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DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO

SINCERELY YOURS SERIES

LANA DASH
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue

Also By Lana Dash

About the Author
DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by LANA DASH

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International
and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this
material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without express
written permission from the author/publisher, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
 1

L OUISA
It's been over a year since the fire, and still, only bits and
pieces of my memory of that night have come back to me. I
don’t want to remember that moment in my life, but the scars from
skin grafts on my legs and arm will always be a constant reminder of
what I lived through, what I survived.
I do my best to push down the memories so I don’t have to
relive them again and again. But there are still moments when they
come back, and I can’t escape them—the heat of the flames licking
my skin, the sound of a voice calling for me through deafening
noises of the building burning around me—the ice blue eyes of my
hero that found me trapped under the collapsed beam.
“Louisa?”
I look up into the curious but concerned eyes of my newest
counselor, Crystal. “Yes?”
“Where did you go just now?”
I pull at the cuff of my sweater, wanting to make sure it’s still
covering the scars. Her gaze drops to my hands, and I know that
she didn't miss a thing. She's more in tuned and sees through my
bullshit than her predecessors.
“Have you been writing in your anxiety journal?” she asks.
No.
“Yes.”
 “Really?” She quirks up one eyebrow. “And how’s that going?”
“Good. I’m getting a lot weighing on me off my chest.”
“Such as?”
“My counselor is making me write in a stupid anxiety journal.”
The corner of Crystal’s mouth ticks up in amusement. She
doesn’t seem to get defensive when I push back. The previous two
were so much easier to wind up, but Crystal is a tough nut to crack.
“Can I hear some of it?”
“Some of what?”
“Something you wrote in your anxiety journal.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t bring it with me.”
"Do you think you didn't bring it with you because you left the
journal I gave you here last week?"
Busted.
“That’s entirely possible.”
“Louisa,” she says, setting down her notepad and pen and lean
towards me. “I’m just trying to help you navigate your way through
a very traumatic moment in your life. You survived a fire where
some people died."
At her words, I suddenly feel a tightness around my throat, like
an invisible hand squeezing my neck. I didn't know the other people,
but that doesn't mean I don't feel guilty that the firefighter found me
in time and not them. Maybe that’s why I have these scars. They’re
the price I must pay to get to live.
“You feel guilt for surviving. That is a natural reaction to have,
but I’m going to be blunt with you because I know that you can
handle what I’m about to say.”
I stare at her unblinkingly and brace for whatever she's about to
say.
“You are not special.”
“What?”
“You heard me. There isn’t a special reason you were saved over
someone else. You aren’t more deserving to be here than one of the
people that died tragically that night. You were lucky.”
A part of me thinks I should be offended by what she’s saying to
me, but another part of me appreciates it. It’s like her words are a
sledgehammer, and she’s swinging hard at the wall I’ve built up
around myself since that night. It’s starting to crumble.
“Stop thinking this is something bigger than what it actually is,”
she continues. “It’s terrible what happened to you. It’s unthinkable
what happened to those who lost their lives. But it isn’t your fault.”
Whack!
That last part splinters a crack in the wall that I’ve used for too
long to protect me.
“It’s not your fault,” she repeats.
Whack!
I brush my sleeve over my cheek and wipe away the tears that
have pooled in my eyes. The wall crumbles, and for the first time
since waking up in the hospital, all bandaged up, I don't feel the
unbearable tightness around my chest. It's like I can finally take in a
full deep breath that I couldn't before.
"Are you sure?" I ask my voice barely above a whisper.
Crystal picks up the tissue box sitting on the table next to her
and holds it out to me. I grab two and dab at my eyes. It feels like a
dam has burst, and I suddenly can't stop.
“Louisa, you are an incredible person. You’ve experienced
something in your life that no one should have to experience.” She
points at me, accentuating each of her following words. "And. You.
Survived."
Crystal reaches over and pulls on the drawer of her desk, and
pulls out the journal I left here last week. She sets it down on the
table between us.
“I know you think that this journal is a dumb idea.” She shrugs.
“And maybe it is, but I do think that you need to let out what you’ve
been bottling up inside before it consumes you. If a journal entry
doesn’t feel right, then maybe you can write a letter.”
“Who would I write to?”
“Anyone you have something to say to but don’t want to say it
face to face.”
The ice blue eyes of the firefighter that saved me pops into my
mind. He’d probably think I’m crazy for even sending it, but there’s
no harm in writing it. I could thank him for saving my life.
 I crumple up the tissue in my hand and toss it into the small
wastebasket near her desk. I lean forward and grab the journal off
the table and slip it into my bag. Crystal doesn't act smug like the
other two counselors when they thought they reached me. She picks
up her notepad and pen and continues on with our session as
though she didn't just convince me to take a massive step in my
recovery.
I can tell already tell that I’m going to be sticking with her for the
foreseeable future.
 2

T RAYNOR
The firehouse is quiet and has been for days. The rain
that’s been pounding Knight’s Ridge for the last seventy-two
hours has finally let up. I’m grateful for the vitamin D I’ve been able
to soak up, sitting on the rooftop of the firehouse.
The sound of the rooftop door opening breaks the silence I’ve
been enjoying.
“Traynor!” Rhodes calls out to me. “I’ve been looking for you
everywhere.”
The old metal folding chair squeaks under my weight as I sit up
and glance back over my shoulder. Rhodes walks over to me and
holds out an envelope to me.
My feet drop off the small roof wall, and the pebbles crunch
under my boots.
“What is it?” I ask.
He holds the envelope up to his head and scrunches his face like
he’s concentrating really hard—that or he’s about to rip an epic fart
that could ruin his uniform.
"Nope, my omnipotent powers haven’t kicked in, but I’m going to
guess it’s a letter,” he says and tosses it at me.
The thin envelope flutters into my lap. I pick it up and flip it over.
My name is scribbled on the front, but there isn’t a name or a return
address on it.
 "Have you finished washing down the truck?” Rhodes asks.
“Done.”
“And rolling the hoses?”
“Yep.”
Rhodes's cell phone rings in his pocket. The smile that spreads
across his face when he pulls it out and sees the name on the screen
is only one of a man truly in love.
“Hey babe,” he says by way of answering before turning around
and walking back towards the door.
I’m the only guy in the firehouse that doesn’t have a girl. And for
a while, I liked the idea of being untethered. Having complete
control of the remote to watch whatever I want or not needing to
ask if I can hang out with the guys on a Tuesday night for poker was
just a few of the reasons that came to mind when one of the
girlfriends of the other firefighters tried to set me up with one of
their friends. But after being surrounded by a firehouse full of guys
in love has started to make me think I’m missing out on something.
I glance back down at the envelope in my lap, and I’m about to
tear it open but stop when I hear some voices arguing on the
sidewalk below.
“I can’t believe you,” I hear a woman say.
I peek over the edge of the roof and glance down. There are two
women standing near the closed doors of the firehouse. One is a
blonde in a flowing dress that looks more suitable for the humid
North Carolina summer. While the brunette is dressed in long pants
and a long-sleeved shirt. It’s as if she didn’t get the memo that it's
summer and the humidity levels make it feel like you are breathing
underwater.
“I said I was sorry.” The blonde throws her hands up in
frustration. “I thought I was doing you a favor. You weren’t going to
have the guts to send the letter, so I did it for you.”
“How did you even know who to send it to? I can’t remember
who saved me that night.”
"I called the firehouse and asked who was working that night,
and he was the only one that has light blue eyes. You are always
talking about the guy with light blue eyes.”
 Is she talking about me? I shouldn’t be listening to this
conversation, but it’s the most excitement we’ve had around here
since the rain started. And to be honest, I’m curious what this is all
about.
The brunette holds her hand over her eyes and presses her face
close to the glass window. I doubt anyone is working on the truck at
this moment to see her.
“What are you planning on doing?” the blonde asks.
“I’m going to get the letter back.”
“And you think they are just going to hand it over to you?”
“Maybe. If I ask nicely,” the brunette responds but doesn’t sound
like even she’s convinced of her plan.
I look down at the white envelope in my hand. I should give it
back to her, but the curiosity about what she wrote is very tempting.
Although I can’t imagine it’s too good if she’s going to all this trouble
to get it back from me.
Who even writes letters anymore? I don’t know anyone who
would go to all the trouble to write a letter and mail it out when an
email or text message is just as effective.
"Now, where are you going?"
I glance back down to the street below. The brunette is walking
away from the firehouse door but stops and turns around.
“Unless you put my name on it, then I didn’t sign the letter.
Whoever that guy is, he’ll never know I wrote it. Besides, there’s not
much I can do about it now. It was a stupid idea to come down here
and think that I would get it back without someone asking a lot of
questions that I’m not ready to answer.”
The blonde walks over to her. “Before you go to work, can I buy
you a coffee to say I’m sorry?”
The brunette says something, but I can’t quite make it out—
something something market.
I lean over the edge to try and hear what she’s saying but notice
the Harper’s Market logo on her shirt. She must work there. I’ve
been there a bunch of times since I moved to Knight’s Ridge last
year. How have I never noticed her? Who is she? Why is she sending
me a letter that now she doesn’t want me to read? I have so many
questions, but I can’t exactly call down to the women and ask them
what is going on.
I watch them walk away towards the center of town and with
them the chance for me to do the right thing and return the letter. I
flip the sealed envelope in my hands a few times. Even as I’m
thinking about the fact that I shouldn’t open this, my finger slips
beneath the folded flap and tears the envelope open.

