Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
IAN
It’s not often that we leave a call laughing.
As a firefighter, we’re usually called to help in the most stressful and traumatic of situations. Car accidents. Heart attacks. Poisonings. And working in a small town like Sleepy Hollow, a lot of times we’re helping people we know.
It’s not easy, but in the four years I’ve been working as a volunteer firefighter and paramedic at Station 4, I’ve never regretted it.
My ex would never have understood. She would have insisted I spend my time doing something that makes money. I can imagine her disapproving voice saying, If you have the time to volunteer, Ian, why don’t you spend those hours working on expanding the gym? Or getting a degree that actually means something?
I know she’d say that, because she was never happy with the career I chose. Or how much money I made.
But I’m happy with my life. Maybe I’m not rich, but I do okay. I’m co-owner of a business I love. I have a house. A dog. Friends. Parents who are actually proud of me.
And I have nights like this one—volunteering with my friends, laughing about our most recent call as we head back to the station.
“Do you think we’ll do something stupid like that when we’re their age?” Grant asks from the driver’s seat. “I’d like to say no, but?—”
“Ari would kill me.” Cash chuckles. “But I’d be tempted.”
“Or you just know you’d lose.” I grin at him. “You know I’ll still be in the best shape.”
Grant turns to give me a quick who are you kidding look. “Have you forgotten who’s the SEAL here? I would get to the top of that tree way faster than either of you.”
“But I’m at the gym every day,” I retort. “Even when I’m sixty, I’ll be in peak physical condition.”
Cash arches his brows at me. “And are you going to be practicing tree climbing when you’re sixty?” He pauses. “I’m the one with all the trees on my property. If I tell Ari I’m just out there trimming them, I could get a lot of practice in.”
“Not if I tell her what you’re up to.” I mime making a call. “Hey, Ari. Just wanted to let you know, your husband is out there climbing trees so he can beat us in a competition.”
Cash smacks my arm. “You wouldn’t. Because then you wouldn’t be invited to Thanksgiving anymore.”
Grant signals to turn and deftly maneuvers the firetruck around a sharp corner. Then he says with a smile, “So I guess we aren’t going to be any smarter than the guys we just rescued, are we?”
Our call was to rescue two sixty-something friends who decided to make a wager on who could climb a tree faster. Apparently, as Bob Hurley sheepishly told us, the long-time friends had done something similar when they were teenagers. “The tree didn’t look that high,” he said defensively, gesturing at the tall maple in front of his house.
“I could have made it all the way up,” his friend shouted from where he was stuck halfway up the tree. “If not for my damn shirt getting caught on this branch!”
Once I got to Greg Wilson and cut his shirt free, he actually wanted to keep going. “I can’t let Bob win,” he grumbled. “I’ll never live it down.”
I talked him out of it. Of course. Though a part of me is curious who could have done it faster. Greg takes one of my jiu-jitsu classes, and he’s in pretty good shape. If I had to put money on one of them?—
The radio crackles to life, and a second later, the 911 operator’s voice comes through.
“Just got a call for a 10-24. A woman was assaulted in her store. Sounds like a possible robbery, as well. You’re close; it’s just downtown, on Kendall. One of the little storefronts that’s being fixed up.”
Grant flips on the sirens, and the truck accelerates.
“Which number?” Cash asks, his tone all business. “How badly is she hurt?”
The operator—a new one, I think her name is Willa—hesitates. “She mentioned something about her hand. But she was sobbing, so it was hard to understand her.”
Shit. I’m already imagining this poor woman, hurt and terrified. She might have been working late in her store, doing inventory, and then some piece of shit comes along…
“She said it wasn’t a store, though,” Willa adds. “She said it was her studio, but she couldn’t remember the number.”
My heart lurches. “What?”
Grant flies around a corner, practically coming up on two wheels.
“A studio. Close to the?—”
I bark at the radio, “What’s her name? Did she give her name?”
Cash flashes me a concerned look.
“I think she said something like Rosalind? Rosalina?” Willa pauses. “I’m sorry. She was crying really hard.”
“Rosalyn.” My voice is flat. Brittle.
