dozen smart responses, but she didn’t feel like fighting. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Belinda took a step backward. “I’ll tell Lu to call you with a schedule.”

  Ashley felt the muscles in her face relax. As Belinda turned and walked back toward the kitchen, Ashley realized she was no longer angry at the heavyset woman.

  She pitied her.

  And somewhere in the back alleys of her soul—though she didn’t often pray—Ashley begged God that the patients at Sunset Hills would help her remember what was important in life. That they not harden her heart the way they had hardened Belinda’s.

  But rather that they might revive it.

  Chapter Three

  Landon Blake’s chances for survival were almost nonexistent.

  Just before noon, he was wheeled into the emergency room, his long, muscled body motionless on the stretcher. He was unconscious, suffering from severe smoke inhalation, a fractured leg, and a burned back. A thin line across his uniform pants had melted into the back side of his thigh.

  John Baxter was waiting for him in the ER. “God, help us,” he whispered when he saw Landon’s blood oxygen level. “We’re going to need a miracle.”

  Paramedics, friends of Landon’s, wheeled him into a treatment room and carefully lifted him onto a bed. John rattled off orders as the medical team sprang into motion. “Get his uniform off, but be careful.”

  The oxygen treatment tank was ready, and John slipped a mask over Landon’s face. “Hang in there, Landon. Come on.” It was unusual for a firefighter these days to suffer from such severe smoke inhalation. After all, Landon should have had breathing apparatus. Unless—for some reason—he hadn’t used it.

  The treatment was administered through a ventilator that would breathe mechanically for Landon, forcing clean, damp air mixed with medication into his lungs in an attempt to clean out the smoke and chemicals. But damage done in a fire was often too severe for the treatment to do much good.

  The first hour was critical.

  Red numbers flashed on a monitor. Minutes after his rescue, Landon’s blood oxygen level had been in the seventies—barely high enough to live. Paramedics had intubated him immediately, but even now his oxygen level was dangerously low. He had mild burns on his throat, but miraculously his blood tests didn’t show severe carbon monoxide poisoning.

  A strapping young paramedic came up alongside John and stared at Landon. “We . . . we can’t lose him, Doc. He’s the best there is.”

  John glanced up and saw fear on the paramedic’s face. For a moment their eyes held; then John looked back at Landon’s still form. He crossed his arms tightly in front of him. “I’ve known Landon Blake since he was a boy.” John pinched his lips together, his chin quivering. “I’m not letting go of him yet.”

  There was silence for a moment, and the paramedic coughed. “How’s the boy? The one who came in before Landon?”

  “He’s fine.” John gazed at the oxygen monitor. Eighty-nine . . . eighty-eight. . . . Come on, Landon, breathe! “The child has some smoke damage, but not bad.” John shot a look at the paramedic. “It’s amazing, really. He was in the fire as long as Landon. Smoke like that usually kills children first.”

  “Then you don’t know?”

  John leaned against Landon’s bed. “Know what?”

  “It was Landon. He gave the boy his air mask. Saved his life.” The paramedic drew a steadying breath. “When the firemen found them, Landon was unconscious, collapsed over the boy like a shield. He’d covered his own mouth with the neck of his coat. Probably saved his life. Somehow he managed to use the weight of his arm to keep the air mask over the boy’s face.”

  Realization settled over John like a damp cloak. While the child breathed from Landon’s air tank, Landon had breathed smoke—thick, poisonous, deadly smoke. John looked at the monitor again. Ninety . . . eighty-nine . . . it would take a miracle. “What about the other firefighter, the one trapped with Landon?”

  “He got out unharmed.”

  “Good.” John gave a slow nod. “The next hour will be crucial.”

  The paramedic nodded, too choked up to speak. He took Landon’s hand and squeezed it. “Breathe, buddy.” He swallowed hard, his chin quivering. “We need you.”

  Long after the paramedic left, John stayed by Landon’s side, monitoring his oxygen level and making sure his burns were being tended to. They weren’t as bad as John had originally thought—probably more steam burns than anything else. The fireproof material in Landon’s uniform pants must not have melted until the last few seconds. The burns were on only a small section on the back of his thighs and a few spots near his lower spine. They might even heal without skin grafts. He would need surgery to set his broken leg, but it was a clean break. It could have been worse. Besides, it wasn’t Landon’s burns or the broken leg that worried John.

  It was his damaged lungs.

  At the end of the first hour, Landon’s oxygen had reached the low nineties—not where John wanted it, but better than before. At least Landon was alive.

  The moment John could break away, he called home and told his wife what had happened.

  “Oh, John . . . no.” The concern in Elizabeth’s voice was the same as if the news had been about one of their own children. “He’s going to make it, isn’t he?”

  “It’s too soon to tell.” John was anxious to get back to Landon. “Tell Ashley, will you? She needs to know.”

