“I didn’t stick up for myself either,” she said in a low voice. “I just left the room when my father told me to.”
“I should have told him that I might not be successful in his eyes, but you would never want for a home or food on the table and a few pretty lady things.” Like the rose soap she loved so much. “But I let your father put it in my head that a man who worked with wood could never be as good as a man who worked with brick and could never deserve his daughter.”
“I should have stayed in the parlor with you. I should have told my parents that I was a grown woman and married, and you and I would decide our own future.”
“I’ve spent ten years treating my profession like a hobby that paid just enough to allow me to search for silver or gold.” He watched the lantern light seeking out the red in her dark hair. “Consequently, your father’s prediction came true. I haven’t been successful. If I’d stood up to him and believed in myself, by now I might have been a prosperous contractor.” They would have been together all these years.
“I’m sure you would have been. But—”
“What are you looking at?” She kept glancing at the wall behind him with a puzzled expression.
“There’s a light on the other side of the tent, and it’s growing brighter.”
“A light?”
“I can’t figure where it’s coming from.”
Sam turned his head to examine an orange glow that flickered against the canvas wall, receded, then flashed brighter and higher. For an instant he didn’t register what he was seeing. Then he swore and jumped to his feet. “Fire!”
For a frozen moment neither of them moved, then they raced outside and halted in horror.
Whipped by the wind, flames leaped along the back wall of the house, licking at summer-dry wood. The curtains at the kitchen window blazed in tatters. Already the canvas ceiling above the sink was a sheet of racing flame. In seconds the kitchen would be an inferno.
Spinning on his heel, Sam dashed into the tent and emerged with a blanket covering his head and shoulders. Running toward the back door, he shouted over his shoulder. “Go to their window!”
Oh God, the girls. Angie’s paralysis broke and she grabbed up her skirts and sprinted forward, then around the corner and into the darkness. Cold wind tore at her hair and skirts. Ringing filled her ears which later she would identify as the urgent tolling of the fire department bell.
On this side of the house, the ground dropped away. Screaming, “Lucy! Daisy!” she stretched up on tiptoe, but only her fingertips reached the sill. Swearing, gulping air, she frantically looked for something to stand on, but all she found was a boulder she couldn’t possibly move. Damn, damn.
Smoke billowed out of the girls’ bedroom window. Frantic, shouting over the heavy pounding of her heart, Angie screamed their names again and again, wringing her hands, unaware of frightened tears streaming down her cheeks.
Then Sam appeared in the smoke at the window, holding Daisy’s limp body in his arms. “Angie!”
“Here! I’m right here!”
A soft whoosh preceded a sudden blaze of fire and light behind him. The blanket was gone. So was one of his sleeves. A finger of fire flickered on his collar. Fear and horror closed Angie’s throat.
Before Sam turned back into the blaze behind him, he lowered Daisy as far as he could, then dropped her the remaining two feet into Angie’s outstretched arms.
Daisy’s weight sent Angie to her knees on the hard rocky ground, but she didn’t notice. The child lay in her arms, limp and heavy, her eyes rolled up in her head.
“Daisy! Daisy!” Gasping and sobbing, she set Daisy on the ground and pounded her back. “Breathe! Damn it, breathe!” Daisy’s head lolled on her shoulders. Grinding her teeth, half crazy with fear and terror, Angie pounded the child’s back.
Daisy’s small body convulsed, then her mouth opened on a sucking sound and her chest expanded.
“Angie!” It was Sam.
Stumbling over her skirts, she jumped up and reached for Lucy. Again she went down on her knees as Lucy’s weight fell into her arms. But before she could try to revive the child, she had to smother the flames racing up Lucy’s nightgown. Roughly, she rolled the unconscious little girl in the dirt.
Dimly she realized that Sam had jumped and landed beside her. “Move away from the house,” he croaked, his voice choked and raw from the smoke. He slung Daisy over his shoulder and tugged at Angie’s collar.
“Wait, wait!” His shirt was on fire. Oh God, oh God. Frightened, sobbing, Angie beat at his back with her bare hands. When the flames were extinguished, she scooped Lucy into her arms and staggered away from the house.