“Yes—”
“Fuck.” A sick feeling sweeps through me. “I know her.”
We swing around another corner, this time onto Kendall Ave. Grant gestures ahead of us, at the lone storefront with the lights still on. “This has to be it.”
As we get closer, it’s clear Grant is right. The door stands ajar, the top pane shattered. Just beyond, there are toppled over easels and canvases scattered across the floor.
Ah, shit.
“Her name is Rose.” It’s forced through a gritted jaw. “She’s an artist. Thea introduced us. I went out for coffee with her last week.”
Beautiful Rose, who just moved to Sleepy Hollow, wanting a quieter and safer place to live.
Petite, soft-spoken Rose, who I liked more than I expected.
And now she’s hurt. Scared. Crying.
The police pull up behind us, red lights flashing.
“She’s hiding in the closet,” Willa tells us. “Be gentle with her. She’s terrified.”
Fuck.
We all pile out of our vehicles and gather on the sidewalk outside Rose’s studio. Kane Montague and Oliver Kingston are the responding officers, and both of them give us quick chin lifts in greeting.
“We’ll clear the place first,” Kane says briskly. “Then we’ll signal you to come in.”
“Ian knows her,” Cash supplies. “If she’s scared, which she probably is, it might be helpful to see a familiar face.”
Oliver nods and meets my gaze. “As soon as we can bring you in, we will.”
The next few minutes feel like an eternity. This is one of the worst parts of the job—waiting to be allowed to help the victim—and it’s even worse knowing who it is.
It’s not that I know her well. We only went on one date; a date I was hesitant to go on to begin with. But Thea insisted while we were at trivia a couple of weeks ago. “Rose is sweet, and smart, and so creative,” Thea enthused. “She’s kind of shy. But I just have this feeling, Ian.”
“I’m not interested in dating,” I told Thea firmly. “I’m busy enough as it is.”
“Please?” Thea’s voice took on a wheedling tone, and she widened her eyes at me. “Just one date. See how it goes. I remember Ari saying how she had this feeling about Ben and I, and she was right. So…”
It was easier to give in. So last week, I met Rose—not Rosalyn, she said, that’s what she uses for work but not with her friends—and I had a surprisingly good time. We’ve texted since then, but I haven’t brought up the topic of another date. Another date means a step closer to commitment, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
What I do know is I like her, and I want to make sure she’s okay.
Finally, Kane comes to the door and makes a motion with his hand to come inside. He looks more pissed off than I’ve seen him in a long time. “He really did a number on her,” he bites out. “Kingston convinced her to open the closet door, but she’s in shock and won’t come out.”
Shit.
“You try,” Grant says to me. “Since she knows you. It might be better.”
I follow Kane toward the back of the studio, and it’s impossible to ignore the destruction around us. Half a dozen canvases are torn, wooden easels lie in pieces, and paint is smeared across the floor. An almost completed painting has a giant hole right in the center, like someone put a foot through it.
All her hard work, destroyed in minutes.
My heart hurts for her.
Then we get to the closet, and at first, all I can see is Oliver’s back. He’s crouched on the floor, speaking in low, soothing tones, saying things like it’s okay and you can come out now and I promise, you’re safe .
But the only response is a soft sobbing.
“Kingston.” Kane lifts his chin at Oliver. “Let Ian try.”
With a nod, Oliver tells Rose gently, “I’ve got Ian here. He’s kind of a goof, but we like him anyway. He’s going to talk to you, okay?”
As I approach the closet, I try to brace myself for any possibility. A head injury. Broken jaw. Internal bleeding. Bruises everywhere. In four years, I’ve seen more acts of violence than I want to count, so at this point, nothing should surprise me.
But when Oliver moves aside so I can see her, I’m not prepared for the immediate rush of white-hot rage. An inferno of fury. I nearly crack a molar to keep from exploding.
Even in the dim of the closet, I can’t miss her injuries.
Her cheek is deep red and swollen, and blood leaks sluggishly from a cut beneath her eye.
Her lower lip is stained red, and her jaw is swelling.
There are reddish marks around her throat.
Fuck.
