“Get in. I have a radio at the cabin.”
Reuben started toward the door, but a tug on his hand stopped him. He shot a look at Gilly. She was frowning, her lips tight.
“What—”
“I don’t...maybe we should just hike to the tower.”
He touched her shoulders, leaned down to meet her eyes. “What’s the matter? We’re running out of time, Brownie has a radio, and your knee is about to give out.”
She swallowed, glanced at Brownie. Back to Reuben. “I…” Then she sighed. “You’re probably right. I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe her. Still, their options were fading with the sunlight. “Gilly—everything is going to be okay. I promise.”
She offered a smile, but it felt fake, everything about it forced.
What—?
“Now or never, kids,” Brownie said. “But I’ll be glad to call it in for you if you decide to stay.”
“No, we’re coming,” Gilly said and let go of Reuben’s hand.
But as she got into the backseat and shut the door, he felt that same niggle in his gut, the one he’d had when he’d seen Jock run back into the flames. When he’d followed Pete to the black.
They should be running the other direction.
Run.
Gilly slid into the backseat, refusing to acknowledge the word booming in the back of her brain. But something about the car, everything from the color, an orange-red, to the interior—aged with layers of dirt, fishing tackle, and the scent of dead animal—all conspired to weave through her, constrict her heart, her throat.
She knew this car. Or at least something similar to it. The memory raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
“Are you okay?” This from Reuben, who’d climbed into the front seat then turned around to look at her.
She looked away. Nodded.
She didn’t know why she couldn’t look at him. Why a second ago she’d been holding his hand—yes, for nearly dear life. A reflex she couldn’t explain—and the next she felt like he’d sold her into slavery.
Her heart thundered in her throat, her palms dappled with sweat, she couldn’t breathe.
Yeah, she was just fine.
“Okay,” Reuben said, frowning. He turned back around to look at Brownie. “Thanks for the ride.”
“I’m going up to the cabin to do some fly fishing,” Brownie said as they headed north up the road.
Away from the lookout tower. But if Brownie had a radio, then they wouldn’t need the tower.
Gilly curled her arms around her waist, fought the tremor that snaked up her spine. Her knee ached—she desperately needed ice—and her head throbbed from the crash. She put her hand to her forehead. It was hot. Maybe she had a concussion—that could attribute for the pitching of her stomach.
But not the way the smells of the backseat racked up the shudder or the quiet, building urge to throw herself from the car.
This couldn’t be the same car.
She shook her head, tried to pay attention to what Reuben was saying, his explanation of the plane crash.
“So she put us down in this creek bed, but it was a harder landing than we’d expected, and a few of us are pretty hurt.”
She noticed how he avoided putting the blame on her, but, well—
If CJ and Jed died, she’d know exactly whom to blame.
Then Reuben flashed another look at her, a half smile that fell into concern again when she couldn’t return it. Then, suddenly, he draped his hand over the seat, touching her good knee, as if hoping to reassure her.
Oddly, the gesture soothed the roil in her stomach, settled it. She reached out for his big hand and slid hers into it. Squeezed, just for a second. His hand enveloped hers, warm, scarred, a little roughened, but strong.
Yes, she was with Reuben. She’d be fine—they’d all be fine.
Hadn’t he caught her from crashing into the river?
She let his hand go as a new heat started in her stomach, worked its way out to her body, into her heart. You about knocked me over in that dress.
That silly, too-girly dress that had her feeling half naked all over again.
They hadn’t driven very far when they pulled off the main road, turning east, cutting through a hunting path in the woods, the wagon slowing to bump over roots and under low-hanging branches. Brownie had flicked on his lights, and they cast a pale swath through the lurking purple and green shadows of the woolly forest.
“If we can raise our team on the radio, we can get a chopper to our location.”
“I can drive you folks back to town, if that helps,” Brownie said. “Or Patrick can. He should be back from fishing by now.”
Her ears perked up. “Patrick is here?”
“Our annual trip at the end of every summer for Tom’s birthday.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “It’s a hard day, and Patrick needed some time alone, so…”
Gilly looked out the window, rubbing her arms against the strangest rush of chill.
They emerged to the dark cabin, nestled in a small clearing. She guessed it couldn’t be more than two rooms, tiny as it was. It sat under a ruff of towering cottonwood, tucked into the embrace of a stand of white pine. A small porch led up to the front door.
Brownie parked. “Looks like Patrick isn’t back yet. Go on in. I’ll turn on the gas to the cabin, and we’ll stir together some grub while we wait for him.”