  By then Landon’s parents, his extended family, and half a dozen firemen had arrived at the hospital. One by one they’d been in to visit him, pray for him, encourage him to hold on. John hoped Ashley would get the news quickly. He had a feeling her presence might mean more to the young man than all the other visits combined.

  Two hours passed, then three, with no sign of Ashley. John checked on Landon as often as he could, and by four o’clock his oxygen meter read ninety-three. Still not good, but an improvement. As John’s shift ended, a reporter from the local paper called.

  “We understand the injured firefighter gave his air mask to a child, is that right?”

  “Yes. The child is fine, scheduled to go home in the morning.” John steadied his voice. “The firefighter is in critical condition. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “So the firefighter’s a hero.”

  “Yes.” John swallowed a
lump in his throat. “No question about it. His selfless efforts saved the boy’s life.”

  The moment the interview was finished, John headed toward his car. He had to find Ashley. Landon’s oxygen level was too low for his brain to survive, too low to sustain consciousness, especially given the fact that he was on a respirator. With mechanical help, Landon’s numbers should have been in the high nineties. If they didn’t improve soon, Landon might not live through the night. And if he did . . .

  John shuddered at the thought of Landon confined to a bed, living the rest of his days brain damaged, in a vegetative state.

  Wherever Ashley was, she needed to get to the hospital. Needed to let Landon hear her voice, tell him she was pulling for him, caring for him.

  Or at least tell him good-bye.

  Before time ran out for both of them.

  * * *

  Kari Baxter Jacobs—John and Elizabeth’s second daughter—sat in the corner of the Baxter living room, cradling her daughter, Jessie. She and the baby had been visiting a friend, and she hadn’t received word about Landon Blake until an hour ago. By the time she arrived at her parents’ home in Clear Creek, just south of Bloomington, the house had been full of people praying for his survival. Kari’s youngest sister, Erin Hogan; their brother, Luke; and his girlfriend, Reagan Decker, sat around the room, quiet and somber.

  All of them guessing at places where they might find Ashley.

  Kari glanced up from her baby and met her mother’s eyes. “She left Cole with you this morning. Didn’t she say when she’d be back?”

  A sigh slipped from Elizabeth’s lips. “The interview was supposed to be over before noon. I thought she’d come straight home.”

  “Typical Ashley move.” Luke shifted to the floor and rested his back against Reagan’s knees. Kari had watched the two of them grow close these past months, and she’d talked to Luke about his intentions. There was no question about it—Luke was in love. And Kari was convinced Reagan felt the same way.

  Luke was still carrying on about Ashley’s absence. “Poor Cole upstairs playing by himself and you stuck baby-sitting all day. Again.” He sputtered. “I mean, come on, Mom. She could’ve at least called.”

  “I’m sure she has a reason.”

  “Sure, Ashley always has a reason. Especially when it’s—”

  Kari tuned them out. It didn’t matter where Ashley was or why she wasn’t home by now. What mattered was Landon Blake—struggling for his life, every breath an uncertainty.

  Kari ran her finger over Jessie’s tiny forehead, her mind wandering back to another time when she had waited for news about someone lying injured in a hospital bed. The years melted away, and Kari could hear the football game playing from the television in this very room, hear her father’s voice calling her.

  “Kari, quick! Ryan’s been hurt.”

  His words were as clear now as they’d been all those years ago when Ryan Taylor had been nearly paralyzed. She had been in love with him back then, and she could still picture him lying on the football field, still see his distraught mother at the hospital later that night.

  The memory faded, and a more recent one took its place. A memory of her and Ryan last year at Lake Monroe, where for the first time she had understood the truth about what happened so long ago, in the aftermath of his injury.

  Kari blinked.

  Since her husband, Tim, had been murdered, she’d done everything possible to avoid thoughts of Ryan Taylor. It simply wasn’t the time. She was still reeling from last year’s incredible sequence of events. First, Tim’s bombshell—his affair with a college student. Then finding out she and Tim were expecting a baby. After that came Tim’s refusal to talk with Kari or get counseling, all of which led to her rekindled closeness with Ryan Taylor.

  And ultimately her decision—and Tim’s—to do what was necessary to make their marriage work.

  She would forever remember Tim’s face, his tenderness toward her on the last morning of his life. They really had been growing close again, after all the hurt. Who would have thought it would all end so tragically, so senselessly? A stalker. A fanatical college kid on steroids bent on marrying Tim’s lover. How was it possible that he’d shot Tim outside her apartment—when the only reason Tim had stopped by was to tell her he couldn’t see her again, to assure her that he was in love with Kari and always would be? There’d been no tense hours of hospital waiting with Tim. He’d never had a chance; he was dead on arrival.

  Jessie stirred and flopped a small hand against Kari’s arm.

  “That’s right, sweetie. Mommy’s here.” Kari stared at her daughter, awed at the way the tiny baby in her arms had helped her through the past months.