Dear To Whom It May Concern,

I know that it sounds so formal addressing this letter the way I
did, but I don’t know whose name to put because I never saw your
face. I was one of the people you saved in the apartment fire on
Wescott Avenue over a year ago. There are only a few things that I
remember about that night, and you are one of them. It’s like my
brain, through all the fiery chaos, found your blue eyes to focus on.
You were the anchor that held me from losing myself to the
overwhelming pain that nearly consumed me. How do you express
your gratitude to someone who literally ran into a burning building to
pull you out to safety? Simply saying thank you doesn’t feel like it’s
enough, so until now, I've put off saying anything at all. I’ve focused
a lot of the past year on healing my body, but it’s time to work on
the mental and emotional journey of healing. It starts by taking the
first steps in acknowledging my survival, but it's hard to move past it
without asking the question of why I was survived, and others
didn’t? It’s not fair to expect you to try and answer something more
significant than the both of us, but the question still hangs over my
head every day—and I still haven’t found an answer. I suppose I'll
always be looking. But in the meantime, I want to say thank you.
Sincerely Yours,
Fire Girl
 3

L OUISA
Jobs in Knight’s Ridge are few and far between for
someone like me. I need the flexibility in my schedule for a
multitude of doctor appointments and accommodations for my
limitations after my accident.
For a while, I couldn’t find anyone willing to hire me. They never
said it outright, but I knew the real reason that they didn’t want me
working the reception desk at their dental practice or law office. The
fire left a hole in this community, and the sight of my burn scars
would be a daily reminder that this happened.
Mr. Harper, the owner of Harper’s Market, lost his son in the fire.
You’d think he was the last person who would want to be reminded
every day of his loss, but he hired me on the spot when I walked in.
I asked him once why it didn’t bother him to see me nearly every
day. He told me that he didn't see me as a reminder of his loss but a
reminder of the hope that even in the darkest moments, there are
still glimmers of hope.
I couldn’t see the hope. I was still mourning all that I felt I lost.
But today is the first time I’ve woken up and felt the hope that
Mr. Harper’s been talking about all this time—that is until I found out
my roommate mailed the letter I wrote but couldn’t bring myself
send.
 “Good afternoon, Louisa,” Mr. Harper greets me when I walk into
the backroom of Harper's Market.
“How’s it going, Mr. H?”
He smiles at my little nickname for him. “Just working through
the inventory receipts.”
"Do you need any help with those?" I ask as I put my purse in
my cubby and slip on my apron.
“No need. I’ve got it all handled back here. Besides, I need your
smiling face out front.”
I’m not the bubbly employee that Mr. Harper likes to claim I am.
He thinks that the influx of customer traffic into the market in the
last few months is a result of him hiring me. I think it has more to
do with the lack of grocery options in our small mountain town, but I
would never say that to him.
"Well, you let me know if you need any help with that
paperwork," I tell Mr. Harper as I take out the till that he’s prepped
for me.
“Will do, dear!” he calls after me.
I love working the numbers for inventory—checking the figures
and verifying them down to the penny. Math was my favorite subject
in school. Numbers always made sense to me; there were no gray
areas.
I head out front and open the second checkout lane next to
Sheryl.
“Oh, there you are!” she says, slipping off the stool behind her
register and waddling away in the direction of the restrooms.
Sheryl’s seven months pregnant with twins and has to pee all the
time. “I’ll be back in a moment!”
I open my register and put the till in the drawer before clicking
on my open register light.
I check out a handful of customers before Sheryl gets back.
“I swear, if one of these two isn’t a soccer star when they grow
up, then my bladder is getting its ass kicked every day for no other
reason than these two hate me.
I chuckle. “I’m not sure fetuses can hate someone.”
 “You try having your already squished bladder kick boxed
multiple times a day and see if what I’m saying doesn’t make sense.”
She sighs and tries to push herself back up onto the stool. “And
don’t even get me started on the stretch marks.”
I look up in time to see her lift the bottom of her shirt to show
me part of her protruding baby belly. There are angry red lines going
up and down the tight skin over her belly.
"My body will never bounce back from this. Can you imagine
what it feels like to have your body disfigured—” Sheryl’s eyes widen
like she can’t believe she just said that. “Oh honey, I wasn’t
thinking.”
I fidget with the collar of my shirt to make sure that my scars on
the side of my neck aren't showing.
“It’s fine,” I lie.
I know that she didn’t mean anything by it, but that doesn’t
mean it still doesn’t sting when someone mentions my burn marks
directly or indirectly. I try to push away the feelings of anger that
bubble up inside me away. I’m tired of the constant battle I feel
whenever it decides to show its ugly head.
The sounds of someone behind me makes me turn, but when I
look, there isn't anyone there. The whoosh of the automatic door
slides closed, and all I see is the figure of a man walking out of view
on the other side of the glass. I look down and notice an envelope
sitting on the conveyor belt with the name “Fire Girl" printed on the
front in block letters.
I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter to read.

Dear Fire Girl,

I don’t often hear from the people I rescue, but when I do, it’s
usually just a quick thank you card and a plate of cookies they
baked. I have to say getting your letter is definitely new to me. You
aren’t alone when you question the who, the what, and the why of
what happened to you. I wish I had an articulate answer that might
snuff out the struggle of survivor's guilt you are facing. But the long
and short of it is a simple answer—I found you first and was able to
carry you to safety before it was too late. I’d be lying if I said that I
was drawn to where you were. It wasn’t divine intervention, but a
situation of the right time, right place. I wish I had a better answer
for you, but I hope this might help you on your journey for healing.
If you feel a debt is still owed to the universe, then maybe you
would consider joining me in volunteering at the Knight’s Ridge Fire
Department Pancake Breakfast on Saturday.
Sincerely Yours,
Blue Eyes
 4

L OUISA
“What do you mean he wrote you back?” My roommate
Ivy asks.
I slump down on the sofa in our living room next to her. “The
letter you sent out. He got it and wrote me back.”
“I thought you said you didn’t put your name on it?”
“I didn’t.” I shake my head and shrug. “I don’t know how he
found me, but he did.”
“What did it say?”
I pull the letter from my pocket and hand it over to her. I’ve read
it probably a hundred times since I got it. It’s almost as if I thought
that with each new read-through, I would find some clue to who he
is. I didn’t really get a good look at the guy as he walked away. I
can't even be sure that it was him who left the letter.
Ivy finishes reading and glances over at me. “So, are you going
to go?”
“No way.” I laugh as though the suggestion is entirely crazy.
“Why not?”
“Is that even a question?” I ask, plucking the letter from her
hands and looking over it one more time.
“I think you should go.”
“And I think you should go get your head checked out. I’m not
going to meet this guy. He’ll take one look at—” I wave my hand
over the covered parts of my body that are scarred.
“You can’t keep hiding from the world.”
“Please don’t say that I was spared for some special reason and
that I won’t live up to my full potential by hiding away. I’ve heard
the speech before.”
"Well, maybe if I repeat it, it will sink in," Ivy snaps.
She’s beyond letting me wallow in a pity party for myself. She
helped me all through my recovery. Even when I tried to push her
away, she stuck by me. But now she’s at a point where she’s not
going to put up with my drama.
“Your counselor says you have survivor’s guilt. But you won’t take
a single Saturday afternoon to give back to the community when
asked to do so by the one person that saved you?”
“What if—” I start to ask, but she cuts me off.
“You can’t keep living in fear of these negative “what if”
questions.” Ivy reaches over and takes my hand in hers. “What if you
have a good time?”
“I hate when you make a reasonable argument against me.” I
chuckle.
“It’s only because you know I’m right.”