“We just need to use the radio,” Reuben said, getting out and grabbing his pack. Gilly followed him, climbing up the steps into the tiny cabin.
Brownie disappeared for a bit, then came around the side of the cabin, where he’d probably turned on the gas, and unlocked the door, flicking on a flashlight to illuminate the interior. The light skidded across a linoleum table and metal chairs circa 1950 in a tiny kitchen area with dishes drying in a rack over the sink. A separate propane tank powered the stove and refrigerator from the same era.
“I think there are some eggs in the refrigerator, Gilly,” Brownie said. “Reuben, I’ll power up the ham.”
She glanced at Reuben, who was suppressing a smile at Brownie’s immediate assignment of her to the kitchen.
Brownie lit a lamp on the table, the wick saturated in oil, and a warm glow puddled around the cabin. It illuminated the small room, a doorway to what Gilly guessed was a bedroom. A ratty tweed sofa lined one wall, anchored by an old desk. A chipped coffee table that showed boot scuff marks sat in front of the sofa.
On the desk sat a small square silver box, a large dial in the middle surrounded by smaller dials. A speaker sat beside the radio, an old silver microphone connected with a wire to the assembly.
“My parents had one of these on the ranch,” Reuben said, picking up the microphone. “An old HR0-500 ham.”
Brownie lit the gas lamp over the desk. “We use it for making calls back to the ranch in Ember. Patrick must have taken the mobile device.”
Reuben pulled out a chair. “Hopefully I can pick up someone—I remember Conner’s frequency, but he might not be listening.”
“Better to use the emergency frequency,” Brownie said.
Gilly went to the fridge, opened it. No light, but a cool breath cascaded over her, and her stomach immediately emitted a growl.
Inside, a carton of eggs, a piece of salami, and a shelf of beer suggested a fishing weekend rife with hope. She pulled out the eggs. Set the gear pack on the counter while she found the cast-iron pan.
A layer of bacon grease coated the bottom.
Maybe she wasn’t so hungry.
She glanced at Reuben, watched as he worked the radio.
“It doesn’t seem to want to power on,” Brownie said. He was fiddling with the connection to the battery, a large 12-volt.
Brownie got up, made a face. “We might have to use the battery from the car. It’ll drain it, but if we only use it for a short burst, the radio’ll power up.” He turned to Gilly. “Did you find everything?”
She managed a nod, not sure
what to say.
“I’ll be right back. Make yourselves at home,” Brownie said and headed outside.
The door shut behind him with a click, and she looked at Reuben.
He stood up, watching Brownie go, then turned to Gilly.
“What is it?” He walked over to her. “You’re freaking me out a little. Why didn’t you want to get into the car with him?”
She ran her hands over her arms, suddenly aware of the chill that had gathered in the cabin. “It’s nothing—I was being…it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we get help.”
He must have seen her shiver, because he reached out and touched her shoulders. Ran his hands over them, down her arms.
He had warm, big hands, a solid grip, and she had an insane urge to lean into him, to let him enfold her in his embrace.
She was just tired. And hurting. And— “The fact is, the car reminded me of something that happened. Years ago—it’s not a big deal, but…”
And then she swallowed, because it was a big deal and her lie would lodge there, right in the center of her chest. Her throat suddenly thickened and she shook her head and stepped out of his grip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Really, it’s not important.”
She headed for the kitchen, but Reuben’s voice stopped her.
“Gilly.”
He came up behind her, and she could feel his solid presence. “What happened?”
She shook her head, crazy tears burrowing behind her eyes. Now? Really? But maybe if she could get it out, he could tell her she was just overreacting, letting the past manhandle her. She could break free, find her footing, not let her fears turn her weak.
“I was attacked when I was sixteen by a man in a station wagon.”
She said it plain out, hoping that by voicing it, it might dispel the silent hold the secret had on her.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, turning her. And when she looked up at him, Reuben wore horror in his eyes. “Did you say you were…attacked?”
She made a face, trying to shake away the rush of emotion. “He didn’t really hurt me—someone came along and scared him off. But, yeah. I was walking alone late at night, going home from the fire base. It was summer, and nothing ever happens in Ember—we all know each other, right? And I only live about a mile away. It was late, though, and dark. I reached the gravel road and heard a car behind me, slowing, pulling up. I turned, and I saw it—this station wagon. Just like Brownie’s—with the round window in the back.
“I freaked out a little, started to run, and that’s when I heard footsteps. It was dark and I tripped, otherwise I would have outrun him. That’s when I hurt my knee—I landed hard on a boulder, and it hurt so bad. I didn’t realize I’d broken my kneecap. I couldn’t get away.”
