She was beaten, blood covering her face, running onto the concrete. Oh, God, had she been trampled? He knelt beside her, feeling the heat of the fire, hearing the growl of huge engines, the sound of gravel being crushed beneath thick
tires.
Fire trucks!
Emergency vehicles!
Paramedics!
Oh, God, please, let the paramedics be here!
Heart in his throat Travis felt for her pulse, checked her airway and listened for her breathing over the sounds of men shouting, boots crunching, the fire hissing.
She was alive, breathing on her own, her pulse steady and yet she was out cold, blood gushing from a wound in the back of her head. “Here!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “I need help over here!” He wanted to move her, to drag her from this dark, smoke-filled building, but he didn’t dare for fear of injuring her further.
Where the hell were the EMTs?
“Shannon!” he yelled, trying to wake her without shaking her. “Shannon Flannery!”
She didn’t move. In the dim, reddish light, he saw that her once-beautiful face had been battered. Blood was flowing and crusting from her nose and mouth, bruises surfacing over what had so recently been flawless skin. He tore off a piece from the hem of his T-shirt and held it over the worst of the cut, feeling the blood wet and sticky as it oozed through the wad of dark cotton. With his teeth and free hand, he ripped off more of his shirt and tried to staunch the flow of blood at the back of her head, conscious that she might have a neck injury and careful to barely move her.
“Help!” he screamed again.
God, would they not search the buildings?
For a second he let go of the soaked wad of cloth and her chin and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He didn’t dare leave her, but he’d call damned 9-1-1 again and have them call and relay a message to the EMTs that there was an injured woman in the stable who needed immediate attention.
He’d pulled up his antennae with his teeth when he heard the sound of footsteps.
Thank God!
“In here!” he yelled.
Someone was running toward him.
Relief washed over him.
Still kneeling, the cell phone in one hand, he glanced up, expecting a fireman or EMT, but the tall man who stopped only inches from him was wearing sun-bleached jeans and a tattered T-shirt. He glared down at Travis with dark, suspicious eyes.
“Who’re you?” he demanded.
But Travis ignored the question. “She needs help.”
“I can see that.” The stranger was on his knees in an instant.
“Shit,” he muttered, touching her gently yet familiarly, as if he was accustomed to placing his hands on her body. Travis’s gut knotted and he felt a spurt of jealousy shoot through his blood. He ignored the ridiculous sensation, hoped whoever the hell this guy was, he could help her.
“You with the fire crew?”
The dark-eyed man didn’t answer, his concentration completely on Shannon, eerily so, as if the rest of the world, the horrific fiery blaze, the scattered, panicked horses, the rescue workers, this whole hellish scene, were removed.
Carefully this man touched and probed. “Shannon,” he whispered in a voice barely audible. “Wake up. Can you hear me?”
“She’s out,” Travis said impatiently.
The man didn’t so much as flick him a glance.
“I’ll get help!” Though he was hesitant to leave her, Travis ran to the far end of the building and tried to open the door. It didn’t give. Hell! He fiddled with the deadbolt, heard the latch spring, then shouldered open the door. Emergency vehicles were scattered around the lot—a county sheriff’s rig, a pumper truck, a fire engine and an ambulance. Firefighters in helmets and fire-retardant gear were already twisting on nozzles, dragging hoses, shouting to each other as they surrounded the blaze.