  She knew better than to dwell on the awful memories of Tim’s death—or to let her mind camp too long on the shores of all she once shared with Ryan Taylor. As always when it came to Ryan, the timing was wrong. Ryan was in New York coaching the Giants, fulfilling a longtime dream. And she was here in Bloomington, a grieving widow learning how to be a single mom.

  But now, with Landon in the hospital, Kari couldn’t help but remember. And maybe that was all right. If she never walked through the past, never allowed the painful areas in her heart to heal, she would never be able to move forward.

  The front door creaked. Kari’s father walked quickly into view. He scanned the room. “Where is she?”

  “Ashley hasn’t been home all day.” Elizabeth stood, and Kari watched her parents embrace. “How is he?”

  Her father’s gaze fell to the ground. When he looked up, Kari could see the weariness in his soul. “He might not make it through the night. His oxygen level is—”

  Before her father could go into any detail, they heard the front door open again. This time it was Ashley. Kari saw her sister’s eyes grow wide as she stopped short and took in the full house.

  She has no idea what’s happened, Kari thought. Then, without hesitating, Kari felt a prayer wind its way through the alleys of her mind. Whatever happens to Landon, use this, God, please. Use it to help Ashley believe again.

  Ashley slowly pulled off her jacket. “What’s going on?” She looked around the room, and her eyes settled on their father’s stricken face.

  Luke shifted forward, balancing himself on the edge of the sofa. Even angry, he looked handsome. Like a young Robert Redford, only taller. But he’d had little good to say about Ashley since she’d come home from Paris. “Nice of you to check in.”

  Ashley spun around and stared at Luke, her expression more surprised than angry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Elizabeth put a hand on Ashley’s shoulder. “We expected you hours ago, dear. I was worried.”

  For a moment Ashley’s mouth hung open. “I told you I wasn’t sure when I’d be back.”

  “Yes,” their mother nodded. “But you said the interview would be over by noon.”

  “Okay, so I took care of some errands.” Ashley gestured at the others gathered around the living room. “Is that what this is? Some kind of search party for crazy, irresponsible Ashley?”

  Their father cleared his throat and stepped forward, bracing Ashley’s shoulders with his hands. “Landon’s hurt. He was trapped in a fire this morning.” His voice was thick with emotion. “He inhaled a lot of smoke. We’re . . . we’re not sure he’s going to make it.”

  Since they were teenagers, Kari had wondered about Ashley’s feelings for Landon Blake. The poor boy had sought after Ashley year after year, getting barely a friendship for his efforts. When he returned home after college, nothing had changed. He was still determined to love her, and she was equally determined to stay clear of him. Whenever Kari would ask about Landon, Ashley would deny having feelings for him. He’s too predictable, she’d say. Too much like Mom and Dad.

  But now, after hearing the news that he’d been hurt, Ashley’s true feelings were clearer than water. She loved him. The depth of fear and desperation in her eyes told Kari that much.

  Ashley raked her f
ingers through her hair and shifted nervously. “I thought they wore air masks.”

  “He gave his to a little boy. Saved the child’s life.”

  For a moment she looked paralyzed. Then, as though she’d been jump-started into reality, she jerked back. “I have to be there.” Ashley yanked her jacket on again. “Can I see him?”

  “He’s in ICU; I’ll call and make sure they let you in.” Dad leaned over and held Ashley close for a moment. “He needs you, Ash.”

  Ashley’s eyes glistened as she glanced around the room. “Pray for him, okay?” She swallowed hard, her hands shaking. “He . . . he loves God a lot. God’ll help him. I know he will.

  “Tell Cole I’ll see him later.” She turned to their mother. “I’ll stay as long as they let me.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Call us.”

  “Ashley . . .” Their father’s face was masked in heavy concern. “Hurry, sweetheart. Please hurry.”

  Chapter Four

  Ashley’s heart stayed lodged in her throat until she was in Landon’s room. Then it seemed to sink somewhere beneath her kneecaps.

  Tubing ran into his arms, and a mask nearly covered his face. His leg was braced and wrapped to almost twice its normal size, and he was propped up on one side to avoid pressure on his burned back and thighs. A machine made rhythmic breathing sounds, forcing air into his lungs. Ashley grimaced at the mechanical rise and fall of Landon’s chest. Otherwise he lay motionless among the busy beeps and whirrs of machinery.

  She took a chair already stationed by his bed and stared at him. How had this happened? Bloomington never had dangerous fires. Not once had Ashley considered the possibility that Landon’s job might put him in any real harm, let alone cost him his life.

  Come on, Landon. Wake up.

  She stared at him, willing him to move. In all the time she had known Landon, she’d held his hand only twice. The last time had been ages ago, long before she went to Paris. But here, now, Ashley sensed he needed her touch as much as she needed his. Tentatively, she reached out and took Landon’s lifeless right fingers in her own, careful not to disturb the IV line. Tears stung at her eyes, and the image of Landon blurred.