TRAYNOR
I wasn’t sure she’d come to the pancake breakfast when I made
the offer. And a part of me wondered if I’d recognize her if she did.
But the long sleeves and pants in this heat were a dead giveaway
that it was her. It’s clear to me know why she wears unseasonably
warm clothes in this heat. She’s trying to hide possible scarring from
the fire.
After I got her letter, I had to rethink a lot about the fire that
night. It was the first call on the first shift, starting with the Knight's
Ridge Fire Department. I remember working my way through each
of the apartments on the third floor, looking for anyone that could
still be there. I heard her calling for help. I took my ax and used it to
break down her apartment door. She was trapped under a collapsed
beam. I had to summon all the strength I had and more to lift the
beam by myself, and she was able to drag herself out from
underneath. She lost consciousness as I worked to get her out of the
building to safety.
I make my way through the growing crowd of town’s people, out
to support and help raise money for the fire department. She’s
standing by herself, even though I notice a handful of people
watching her curiosity as they whisper something to their neighbor.
She’s either used to the attention or a master of looking like she
doesn’t care. Either way, I’m not interested in sharing her with
others if I can help it. I haven’t been about to get her out of my
mind since I first read her letter.
I clear my throat and ask softly, “Fire Girl?”
She turns, and her gaze meets mine. A twinkle of recognition
sparks in them, and she breathes out, "Blue Eyes."
Over time and the haze of the chaos that night, I didn’t really
register what she looked like. But seeing her standing there in front
of me, the memory of her face returns like no time has passed. She
gorgeous with long dark hair that hangs over a part of the left side
of the face. I want to push the hair away, so I can see the violet
shade of her eyes, but I clench my fist at my side, so I don't
embarrass myself.
“I’m Traynor.”
“Louisa.”
“It’s nice to finally put a name to a face,” I say, as my gaze dips
down to her lips. The plumpness of her bottom lip makes my dick
ache. If I’m not careful, the apron I’m wearing won’t be enough to
hide the effect this woman is having on me.
“I was beginning to think that you weren’t going to show up,” I
admit.
“Why would you think that?”
I shove my hands deep in my pockets and shrug with my whole
body. “Seemed like a big ask of someone I haven't crossed paths in
this small town since that night. I figured you didn't like going out
much."
 “I don’t, but my friend made a convincing argument on why I
should come today,” she says.
“And what’s that?”
“When the man who said your life asks you to help him make a
few pancakes, it’s the least you can do.”
"Well, as you can see," I gesture to the crowd standing around
us. “Most of the town is here; it's going to be more than a few
pancakes."
“I think I can handle a challenge.” She smiles shyly. “I’m no
stranger around a hot griddle.”
"Well, then follow me," I gesture for her to follow me. "I'll let you
pick out your choice of one Merrick's aprons."
 5

L OUISA
I’m surprised how quickly Traynor makes me feel at ease
in a crowd of townspeople. He positions me on the griddle
next to him in an apron that reads—Firefighters Are Always Hot. It
was the tamest of all the firefighter aprons filled with sexual
innuendos about the lengths of their hoses.
"Okay, now most people just came here for their chance at a free
meal, but I think that we can give them a little show if you are up to
it.”
Nearly all of the townspeople are already sitting down at one of
the many long picnic tables set up in the park. I’m not really up for
being the center of attention like this, but without having to say
anything to him. It’s like he understands my concerns.
“It’s nothing terrible,” he assures me.
“Okay, if you think I can help.”
“Did you play any sports growing up?” he asks.
“Softball. All-State, three years in a row.”
“What position?”
“First base.”
I can’t help but feel an ember of excitement start to grow in me
the way Traynor’s face lights up. And the smile that spreads across
his face could rival that of the cartoon Grinch when he comes up
with a way to steal Christmas from Whoville.
 “Rhodes!” Traynor calls out to one of the other firefighters
working a griddle a few tables over. “We’re in!”
Rhodes throws his hand up in the air in triumph. “Loser does
grunt work for a week!”
“I hope you like scrubbing toilets!”
Some of the people sitting at the tables between the two griddles
give Traynor a look of disgust for bringing that up while they are
eating.
"I'm sorry about that, folks," He says sincerely to them.
I grab onto Traynor’s bicep. “Umm, you didn’t say anything about
there being a wager.”
"Don't worry about it," he says, his smile never wavering. "We
got this in the bag."
“Got what in the bag? What are we doing?”
“Pancake flipping contest. And if you are a fraction as good as it
sounds like you might be, we will be unstoppable.”
“Who will Rhodes be teaming up with?” I ask.
“That would be me,” a female voice says as she walks up to us.
“I’m Hazel.”
She holds out her hand out to me. I pull at the cuff of my sleeve
before I take it.
“I see you got roped into this wager as well.”
I look at Traynor as he bounces on the balls of his feet in
excitement. “I guess I did.”
Hazel stares at me like she’s trying to place where she knows me.
“You work at Harper’s Market, right?”
“That’s me.”
"You are a whiz at finding me all the coupons in the flyer that I
miss."
She seems impressed by this, but that’s what happens when you
check people out all day—you memorize the flyer front to back.
“I try to help everyone save as much as they can.”
“Well, I better go before my fiancé thinks I’m in cahoots with the
enemy.” Hazel chuckles and gives me a quick wink before walking off
towards Rhodes.
 The pancake flipping competition turns out to be a bigger deal
than I could have imagined. Hazel and I are tasked with catching the
pancakes that Traynor and Rhodes will be flipping obscenely high in
the air and over the head of many of the townspeople finishing up
their breakfasts. All we are given to use is a paper plate or our
hands to catch the fluffy disks.
Out of the gate, Traynor and I complete each challenge as it’s
given to us. It definitely helps that Traynor seems to know how to
wield a spatula and throw a buttermilk pancake with the ease of a
quarterback sending a football down the field to a wide receiver.
We've moved into the lead, as I'm standing a full table length
past Hazel. She looks a frustrated as Rhodes sounds.
“Babe!” Rhodes yells. “That was right to you.”
I don’t blame Hazel for missing the pancake. It soared over her
head like it was an edible fastball and hit a man in the back of the
head.
“Flip another like that one more time, and you'll be eating the
pancake off the ground!” Hazel calls back.
The crowd titters with laughter at the bickering between our
opponents. Rhodes seems to be rethinking his strategy of blaming
his fiancé for their missteps even if some of them aren’t all his fault.
“Lou!” Traynor calls to me. “If we get this, victory is ours!”
Excitement flutters through the spectators, and I can feel more
eyes on me than I would typically be comfortable with before this
moment. For the first time in a long time, I don't mind the attention.
Before my accident, I didn't hide away from people, and this is the
first time I feel okay being seen.
“Ready?” he asks.
I give him the thumbs up.
Traynor gives me a quick wink and smile before he turns around
and thrusts his arms up into the air over his head. The pancake
soars high up into the air, and I can already tell that he's overshot it.
I start backing up, careful not to hit someone sitting at one of the
tables. I give up on any chance of catching this thing with my plate,
so I thrust my arm up into the air to catch the pancake. As it flies
over my head, I’m still able to jump and reach high, grasping my
fingers around it and smashing the pancake in the process.
For a brief moment, I forget who I am now. I’m not the popular
high school homecoming queen, dressed in a beautiful gown, who
everyone knows from watching me grow up in this town. I’m the
burn survivor who hides her scars away from the world out of guilt
and shame.
I’m don’t realize that my shirt has lifted up to show parts of the
scars on my stomach until I hear the sound of people gasping,
mixed with the shocked expressions on their faces.
I throw the pancake on the ground, and my gaze swings up to
Traynor. He looks just as surprised by everyone else. And for some
reason, this upsets me more. I thought he knew what happened to
me. I thought he understood.
I don’t wait around for more people to stare at me like I’m some
sideshow in a circus act. I turn and bolt for my car, not bothering to
stop when I hear the sound of Traynor running after me.
 6