She’s hunched over, shaking, clutching one hand to her chest. Between stuttering sobs, she makes these terrible scared little sounds that make me want to track down whoever did this and beat them.
But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here as a firefighter, a paramedic, and hopefully, a friend. So I need to shove aside the anger and focus on calming Rose down so we can treat her.
I kneel in front of the closet, angling myself so I can see her huddled in the back of it.
“Rose. Hun.” I gentle my voice. “I’m so sorry this happened. And I’m sorry you’re hurting. I know you’re scared. Will you let us help you?”
There’s a long pause, long enough that I start to think she doesn’t remember me. Or worse yet, she has a head injury. But then she asks softly, hesitantly, “Ian?”
“Yeah, hun. It’s me. Remember, I said I’m a volunteer firefighter. And a paramedic.”
She draws in a shuddering breath. “Is it… is it safe? Is he…” A sob slips out. “I’m scared.”
Oh. I’ve never felt this kind of pain for a patient before.
“I know,” I croon. “But the police checked everything out. It’s safe. He’s gone. We just want to get you out of the closet so we can see where you’re hurt.”
Her delicate features crumple. “My hand. Oh, Ian. My hand .” And she starts crying again.
Her hand? I can’t tell what’s wrong; it’s too dark and the way Rose is curled into herself…
“Can you come out? Rose? Hun?” I want to be patient with her, but if she’s critically hurt—there could be so many injuries I can’t see. “Do you need help?”
She stares at me, tears spilling down her cheeks. Then she nods. “Please.”
Normally I wouldn’t touch someone immediately after an assault for fear of aggravating an unseen injury or triggering them. But I need to get her out of there, so I carefully gather her in my arms and carry her over to a clean spot on the floor a few feet away.
Once she’s out, we jump into action.
Cash takes Rose’s pulse and blood pressure while Grant starts checking for broken bones. By unspoken agreement, I’m the one who stays where she can see me, asking her questions about where she’s hurt and reassuring her that she’s going to be okay.
Her hazel eyes never leave mine, silently pleading with me not to leave.
In a tiny voice, she tells me that the man punched her twice, and it’s all I can do not to throw things.
When Grant touches her ribs and she sucks in a pained breath, whispering, “He kicked me. When I was on the floor,” everyone’s expressions go murderous.
But the worst of it is when Grant looks at her hand.
The damage is terrible. Broken fingers, at least one dislocated knuckle, swollen, cuts all over, and these strange marks?—
“He stomped on my hand.” Rose shudders, and fresh tears well up. “With his boot…”
Ah, fuck. Tread marks. The fucker ground his boot into her hand.
“Okay,” Grant soothes, but his jaw is like stone, “I’m just going to use a sling to keep your arm from moving.”
“The ambulance is here,” reports Cash. “It’s Ryan and Willow.” He directs the next part to Rose, adding kindly, “They’ll get you to the hospital. You couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Ian?” Her gaze bounces from Cash back to me. With a heartbreaking waver to her voice, she says, “I thought it was safe here. And now… my hand… ”
“Ah, hun.” I can’t resist touching her, and I cup her uninjured cheek for a moment. “It’s going to be okay.”
But how can I promise that?
How can I tell her everything will be okay when I remember Rose drawing a little sketch for me during our date?
I was so impressed by her skill, capturing the essence of the coffee shop in just a couple of minutes.
And it was so cute, the way her cheeks pinked up when I complimented her, like my words meant more than all the awards she’s won.
But I remember it clearly; Rose using her right hand to draw.
Her right hand, which is now injured badly.
I’m not an orthopedist, but I do have a lot of training in human anatomy, and I know how many bones are in the human hand.
I know this injury could be devastating.
As Willow and Ryan close in with their stretcher, I brush a tear from Rose’s cheek. “It’s going to be okay,” I repeat, for lack of anything better to say.
But from her expression, I don’t think she believes me.
“Will you come—” she starts, her voice wobbling. “Nevermind.”
“Yes.” I answer her unfinished question. “My shift is almost over. I’ll go back to the station and get changed, then head over to the hospital. Okay?”
She swallows hard. “You don’t have to…”
“It’s fine.” My voice goes gruff. “I want to.”