“No,” Sam shouted. “This way. Toward Molly and Can’s.”
Now she saw that the wind snatched bits of ash and flame and flung them toward the unoccupied house on their right. Changing direction, Angie cradled Lucy next to her body and ran between the house and Sam’s flaming tent.
When the darkness and cold wind told her that she was out of immediate danger, she sat Lucy on the ground and shouted the child’s name and pounded her back.
Molly’s nightgown billowed around her and Angie’s nostrils pinched at the sudden stinging smell of ammonia. Molly waved the vial beneath Lucy’s nose. “Come on, come on, come on.”
Lucy’s mouth opened in a gasp and she sucked air into her lungs. She coughed, struggled to breathe, then coughed again.
Sobbing, Angie pulled the child into her arms and didn’t let go even when she felt Lucy’s arms wrap around her neck and cling so tightly it hurt. Harsh ragged breathing rasped in her ear.
“Daisy,” she gasped at Molly.
“Can took her to Abby Mueller’s house. Come on, I’ll help you get Lucy there.”
For a moment Angie didn’t understand. Molly’s house was closer. But too close. If the wind shifted . . .
They hurried around the far side of Molly’s house, well away from the flames, then crossed the street. Abby waited in her doorway, reaching for Lucy. “Daisy will be all right,” she assured Angie. “Tilly’s fixing warm water and honey for their throats.” She ran a quick eye down the bare legs beneath Lucy’s burned nightgown. “The burns don’t look too severe. Doc Poppell will be here soon.”
“Don’t leave me,” Lucy croaked as Abby took her out of Angie’s arms.
“I’ll be right back, darling.” Lucy’s face was streaked with soot and smoke. Red burned spots dotted her legs. “Stay with Abby for now and look after your sister. The doctor will be here soon to help. Try to be brave, darling girl.” She kissed Lucy a dozen times before Abby carried her inside. “Where’s Sam?” she asked Molly, fear in her eyes.
“Probably on the bucket brigade.”
They stared across the street at a hellish nightmare. Sam and Angie’s house was a solid block of fire, crimson flames leaped from the roof, lighting the night. And now the unoccupied house was also burning. Glowing ash floated on the wind, spiraling down on rooftops and into the street and yards.
As Angie and Molly watched, stunned with shock, horses drawing the fire wagon galloped down Carr, the bell atop the tanker clanging wildly. Faster than Angie would have believed possible, men had the hoses out and attached to the tanker. A volunteer brigade had also formed; a line of men stretched from the pump in Dorothy Church’s yard and across the street, passing buckets of water toward the flames.
At first Angie didn’t understand why the attention focused on the property beyond the unoccupied house. Then she realized their house and the unoccupied house had been given up as lost. The urgency now was to contain the fire and stop it from spreading and consuming the town.
Wind swirled her hem and when she looked down, she saw that falling ash had burned small circles in her skirt and shirtwaist. For the first time Angie noticed a large charred hole on her right sleeve. But right now she didn’t feel any pain. She felt nothing but shock at what she was seeing and a numb pervasive horror when she thought about what had almost happened
. Lucy and Daisy could so easily have died. A shudder wracked her frame.
“I need to get dressed,” Molly muttered as if she’d just realized she was standing in the street in her nightgown and bare feet. She ran toward her house with Angie behind her.
“We should move your things outdoors,” Angie called. “In case the wind turns.”
Hugo Mueller stopped them at Molly’s front door. “You can’t go in there,” he said sternly. “It’s too dangerous. If the wind shifts, this place will go up like a pile of straw.”
Can and another man were on the Johnsons’ roof, stamping out bits of flaming ash.
Molly shoved Hugo aside. “If the house bursts into flame, I’ll notice. Meanwhile, I’m going to get dressed.”
“Molly Johnson, you stubborn old—”
Angie ran inside after Molly. “Stay there,” she shouted to Hugo. “I’ll pass things outside, you move them into the street.”