T RAYNOR
I can see the pain and hurt in her eyes the moment
before Louisa turns and makes a run for it. I toss the spatula
I’m holding and bolt after her, weaving through the crowd as they
begin to stand up, finished with the pancakes and the show. I had
no idea that something as simple as a pancake flipping contest could
turn so quickly.
“Lou! Wait!” I call out.
She's near to her car, but my legs are longer, and I have time to
get to her before she peels out of the parking lot, leaving me in a
cloud of dust.
“Louisa, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.” I tell her
as she starts to open her driver’s side door, but it bounces against
me and slams shut. “Please, don’t leave.”
“I knew it was a mistake coming out here. I knew that this town
would never look at me as anything, but someone damaged,
someone broken."
“I don’t think you are either of those things.” I grip her gently on
the arms to hold her still. I want to pull her against my chest and
keep her close. I want to take away the hurt and the pain she's
feeling. “I think you’re beautiful.”
“Don’t say that.” She pushes against my chest, but I don’t move.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
 “You don’t think I mean what I’m saying to you? I’ve been trying
to keep my brain in check the moment you showed up here. I
haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.”
Louisa pauses, and I take advantage of her stunned silence to
keep talking to her, to keep her here.
“I’ve had more fun with you flipping pancakes with you today
than with any of the last few women I’ve taken out. You’re smart,
you’re funny, and you are so stunningly beautiful I find it hard to
breathe when I’m near you.”
For a moment, I think I see the mask start to slip from her face,
but it’s pulled back into place before I can really see the vulnerability
that she’s feeling. I want to know if I’m the only one feeling
something here.
“You don’t see all of what happened to me.” She pulls on the
loose fabric of her shirt, showing off the soft shape of her body
beneath.
Her hourglass figure is hidden under these long, loose-fitting
clothes. And I can’t stop my body from reacting to her once again.
“I know more than most the extent of your injuries,” I tell her. “I
was there to pull you out of the fire. I was there when the EMTs
started working on you before taking you off to the hospital. I was
there that night to check on you.”
Her eyes widen in surprise at this truth. “You were?”
“I tried, but I couldn't get in despite my attempts to talk my way
past the head nurse working the night shift.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I knew you were by yourself. I didn’t want you to wake up
without a somewhat familiar face next to you.”
The crowds are starting to disperse and walk in our direction to
their cars. In about a minute, they are going to be close enough to
hear everything we are saying.
“Any chance we could talk this out somewhere there isn’t going
to be an audience that’s watching and listening in on us?”
Louisa glances back over at the crowd as they move towards us.
I can see the panic in her eyes as they get closer and closer. I reach
out and slip her car keys out of her hand, and she doesn't seem
even to notice.
“Get in,” I tell her and open the door for her.
She sits in the driver’s side seat and doesn’t scoot on the bench
seat. “I’m driving,” she says.
“Nope.” I jingle the keys in front of her. “You’re upset right now,
and I don’t want you behind the wheel.”
Louisa grumbles something under her breath but shifts over into
the passenger seat. I get in and start the engine. I don’t have a
specific place in mind to go when I pull out, but I know that it needs
to be away from prying eyes.
Neither one of us says anything until I pull to a stop near the
lookout that sits above the town of Knight’s Ridge. We won’t be
bothered here.
“What are you thinking?” I ask to break the silence that’s settled
between us.
“I’m thinking about how it’s been a long time that anyone has
said I’m beautiful since the accident."
I glance over at her and open my mouth to tell her again. I could
spend the rest of my life telling her this if it meant I got to keep her.
But she puts three fingers over my mouth.
“Don’t say anything.” She shifts in her seat and pulls her shirt off
over her head.
My eyes dip to the ample swell of her breasts, pushed up in a
black bra, and I feel lightheaded from the sudden loss of blood in my
brain moving to my dick. I can see on her arm and part of her neck
the uneven discolorations from her skin grafts. I don’t know what
she sees when she sees them, but it shows me that she is a strong
survivor.
I reach over and brush her long dark hair off her shoulder. I lean
in and kiss softly on the ridged skin on her neck and moving my lips
up to her ear.
“I want you,” I breathe out the words.
I can hear her breath hitch before she pushes against my chest,
and I'm back on my side of the car.
“Get out.”
 “What?”
“There’s not enough room in here.” She pulls on the handle of
the passenger door.
I watch her step out before I get out too. We meet in front of the
car, and she unbuttons her pants, letting the fabric pool at her feet
on the ground. Her legs are almost entirely covered with the same
scars on her neck, shoulder, and arm.
She studies me for some negative reaction, but she won’t find
one. It’s not the shell of the woman standing in here that makes my
heartbeat thump in my chest and my breathing increase. It's who
she is that I'm feeling this way for. I think that everything about her
is beautiful inside and out, and I need to make her understand.
I pull off my shirt and toss it to the ground. Her brow creases
when she sees the jagged red scar down the side of my torso. She
lifts her hand and traces her fingers across the puckered line.
“I got that when the floor collapsed in an old warehouse that was
burning,” I tell her.
“It’s not the same.”
“Maybe not, but everyone has a scar. It's just that for some, you
can see it on their body. But every scar you can see with your eyes,
just know that there internal scars that could cause the real damage
for someone.” I cup her face in my hands and lean close. “If I could
have spared you the pain you felt, I would take it a hundred times
over. But you are strong that I don’t think you’d let someone else
take that on even if you could.”
“I don’t always feel strong,” she whispers.
“I don’t either,” I whisper back. “But maybe that’s when it’s okay
for someone to help take on some of the heavy load you are
carrying.”
Louisa reaches up and wraps her arms around my neck. I lean
down and close the distance between us. Her lips spring to life the
moment mine touch hers, allowing the kiss to deepen into bliss I
haven’t felt before this moment.
 7

L OUISA
I never thought I could feel this way again. Again, it
doesn't even cover it. I've never truly felt this much for
someone in my life, and we've somehow only just met.
My body responds to Traynor’s like we’ve spent a lifetime
together already. He lifts me up and lays me down on the hood of
the car and pushes his hips between my thighs, and I feel the hard
press of his cock against the ache building in my pussy.
I once worried that since it had been so long since I'd been with
a man, that I wouldn't know what to do if ever given a chance
again. But Traynor’s expert hands move along my body, guiding me
and teasing me to help build the pressure already forming inside me.
Heat pools between my thighs and press against his cock for
some relief. The slow pace to build the excitement between us is
both magical and tortuous. I want to feel his thick cock push inside,
filling me.
My own imagination of what it could feel like having him deep
inside me is enough to push me into action. I sit up and tug at the
belt and the button on his pants. I reach under the fabric of his
boxers and grip the satin shaft as I pump it up and down.
“Oh fuck,” he pants, as his lips find mine, and I breathe in his
moans of pleasure with each pump up and down on his dick.
 I lean down and take him into my mouth, circling my tongue
around the tip. My thumb finds the spot under the shaft that I know
will push him to finally take me here on the hood of this car.
I squeeze and gently twist, pressing on the magic button, and
suddenly I find my back pressed against the hood of the car again.
Traynor pulls my panties free of my legs and pushes his hips back
into the spot I never want him to leave.
He rubs his cock up and down the slick folds of my pussy once,
twice, three times before he pushes inside me. My body stretches to
accommodate his size, just as I imagined.
With each thrust of his hips, the friction between our bodies
builds up, and I cry out. I both want my release, but I don't ever
want this feeling to end.
Traynor cups the back of my head and lifts me up, so we are
looking eye to eye. The searing connection that's already burning
between us is sealed when with one final thrust inside me, our
shared release combusts, and if I didn't have his blue eyes one me
to anchor me like they once did, I might have been lost in our
orgasmic bliss.
It takes a few minutes for our labored breathing and rapid heart
rates to slow down and steady themselves.
Traynor pulls me against him, still deep inside me, and whispers
the words I hoped but never really thought I’d hear again.
“I’m so in love with you.” His lips find mine, smothering my
response with a kiss, so filled with a desperation that I can say with
certainty that he is mine forever.
I pull back, breaking the kiss. But only enough to let him know,
“I’m so in love with you too.”
 EPILOGUE

