Chapter 8

Before they got back to town, Sully had almost dozed off. Grady pulled up in front of the garage. “You’re not on call the rest of the day. Turn your damn radio off.” He issued the order in a harsh, terse tone.

“Whatever you say, boss.” Sensing the genuine concern in the command and too tired to snap back, Sully slid out, struggling to keep his step firm and steady as he walked in front of the fire truck and headed for his Spartan quarters in back of the garage. Yeah, he was feeling kind of rocky, but nothing a few hours of sleep wouldn’t fix. He wasn’t coughing now, wasn’t struggling for breath—at least not much, and wasn’t noting any confusion or abnormal mental processes.

I’m fine, he told himself. Most of the time I crouched down under the heaviest smoke in that damn barn. Fool woman; what in hell was she thinking? But she treasured that particular trophy, the first her horses had brought home. He recalled her shy brags about the win at a recent show.