He lifts me by the backs of my thighs and kicks the door shut with his heel. We kiss again in the middle of the driveway until we’re breathless.
“Can we sleep outside tonight?” I ask. “You can show me your favorite stars.”
He gives the sky a glance, then he’s smiling down at me. “News flash, shortcake. You’re my favorite star.”
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Love Me Steadfast
Prologue
William
The tones wake me from a deep sleep. I’m instantly alert and jump into my pants and boots, then grab my shirt, all while memorizing the details being broadcast over the PA system.
Medical call activated from the crisis line. The address is familiar, but I can’t placeit.
My pulse flutters into my throat as I race for the pole and slide down to the truck bay.
Who do I know who lives on Salt Creek Road?
My partner Burton is right behind me. He climbs behind the wheel of the ambulance and I jump into the passenger side. An engine is also dispatched, and both of us pull out of the station, sirens wailing.
I check in with dispatch for details.
“Twenty-four year old female reporting mental health crisis. Possible substance abuse.”
“Is anyone with her?” I ask.
“Not that she’s reporting.”
I hope the crisis line folks are still talking to her. If anything, it will buy us some time.
“Sheriff’s department is enroute,” our dispatcher says.
“Does she know we’re coming?” I ask.
“Affirmative,” dispatch replies. “Evergreen medics are on standby.”
I set the radio back in its cradle while Burton accelerates onto Sunnyside, which curves around the south side of Bear Mountain. It’s a narrow paved road that turns to gravel after the first two miles. The rig vibrates and dips over the uneven road. There’s no traffic at this hour, and I kill the siren but leave the lights.
When the GPS indicates our turn is approaching, it hits me.
“Oh fuck,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
Burton frowns. “What?”
Responding to calls where a loved one is hurt or injured is every firefighter’s nightmare. “I think I know where we’re going.”
The faded sign for Salt Creek Road flashes in the headlights, and Burton turns. The road is in even worse shape than the one we left behind, and our heavy rig bounces and jerks over the potholes and washboards.
“You been out here before?” Burton asks as we take the left fork, passing beneath the Thunder Mountain arch.
“Yeah,” I reply. When Morgan started the rescue almost six years ago, she had two horses and twenty acres. Now it’s grown to more than 600—some of that public land she won the right to lease for cheap—and dozens of animals. “It’s…been awhile though.”
“Some kind of horse rescue?”