L OUISA
It’s incredible how much my life has changed in just a
year. I was wandering without purpose, trying to get through
each day like it was a new battle that I had to fight until I met
Traynor. He taught me that I'd had the strength all along inside me,
but that will always be there to rescue me if I ever need it.
"You look good," Crystal says as I sit down on the sofa in her
office.
“I feel good.” I smile back.
“That’s wonderful to hear. It’s been a little bit of time since we
last spoke, but the last time we talked, you told me about some
plans you had in the works. Can you tell me how they are going?”
I rub my hands up and down the tops of my thighs. Instead of
long sleeves and pants, I’m wearing a sundress that I found in the
back of my closet that I never thought I’d wear out in public again.
My bare arms and legs are on display, including my burn scars. But
I’m not afraid to let the world see the real me anymore. They can
look, but they aren't going to see a wounded victim anymore. They
are going to see a survivor that didn't let what happen consume her,
even if it did take a little time to get to this point.
“I was able to raise funds to start The Fire Girl Project, thanks to
Traynor.”
“Your boyfriend.”
 “No,” I hold up my left hand to show her the diamond ring. “My
fiancé.”
“Congratulations!” Crystal smiles. “That’s very exciting.”
“I don’t know what I would do without him,” I say, honestly.
“You’d still be on this journey. You are on finding yourself and
your purpose. But it's nice to have the support of the one you love
cheering you on to your success. Can you tell me a little about The
Fire Girl Project?”
“It’s an organization that we’ve helped put together along with
some of the family’s that lost someone in the fire that did this to
me.” I hold up my hands. “We raise money to help burn survivors by
providing counseling, giving assistance to help pay for medical
procedures and even have a scholarship for burn survivors who wish
to further their education.”
We talk more about all the new things going on in my life and
some of the old. I still have insecurities just like anyone else, but I
know how to deal with them better now. The hour with Crystal
passes quickly, but I’m eager to meet Traynor outside.
“How’d it go?” he asks, leaning against the hood of his truck
when I walk out.
Heat still pools in my lower belly whenever I see this man near
the hood of any car.
“Did you ask her if she’d be interested in sharing some of her
time with The Fire Girl Project?”
“I did, and she was on board.” I kiss him quickly. “She didn’t
even hesitate. I think she’s excited about it.”
“I think she’d be an invaluable addition to this project.”
“Are you ready to head home?” Traynor asks.
"Actually," I say, wrapping my arm around his waist and pulling
him closer. "I thought we could head up to the lookout tonight."
“You read my mind," Traynor says as he reaches down and lifts
me up, and walks me to the truck.
“I love you. For always.” I whisper to him.
If you enjoyed DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO and the small town of
Knight’s Ridge, North Carolina, check out more stories set there.

KNIGHT’S RIDGE FIRE DEPARTMENT

A Curvy Woman & Firefighter Mountain Man Romance
MERRICK
RHODES
TANNER

And don’t miss the rest of the Sincerely Yours series for more letters
to fall in love with!

SINCERELY YOURS
A Sweet & Steamy Curvy Girl Contemporary Romance
DEAR BILLIONAIRE BOSS
DEAR BRITISH PROFESSOR
DEAR BAD BOY NEXT DOOR
DEAR BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND
DEAR BROODING BODYGUARD
DEAR HANDY SILVER FOX
DEAR ONE NIGHT STAND
DEAR KILTED SCOTSMAN
DEAR MOUNTAIN MAN
DEAR ALASKAN BUSH PILOT
DEAR BLUE JEAN COWBOY
DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO
 ALSO BY LANA DASH

EVERY LITTLE THING

Steamy Blue Collar Alpha Single Mom Instalove

WILD KNIGHT’S RIDGE MOUNTAIN MEN

A Curvy Woman & Mountain Man Small Town Romance
BRIDGER
BEAUDEN
BRYANT
BRODIE
LINCOLN
WILD KNIGHT’S RIDGE MOUNTAIN MEN:
The Complete Five-Book Collection
A KNIGHT’S RIDGE MOUNTAIN CHRISTMAS

ALASKAN MOUNTAIN BUSH PILOTS

A Curvy Woman & Mountain Man Small Town Romance
THAYER
MERCER
LENNOX
EMMETT
SPENCE

MOUNTAIN MEN MATCHMAKER

 A Curvy Woman & Mountain Man Romance
HOLDEN
XANDER
CALDER
BOOKER
GIDEON

MOUNTAIN CREEK RANCH

A Curvy Woman & Cowboy Romance
SINGLE DAD AT MOUNTAIN CREEK RANCH
SECOND CHANCE AT MOUNTAIN CREEK RANCH
BOY NEXT DOOR AT MOUNTAIN CREEK RANCH
ALL GROWN UP AT MOUNTAIN CREEK RANCH
SECRET BABY AT MOUNTAIN CREEK RANCH

KNIGHT’S RIDGE FIRE DEPARTMENT

A Curvy Woman & Firefighter Mountain Man Romance
MERRICK
RHODES
TANNER

SINCERELY YOURS
A Sweet & Steamy Curvy Girl Contemporary Romance
DEAR BILLIONAIRE BOSS
DEAR BRITISH PROFESSOR
DEAR BAD BOY NEXT DOOR
DEAR BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND
DEAR BROODING BODYGUARD
DEAR HANDY SILVER FOX
DEAR ONE NIGHT STAND
DEAR KILTED SCOTSMAN
DEAR MOUNTAIN MAN
DEAR ALASKAN BUSH PILOT
DEAR BLUE JEAN COWBOY
DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO
 THE NICE GIRLS’ NAUGHTY BOOK CLUB
A Sweet & Steamy Curvy Girl Romantic Comedy
QUINN
FIONA
JESS
COURTNEY
MICHELLE
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LANA DASH is the author of short, sexy, and funny romances. When she isn’t
dreaming up her latest sexy couple’s adventure, you can find her watching true
crime documentaries, drinking Bloody Marys, and eating movie theater popcorn.
Not necessarily at the same time. She loves to hear from readers!
Another random document with
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Adam? Where have they taken him to? I must go and bring
him home."

"I'm grieved for you," began Richard, "but words bring

poor comfort. There's only One that can wipe away tears
and give the oil of joy for mourning. May He comfort and
strengthen you. But you must have a bit of patience,
Margaret. You shall see him as soon as it's wise for you to
go."

"Where have they taken my husband?" persisted

Margaret.

"To the hospital. Mr. Drummond went with him. He

would trust nobody to see after him on the road but himself.
You shall go to him, I tell you, as soon as possible."

"Seeing him won't bring him to life," cried Margaret.

"And oh, dear, dear, I let him go out this morning without
answering him, or giving him so much as a look when he
said, 'Good-bye, dear lass.'"

"Well, you must make that right when you see him.
Adam isn't the one to bear malice. He'll forget and forgive.
He's badly hurt. Arm broken in two places, beside cuts and
bruises, but he'll get well in time, no fear."

"Get well!" cried Margaret, hardly believing that her

ears were telling the truth. "Why, some one told my little
Tom that his father was killed, and ever so many more men
beside him."

"Nay, Mrs. Livesey, things are not that bad," said

Richard, relieved to find himself in the position of one who
brings comparatively good tidings, when his heart had been
sinking within him at the thought of what had to be told.
"Your Adam is worth any number of dead men yet. I've told
you the truth. He's hurt, but nobody thinks his life is in any
danger.

"It's poor Jim that's killed, the merriest, thoughtlessest

chap at Rutherford's, in spite of his sharp-tongued wife.
She'll be sorry she never gave him a gentle word, I daresay,
now he's gone, though I fancy it will be more for the loss of
his wages than his company. There must be such-like wives
to be all sorts, I reckon," said Richard. "Your home is a
different place from what poor Jim had to go to. Keep up
your heart, Margaret. Adam's hurts are being well tended
to, and you can see him soon. I'll go with you to the
hospital."

Margaret's face had been growing paler as she listened

to the hopeful words. She had borne up somehow, when the
first great shock came. Now the revulsion of feeling was too
great, and to the surprise of Richard Evans, she sank at his
feet, fainting and unconscious.

With fatherly tenderness, the man succeeded in lifting

Margaret from the ground and on to a couch, one of the
treasured articles of furniture which formerly belonged to
her mother.