“Just the boxes,” Molly yelled, rushing toward her bedroom. “And my medical bag. The rest can burn for all I care.”
Angie worked quickly, dragging the packing boxes to the door where Hugo hauled them to the street. Where was Sam? Was he all right? And the girls. How badly were they injured?
After Molly had hastily dressed, Angie left Molly and Hugo to finish saving whatever Molly wanted saved, and she ran to the bucket brigade, moving down the line peering into smoky sweating faces, but she didn’t see Sam.
The house next to the unoccupied house burst into flame with a loud popping sound, and the brigade line veered. But Dorothy Church’s husband saw her and shouted, “Sam’s on the hose line.”
Another tanker had arrived and Angie lifted her skirts and ran toward it, frantically seeking a tall man in a burned shirt. When she spotted him, tears of relief scalded her eyes. Thank God, thank God. For an instant their eyes met and she saw Sam’s shoulders slump with the same relief that made her own heart pound. They stared at each other across the snaking hoses, the smoky orange light flickering on their faces, then Angie raced toward Abby Mueller’s house.
Both girls were sleeping. Abby had washed their faces and she’d immediately applied molasses and flour to their burns.
“That’s the best thing she could have done,” Dr. Poppell said from Abby’s sink. He dried his hands, but the tang of linseed oil still clung to his skin. “The molasses and flour protected the injuries and kept the air out until I could get here.”
Angie lowered her head and raised a shaking hand to her brow. “How badly are they hurt?”
“Both children have burns on their legs. The oldest girl’s burns are more serious than those of the girl with the clubfoot. The oldest may have some scarring, time will tell. But they were lucky. It could have been worse.” He talked to her about changing the dressings. “They’ll both have sore throats for a while, from the smoke. For the next few days have them gargle with the white of an egg beaten to a froth in a small glass of sugar water. I’ve given them doses of laudanum for the pain and so they’ll sleep. I’ll leave some with you.” He laid aside the towel. “Now let’s have a look at your hands, Mrs. Holland.”
“My hands?”
Blinking, she extended her hands. Angry red burns dotted the backs, blisters had risen on her swollen palms.
“That’s a nasty one on your arm; it’s likely to scar,” Dr. Poppell said, ripping open her sleeve. “We’ll bathe the areas with vinegar first.”
When he’d finished treating the burns and applying cotton and wrappings, he asked if she, too, would like some laudanum to help her rest.
Angie shook her head. With her hands bandaged, she couldn’t help the women take water to the men, but she could stand in Abby’s yard and watch her home burn.
The sun rose on blackened smoking ruins.
By the time the wind died and the men got the flames under control, four houses had burned to the ground. A brick chimney chase was all that remained of the Koblers’ house. One wall still stood on the Greenes’ place. The unoccupied house had burned to the foundation, and all that was left of Sam’s house was a sludge of wet debris.
He stood near the charred grass where his tent had been pitched, staring at the devastation, at wisps of smoke curling out of the ashes.
“I’ll kill the son of a bitch,” he said between his teeth. As soon as he had his family settled, he’d take the train to Colorado Springs, find Herb Govenor, and beat him to death with his own hands. He didn’t care that his hands were swollen and seeping. A bullet wasn’t personal enough. A bullet was too swift an end for any bastard who would let his granddaughters burn rather than see them in Sam’s care.
“Who are you going to kill?” The police chief, Darrel Connelly, handed Sam a cup of coffee, then rocked back on his heels and studied the smoking remains of Sam’s house.
“I know who started this fire,” Sam said thickly, his eyes narrowed into burning slits. “The same fricking son of a whore who started the fires at the Union Hall and up at Whittiers’ place.”
Connelly turned his head. “That would be Albert Wales, who’s sitting in my jail right now.” Sam stared at him. “Caught him red-handed, trying to burn down the new hotel three days ago.”
“You caught the arsonist, but you won’t get the man who hired him because I’m going to kill the bastard first.” And he would enjoy it. Killing Herb Govenor was all he could think about.