Little Tom had been an eager listener to the news

brought by Richard, and had just gathered that, after all,
his father was still alive, when a fresh terror seized him.
"Mother must be dead," he thought, for her face was white,
and she neither spoke nor moved after she was laid on the
couch.

Richard Evans read the child's fears in his face, and

said, "You must be a man, Tom. Don't cry, but run off to the
missis next door, and tell her to come this minute to your
mother."
 Tom had been on the point or giving vent to his feelings
by a lusty roar, but the firm words of Richard Evans checked
the sound, and subsiding into mere tears, he ran off to obey
his orders.

The neighbour returned with him immediately, and

Richard gave Margaret into her care. Then he sent Tom on
another errand.

"You know where I live, little chap, don't you?" he said.

"Yes," replied Tom.

"Then go thy ways to my house as fast as thy feet will

carry thee, and bring Sarah Evans back here, if she's with
her aunt when thou gets there. If she isn't, tell my wife she
must come, for somebody is badly wanted at Adam
Livesey's."

Tom's fears lent swiftness to his feet, and when he

reached the house, he could hardly deliver his message for
want of breath.

Sarah was with her aunt, but knowing what had

happened at Rutherford's, she had quietly made ready to go
and offer her services to Mrs. Livesey, without waiting to be
asked.

"Maybe she'll have got a neighbour in, Sarah," said Mrs.

Evans, when the girl told her she was going to do what she
could for Margaret. "She has behaved none so well to you. I
don't forget how you went to the house before, and set Mrs.
Livesey free to go straight away to her mother, and how you
toiled and moiled with her tribe of little ones all those
weeks, doing for them as well as she did in some ways, and
better in others. And when they got to love you, poor
things, as was only natural when you made their home
happy and bright, she gave you the cold shoulder, and
drove you right away from the house."

"Don't say 'drove,' aunt," replied Sarah; "there was no

driving."

"You mightn't call it driving, my lass, but it was the

same thing. Margaret Livesey thanked you and praised you,
and gave you a necktie, and would have given you a bit of
extra money too if you'd have taken it. Those things were
all very nice in their way, but it wasn't very nice for you to
go to the house a few days after, with your heart full of
loving-kindness towards those children, and to feel that you
weren't wanted under the roof where you had done your
best for everybody, as in God's sight. And Mrs. Livesey
knew it, but she couldn't bear for the little things to be
made bright and happy by anybody but herself, though,
owing to her sharp ways, she often made them glad to get
out of her sight."

"We are not all alike, aunt," replied Sarah, the flush on
her face showing, however, that the words went home. "I'm
not beyond owning that I felt a bit hurt when Mrs. Livesey
let me know, without words, that she only looked on me as
a girl that had been a sort of stop-gap in the house, and
that now my work was done I was not to think I had a
settled place there. But after all, you know she said I had
filled the gap well, and that hits been a pleasant thing to
think of ever since."

"I think I should wait till she asked me, before I went
near her again," said Mrs. Evans.

"Maybe I should too, if all were well with her," replied

Sarah. "But I cannot wait now. I shall go, and if I can be of
any use I shall stay. It isn't likely Mrs. Livesey can have the
heart to work, when her mind will be full of poor Adam. He
will be away from home till he gets a turn round, that's
certain, and she will want to go to him whenever she's
allowed in at the hospital."

"Aye, with all her little sharp ways she dotes on Adam
and the children. She'll feel every pain he has to suffer as if
it were her own. Still, I think I should let her send for me if
she wanted me," persisted Mrs. Evans.

"There's nobody knows all about the house and where

everything is, like I do, aunt, or could be of the same use all
at once, as I can."

"That's just it, my girl. Margaret Livesey ought to know

your value, and that the help that is worth having is worth
asking for."

"Yes, aunt. But then think how many blessings God

gives us that we never ask for, just because of our need,
and even when we are not a bit thankful. Whatever should
we do if He waited to send everything till we showed that
we valued His givings as we ought!"

"Sarah, you are just like your uncle. He always goes to

the same Teacher for his lessons. Sometimes I'm ready to
be vexed with him, and tell him he's poor spirited to put up
with the things he does. But it's no use, he gets over me by
putting me in mind of what his Master did when He walked
the earth as man, and spent His days and nights in doing
good, and specially to His enemies. Go your ways, my lass,
and may you be welcomed and blest in the work your hand
finds to do! If you are not wanted at Adam Livesey's, you
can just come back; you're never one too many in this
house."
 Sarah's hand was on the latch, and she was about to
set out, when little Tom arrived with his tear-stained face,
and full of the message which he had not breath to deliver.

"You want me to go back with you, don't you, my man?"

said Sarah. "I was just coming."

Tom nodded, and pushing his hand confidingly into

Sarah's, turned to retrace his steps in her company.

Amid the general confusion and sense of trouble in

Tom's mind, a gleam of comfort now found place. It could
not be all bad, if it were the means of bringing dear, kind
Sarah to the house again. It was a pity that it should be so,
but he and the other children often looked longingly back on
the time of mother's absence as the brightest bit in their
lives, and they sometimes ventured to whisper the wish to
each other that she might have to go away again for
something.

Now, the very sight of Sarah and the grasp of her hand
gave confidence, and by degrees Tom managed to tell her
what had happened at home, of the condition in which he
had left his mother, and the message sent by Richard Evans
to herself.

"They said father was dead," added Tom, "and I ran

home and told mother, and then Mr. Evans came and said
father was alive, only he had been hurt and his arm was
broke, so they'd taken him to get it set. Then mother went
so white and fell down on the floor. I thought she was dead
too."

The tears came as Tom recalled the terror, caused by

the news of his father and the sight of his mother's face.
 "But father is not killed, and mother will soon be better,
Tom, so you mustn't cry, my man. You and I have got to
help mother, and crying is not the way to do it; but I don't
wonder at the tears, my poor little man. I daresay I should
have been ready to cry too, if I had been there. Now we
must just think to ourselves how we can make the best of a
bad job. And we'll make all the haste we can, and see what
has to be done first."

"You'll stay with us, Sarah, won't you?" asked Tom.

"To be sure I will, if mother wants me," said Sarah,

which reply lengthened Tom's face a little.

Child as he was, he had divined that mother could not

have wanted Sarah, or she would have asked her to tea
sometimes, and not told him and the rest to hold their
tongues when they said how kind she had been, or that she
was sick of hearing Sarah's name. Well, any way, he could
not be blamed for bringing her this time, for Mr. Evans had
sent him to fetch her.

Tom need have had no fears on the score of a welcome

for Sarah. With the first moments of returned
consciousness, Mrs. Livesey had become aware that she
should be ill-fitted to sustain even the burden of her daily
work unassisted. Indeed, she doubted whether she might
not be dependent upon others for still further help.

Richard Evans had told Mrs. Livesey that he had sent for
his niece; but Margaret's pale face flushed at the mention of
Sarah's name, then paled again as she whispered, "I don't
think she'll come."

"I don't think anything about it. I'm sure she will come
sooner or later. It will be very soon if Tom finds her at my
place," replied Richard. "Why, bless your heart, Mrs.
Livesey, if you were the biggest enemy she had, instead of
being a neighbour and in trouble, Sarah would be ready to
run to your help without being asked at all. And I really
believe she's here," he added, as the latch was lifted and
Tom entered with his niece.

"Just at the right time, Sarah, lass," said Richard. "Did

Tom meet you on the road?"

"No, uncle; but I had heard about Mr. Livesey's

accident, and I thought maybe I could help a bit, so I put
on my things, and was ready when Tom came to the door.
Please don't move," for Margaret was trying to raise herself
from the couch. "You don't look fit for anything but to be
waited on, and if you'll let me, I'll look after you and the
children. I know where to find things, for you have a place
for every one of them, and each in its place."

The tears rolled down Margaret's cheeks as she

motioned for Sarah to come near her; then she whispered,
"I did not think you would come after all. You are kind. I
don't deserve it, but you are fond of the children, and they
love you, poor things! And you'll be sorry about my Adam."

"I'm sorry for him and for you, Mrs. Livesey—for one as
much as the other, I was going to say, but I think I'm most
sorry for you, because it is harder for you to know of his
hurt and the pain he will have, than to bear pain yourself.
But what a mercy you are not a widow with a troop of little
orphans round you at this minute!"

"Aye, lass," said Richard Evans. "And it seems to me

that the first thing we should do is just to say a word of
thanksgiving to God for Adam's spared life, and a prayer for
poor Jim's widow and little ones."
 This was a new thought to Mrs. Livesey, who was
already turning her mind from the contemplation of what
might have been, to the consideration of the very real
though lesser trouble she had to face. She was, however,
ready enough, first to listen to; then to join in the words of
thanksgiving which Richard offered on behalf of her
husband, herself and the children, for the precious life still
spared, and the hope of restored health and strength. She
could feel for her neighbour too, for in that terrible moment
when she thought the worst had happened, had she not
experienced in little what Jim's wife must bear through the
long years of probable widowhood and the struggle for daily
bread? She heard Richard's prayer for her and her children,
that God would bless and cheer them, and make even this
trouble the means of bringing them closer to Him, and
teaching them to love and serve Him better.

"Better?" thought Margaret. "I've never loved God a bit.

I don't know Him well enough for that. I've grumbled often
enough, when things have gone wrong, and blamed
Providence for it; but if they've gone right, I've mostly
taken the credit to myself."

Then Margaret heard Richard asking that God would

bless what was being done for Adam at the hospital, and
give him peace of mind, and freedom from anxiety, which
might hinder him from speedy recovery.

"Well," thought Margaret, "there's no harm in asking

that, though one mostly thinks that doctors have a deal to
do with such cases. A bad one will set a joint so as it will be
stiff for life, like Jane Middleton's elbow was. She could
never raise her hand to her head through that doctor's
blundering."
 "All good things come of Thee," Richard was saying, and
Margaret's thoughts came back once more, so that she
heard the old workman thank God for the wisdom and skill
that He had bestowed, and by which the doctors had found
out the means of lessening pain and prolonging precious
lives. He ended by commending them all to the loving
hands of the Great Physician both of souls and bodies, then
rose from his knees with the bright look on his face which
ever comes when the servant of God has held communion
with his Divine Master.

Very few moments had been thus occupied, for time

was precious, and there was much to be done. The children
must be cared for, and all the little household matters
attended to, for their sakes. These things, however, Sarah
would undertake.

"You'll be free to go and see Adam, Mrs. Livesey," said

Richard; "but if you'll take an old man's advice, you'll try
and eat a bit before you start. It's a long while since
breakfast, and after that faint turn, you had you cannot be
fit for much. You'll want all your strength to keep a bright
face and a cheery word for Adam. He's sure to be a bit
down in the mouth, as one may say, and only natural. Now
I'll leave you and Sarah, and I'll just get to know how Adam
is going on, and then come back here for you, if the doctors
will let you see him."

"They always let a man's wife see him when he's badly
hurt," said Margaret. "I must go soon."

"It's often a good sign when they say, 'Wait a bit, and
let him have a rest before anybody comes.' When a man is
so badly hurt that they think there is no chance of pulling
him round again, why, then he must be seen soon, if at all.
But when they feel sure it's only a question of a little time,
and that every minute's rest is doing him good, they like to
keep visitors away for their patient's sake. I hope soon to
bring you good news."

With these cheery words, Richard left Mrs. Livesey and

Sarah together.

CHAPTER XXII.
FRIENDS IN NEED.

"HE goes over the ground at a good rate," said Sarah

Evans, as she glanced for a moment at the retreating figure
of her uncle. "He's sixty-eight, but his step is firm and his
hand as steady as a young man's."

"Steadier than many a young man's," replied Margaret.

"Some of them get the trembles in their wrists many a year
before age has aught to do with them, more's the pity. My
poor Adam's hand was all right before this trouble, but I
reckon he'll never be the same man again. No more striking
for him. An arm that's been broke in two places will not be
fit to lift the big hammer for many a month to come, if ever.
I should think it will never be strong again."

"Don't you go looking at the dark side, Mrs. Livesey.

There's real trouble enough without going off in a hurry to
see if we can't find a worse. An hour ago it would have
seemed good news just to know that your husband was
living, without anything else."
 "Aye, that's true. When I thought Adam was killed,
there wasn't a bright spot anywhere. If it hadn't been for
the children, I could have just lain down and died myself.
And worst of all, I hadn't been very good-tempered in the
morning, and I let him go without answering, when he
spoke to me as kind as could be. He never said a cross
word, as many a man would have done; and though I never
looked the side he was, I know as well as can be that he
kept turning round to see if I gave him as much as a nod
from the doorway, before he got out of sight."

"I daresay something had put you out, or maybe you

didn't feel quite yourself this morning," said Sarah, willing
to find an excuse for the troubled heart.

"If I were put out, I had no right to be," replied

Margaret. "As to being myself, I was too much myself, for
it's just me to say a sharp word when I ought to have
spoken kindly or to hold my tongue, and seem sulky when
Adam was waiting for a word. Eh, dear, dear! My old mother
used to say civility cost nothing and went a long way, and
I've mostly thought of this, and been pretty mannerly
towards my neighbours. But I've got a fresh lesson to-day,
and I find that good manners, like charity, should begin at
home. Many and many a time I've acted and spoke to Adam
as if any sort was good enough for the best husband that
ever lived."

The streaming tears stopped Margaret from further

speech, but Sarah's kind heart was full of sympathy for her,
and she showed this by looks, words, and acts, whilst
busying herself with household duties.

At first Margaret tried to assist, but Sarah could not

help noticing that she stopped from time to time, as if
unequal to any exertion, so she begged her to rest.
 "I can do everything easily," she said; "you must rest to
get up strength and spirits for Adam's sake."

Margaret agreed, more willingly than might have been

expected, and Sarah could not help thinking that the shock
had affected her more than she had at first realized.

The children were fed and sent off to school again, the
least of all having been carried off and cared for by a
neighbour. Margaret had forced herself to swallow a few
morsels of food, and was anxiously waiting for Richard to
return, when Mr. Drummond made his appearance instead.

"I am thankful to bring as good news as possible under

the circumstances," he said. "Your husband's arm is well
set, and his other hurts are not serious. He must, however,
stay where he is at present, and you may depend on his
being well attended to. For myself, Mrs. Livesey, I owe him
a lifelong debt of gratitude. But for his bravery and
presence of mind, my wife would now be a widow and my
little ones fatherless. Probably more lives would have been
lost, but certainly mine would. My one sorrow is that your
brave, good husband is suffering for what he did to save
me."

Margaret felt proud to hear such words from a man who

stood in such high esteem as Mr. Drummond, and she was,
in a sense, glad that he stood there alive and well, the
messenger of good tidings. But it would be too much to
suppose that she did not consider his safety too dearly
bought.

Thought is rapid, and as Margaret had rested on the

couch whilst Sarah worked on her behalf, many vision had
passed through her mind.
 Adam, not being a skilled mechanic, only a sort of
labourer, was not in a club. There would be no allowance
during his illness. When he was well again, what would he
be able to do? Just jobbing work, most likely, with uncertain
wages, and these poor at the best.

When an accident or death took place amongst the

hands at Rutherford's, and it was known that the wife and
children would be in almost immediate need of help, a
collection was sure to be made, in order to tide over the
first money difficulties. Comrades gave almost beyond their
means, without fear of reproof from wives who were waiting
for wages, in order that their mate's widow might not at
once feel the pinch of poverty along with the wound of
bereavement.

But Margaret had already calculated that two causes

would prevent her from receiving aid of this kind.

First, there was poor Jim's widow and children to care

for, and their case was sadder, their need greater than her
own. Secondly, everybody knew that Margaret's "fortune"
had not been encroached upon, for had she not been proud
to say as much? A woman who had hundreds of pounds
"out at use," or interest, was not likely to need help from
those who owned no reserve of the kind, or to receive it.

Jim's wages had been much higher than Adam

Livesey's, but owing to his own habits he had always been
in debt, and the family generally in low water, poorly fed
and worse clad.

Adam's small earnings had been turned to the best

account, and apart from Margaret's fortune, the family were
regarded as "comfortable."
 "There will be nobody to stretch out a hand for me nor
mine," thought Margaret. "Drink and shiftlessness pay best
when trouble comes. I did think that bit of money from
mother would be there to make things easy for us in our old
days, but some of it will have to be spent now. However, if
it's for Adam, I'll not grudge it, if the last penny goes. It's
all I can do for him, poor fellow. In a year or two, the lads
will begin to bring a trifle in; but, however hard parents are
put to it, the children must have their time at school."