“I know who you think hired Wales, but Sam, you’re dead wrong. We’ve kept this quiet while we’ve been checking things out. Wales acted alone; he wasn’t hired by anybody. He’s ex-union, and he worked for Whittier until Whittier fired his butt. He went after the hotel because he heard Whittier was part owner.” Connelly studied Sam’s expression. “He knows you by sight, but he didn’t know you were the builder on the union and Whittier projects. He says he doesn’t have anything against you, and I believe him. When we first interrogated him about you, he didn’t know who or what we were talking about.”
A sinking feeling stole through him as the truth sank in. Govenor had nothing to do with the fires. But Sam recalled the fire at the Dryfus place that no one knew about but him. It was something to ponder later. “If you’re sure that Wales is the arsonist, and he couldn’t have started this fire because he was in jail,” he waved a hand at the smoke drifting off the rubble in front of him, “then who did start this?” Part of him refused to give up the belief that it was Herb Govenor.
“I think Dale can answer that,” Connelly said as the fire chief walked up to them. “Tell Sam what you told me.”
Dale Mercer waved Sam forward to the edge of the rubble. “From what you’ve said and from what we can see, the fire started here, on the kitchen side of the outer wall.” Squatting down, he poked a stick in the debris. “You see this?” He found the sink, then stirred some glass shards and a melted lump of metal. “That was a lamp. Based on my experience, I’d say it’s about a ninety-nine percent certainty that the fire started here.” He gazed up at Sam. “I can’t figure why you’d have a lit lamp sitting in the sink next to the window, but I’m guessing you did.”
Sam stared down at the bits of glass and melted metal. And he remembered the curtains fluttering at the kitchen window. Angie saying that she’d placed a few small stones in her mother’s cup so it wouldn’t blow off the sill. He could hear the wind buffeting the walls of his tent.
The fire had been an accident. A result of wind, Daisy’s lamp, and curtains blowing too close to the flame. Christ.
His shoulders dropped, and now he felt the pain in his hands and on his back. He had been so certain that Herb Govenor was to blame. Hatred had kept him going during all the hours on the fire line. He’d wanted to kill Govenor so badly that the feeling was slow to dissipate even now that he recognized the truth.
“There’s no doubt?” he asked finally. But he stared at the melted base of the lamp and knew the answer. The fire and police chiefs talked for another fifteen minutes, but he was convinced before he heard what they had to say.
“The girls are still sleeping,” she said after nodding to Connelly and Mercer. “There’s a meeting going on at Tilly’s house. They’re figuring out where to put up the Koblers and Greenes. Molly and Can have offered us their house, and I accepted.”
Her chin lifted a fraction as if challenging him to disagree. But hell, why would he? They had nowhere else to go, and Molly and Can had planned to leave for Denver this morning.
“I want you to come with me, and I don’t want to hear any argument.” She gave him a fizzy look that said she meant it. “The doctor’s been waiting all night for you.” She took the coffee cup out of his hands and tears filled her eyes. “Oh Sam.” The skin on his hands was puffed and cracking. “Molly has breakfast waiting at her house. I expect she’ll have to spoon-feed us, too.”
As it turned out, her prediction wasn’t far wrong. By the time Doc Poppell finished with him, bandages covered his back and parts of his chest. His hands were like Angie’s, thickly wrapped except for the tips of his fingers. After a few bites of Molly’s flapjacks, he gave up trying to manage a fork.
“I’m not hungry anyway,” he said, leaning back from his plate.
Molly gazed at him across the table. “Looks like you need a haircut, Sam Holland. That curl at the back of your neck is about gone. You were right lucky that the rest of your head didn’t catch fire.” She put down her napkin and stood. “I’ll get my scissors. If I can find them.”
Refusing any help, he picked up his coffee cup with his fingertips, had a sip, then told them about Albert Wales, the arsonist, and how the fire had actually started.
“Daisy’s lamp,” Angie repeated softly, falling back in her chair. She closed her eyes. “I should have thought of it. I put the pebbles in Mama’s cup because the wind was blowing. Why didn’t I think about the curtains fluttering over the lamp chimney? None of this would have happened if—”
The Bride of Willow Creek Page 27