Margaret sighed at this last thought, for, like many

other uneducated parents, she was inclined to put little
value on learning, and to regard it rather as a hindrance to
early bread-winning. "If not this," she said, and perhaps
with some truth, "that when working men's lads had got
much schooling, they began to be ashamed of fathers and
mothers that had little or none."

"Aye," Margaret would say, "they all want to dress in

broadcloth, and work with their coats on in an office or
such-like place. They go by hundreds after everything that
means being stuck at a desk with a pen in their hands, and
think they're gentlemen on fifteen shillings a week. Why, if
there's a place for a clerk at ever such a trifle to begin with,
they're after it like a swarm of flies round a dab of treacle.
They go on trying to live genteel on less wage than my
Adam gets, and that's little enough. Any way, working folks
that don't pretend to be anything else, have no need to
dress up like them that have ten times as much to spend."

Margaret's ambition for her boys was that each should

learn a trade of some kind. Observation had convinced her
that the steady, skilled mechanic, with a good knowledge of
his craft, seldom had idle time on his hands, or needed to
be one of a swarm of applicants for a vacant place at a
desk.
 Adam, too, had confirmed her views from an experience
at Rutherford's.

The firm had advertised for a youth to assist in the

office, and for skilled mechanics in the works. For the
former post more than a hundred applications were made;
for the latter, three. Yet the office employé would have
begun at ten shillings a week with no prospect of rising
beyond a guinea. The mechanics could each have made
from two to three pounds, according to their skill and
industry.

Adam had grieved at the disappointment of so many

would-be clerks, and said to Margaret, "Didn't it seem a pity
there was only one place and such a lot of likely lads after
it? Think, Margaret, a hundred and eleven went away
disappointed while one got a start!"

"Whose fault was that?" retorted Margaret, with some

sharpness. "Doesn't it come of teaching lads too much, and
making 'em all want to be gentlemen, instead of good
workmen, like their fathers were content to be?"

"I shouldn't be sorry if I had a bit more learning," Adam

had replied. "It helps a man on, whatever station of life he
may be in. If he's poor, he can get more pleasure and
satisfaction out of a spare hour with a good book to read
and enjoy."

"I had no learning to speak of, and a good job too,"

returned Margaret. "I've no spare hours, if the house is to
be cleaned, clothes are to be mended, children looked after,
and meals ready in time. When my stirring work is done, if
it ever is, I have to sew or knit to keep myself awake; I
should only go to sleep over a book. Not that I'm against
reading, writing, and doing sums. They're useful, though as
to writing, you get out of practice if you seldom do it. The
summing I want comes pretty regular, for I have to buy and
pay for things, and reckon how far the week's money will
go. I get fast now and again, when I want two shillings to
buy half a crown's worth;" and she laughed heartily.

"You do make two shillings reach further than most

women's half-crowns," said Adam, ever ready to praise
Margaret's good management. "But you wouldn't like our
lads to be behind other folks, and to lose a chance of
getting on for want of a bit more learning. A lad is often
stuck fast because of the want."

"And more of 'em are stuck up because they have it.

No, no, Adam. Let our lads have enough for every-day use
—we're bound to keep 'em at school till they're past
standards enough, then get 'em in at Rutherford's, or some
such place. They'll soon earn a bit, and make things easier
for you. As to a working man that gets a book in his hand
as soon as he comes in! He sits like a stone, and hasn't a
word for anybody, or a bit o' news to cheer up the wife who
has no time to go out and hear for herself."

Margaret, somehow, always silenced Adam when

learning and books were in question. He had thought, poor
fellow, that if he read aloud sometimes whilst she worked,
after the children were in bed, she would share his innocent
pleasure. After the first fruitless attempts to interest
Margaret in that "Book" which had become most precious of
all to himself and others of a decidedly religious tendency,
he had made another effort. Mr. Drummond had lent him
books of travel and adventure, and stories in which
instruction and amusement were well united. But all in vain.
Margaret would none of them, and even objected to the
father and elder children sharing them together.
 "Tales take them off their lessons, which are hard
enough in all conscience for such young heads. But they've
got to be done, and tale books must wait till they haven't so
much learning to take up their time."

These scenes and arguments had wearied Adam, and

for peace and quietness sake, he had for some time past
ceased to press upon Margaret what was evidently so
distasteful to her. He tried to carry home whatever news
was likely to interest her, though he abstained from telling
anything in the shape of mere gossip or scandal.

Now that Adam was lying at the hospital, injured and

helpless, many memories crowded through his wife's mind.
The most abiding pictures were those which told of his
patience towards herself, and of her want of sympathy in
return, mingled with anxiety about the future of her
husband and children.

"If," she thought, "Mr. Drummond has any real

gratitude, he'll show it as well as talk about it. We shall
soon know what his words are worth a week to us, now
wages are stopped. And after Adam is better? If he ever
does get well—" and Margaret's heart sank within her as
she thought of the possible darker side. "Surely there will
be some place found for my poor man at the old shop."

Margaret was so business-like, so prompt both to act

and plan, that during the earliest hours of her new trouble,
her mind had been occupied with many things. Regrets for
the past, anxieties for the future, speculations as to what
the firm, as represented by Mr. Drummond, and Mr.
Drummond on his own account, might do for her husband—
plans and resolutions for the greater comfort of her good,
kind Adam and the children, each chased each other
through her mind.
 One thought added to the mental weight which
oppressed her from the first moment she heard that Adam
was hurt. There were six children already. A few weeks
hence, the mother would need tending, and there would be
another little mouth to feed. With the sense of work to be
done, it was a trial to Margaret to take the needful rest
which would enable her to visit her husband at the hospital.
But when Mr. Drummond came with his cheering news, he
showed his forethought for Margaret in more ways than
one.

"I have asked Richard Evans to arrange for his wife to

go with you to the hospital," he said. "She will be here in a
cab directly, and in the meanwhile, if you feel equal to
going, you will put on your bonnet, will you not? Mrs. Evans
will take good care of you I am sure."

Margaret tried to utter words of thanks, but broke down

in the effort. Quivering lips and tearful eyes told their story
without speech.

"You must be brave, Mrs. Livesey, for Adam's sake. He

has told me what a good wife he has. One who would take
the last bit from her own lips to give to him or her children.
And now you must do what is harder even than that to a
loving heart, when one dearer to it than all the world beside
is suffering. You must drive tears away, and give Adam a
smile and hopeful, cheery words, which will be far-away
better than medicine. Say nothing about wages or money
matters. I hope his mind has already been eased on those
points. On each pay day, Richard Evans shall bring you the
full amount, until Adam is able to work for you all again."

No better remedy for Margaret's tears could have been

suggested, as her brightened face promptly testified.
 "I can't thank you, sir," she began—

"No thanks are needed," said Mr. Drummond. "I think I

hear wheels. Now, mind, you are to be Adam's best doctor,
and if you are inclined to be down-hearted, just think of
poor Jim's wife, and what might have been your case and
mine. You and I and my wife may well thank God with full
hearts, for spared lives. I most of all, for I have no hurt,
whilst I have the sorrow of knowing that a faithful friend
has been injured through his efforts to save me."

There was much in Mr. Drummond's words that gave

Margaret ease of mind, comfort, and pleasure. No fear of
want in the home, or that Adam would not be well cared for
and eventually recover.

Then this gentleman, head over all at Rutherford's, was

not ashamed to call her Adam his faithful friend. Adam, that
had reckoned himself of no account from his boyish days
upwards! It seemed too wonderful to think of. Of all that Mr.
Drummond had said, nothing had so helped to restore
Margaret's courage as those two words, "faithful friend."

Well might Margaret feel glad and proud on Adam's

behalf, and confident too, that, whatever might be the
weakening effect of the injuries he had received, the man
who had called him "friend," and who had confessed that
his life had been saved at the cost of those very injuries,
would not be likely to forget his interests in the future. Nay,
on the way to the hospital, she began to build castles on the
foundation of Mr. Drummond's words, and in fancy saw her
husband in a post of trust with lightened labour suited to his
diminished strength, and her lads going in turn to learn
their trade at Rutherford's.