He swallowed, looked stricken.
“I don’t know what he looked like. And it was dark. He came over, picked me up, threw his hand over my mouth, and I was just—helpless. I kicked and tore at him, but he wrestled me back to the car. Opened the back door and threw me in. And it smelled…” She pressed her hand to her mouth, the bile rising. “Dirty. Old. Feral. He was ripping at my shorts, and I was kicking him, but he was big—really big—and strong, and I was no match for him.”
“Oh no.” Reuben’s jaw hardened, and he shook his head, something fierce in his eyes. “Tell me he didn’t—”
“No, that’s the thing. Jock, Kate’s dad, came driving up the road—I could hear his motorcycle from a distance, and I started screaming. I think maybe the man realized that he couldn’t, well…so he let me go. Just threw me out of the car, into the ditch, and drove off. Jock found me there and took me home.”
“And you never saw him? Never pressed charges?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know who it was—I could never have recognized him. I didn’t tell my parents for years. And they were so worried about my knee, and I felt so angry and…weak. And helpless. And stupid for walking home in the dark.” She looked away, not able to tell him the rest, the real reason she was walking home so late, so she cut to the important part. “I vowed that I’d never let anything like that happen again. Ever.” Tough, not tender. Brave, not beautiful.
Reuben took a long breath, nodding. “I’m so sorry, Gilly.” For a big, tough man, he wore a surprising amount of emotion in his eyes, and she had to look away. “I need to know, right now—do you think it was Brownie?”
She shook her head. “No. It was just the memory…”
She felt his hand on her arm, and then, suddenly, he tugged her into his embrace.
Holding on, protecting her.
And, strangely, she sank into him. Just let the past shudder out against him.
Yes, maybe Reuben was exactly the man to keep her safe, help her finally break free of her fears.
The door creaked open then, and she took a breath, started to untangle herself from Reuben’s embrace.
But oddly, he didn’t let her go. Instead, he put her behind him, stepping out in front of her.
“Hey, Patrick,” Reuben said calmly. “Why don’t you put that gun down, huh?”
Chapter 6
To Reuben’s eyes, Patrick looked a little like old Custer the bull, blood in his eyes. He’d come in while Gilly was tucked in his arms, holding on, and it took Reuben a full second to realize that Patrick wasn’t fooling around.
Patrick wore his hair high and tight in a military shave, a goatee, a dirty green flannel shirt, and jeans. And a dark-edged anger in his expression.
If he had the power, Reuben would, in these moments, rewind time and choose differently.
Like not letting Jock run into a fire that could kill him. Or not giving into Gilly’s demand to hike out with him. And especially the moment when he should have listened to her silent pleading not to get in the station wagon.
Because even if Patrick was just protecting his land—which Reuben completely doubted—Reuben had somehow put Gilly in danger.
Again.
Reuben had dredged up all her nightmares of being attacked.
I vowed that I’d never let anything like that happen again.
“Don’t move, Gilly,” Reuben said quietly.
“Reuben, don’t be silly—it’s Patrick.”
Gilly tried to come out from behind him, but he had hold of her arm, held her securely in place.
Patrick had kicked the door shut behind him, his hands full with a lever-action .22 rifle.
The kind of rifle used for shooting the wolves which came after their cattle.
At this range, the bullet might go through both of them.
Reuben raised one hand. “I’m not sure what you think is happening here, Patrick, but your father picked us up on the road, and we’re just here to use the radio. The jump plane crashed and—”
“I know.” His tone said more than that, however, and the words settled into Reuben.
He knew. Because—?
“Oh good—I wasn’t sure anyone caught our transmission before we crashed.” Gilly slipped out of Reuben’s grip, grabbing the pack from the counter. “We need to get back to the team.”
She took a step toward the door.
“Stop, Gilly. Now,” Patrick snapped.
That’s exactly what Reuben was going to say. Because even he could see that Patrick’s words weren’t meant to convey that help might be on the way.
On the contrary, Reuben suddenly had a dark, gut feeling that Patrick had something to do with the fact that half his team was scared and dying in the woods.
“We just want to use the radio, and we’ll be out of here,” Reuben said. He kept his voice calm, centering himself, just like he would before settling upon a bull. He needed to think. Still his breathing. And an eye on Patrick’s gun told him to approach softly, with no recrimination in his tone.
“It doesn’t work. Hasn’t worked for years. And you’re not going anywhere.”
Gilly frowned at him.
“And no, Gilly, HQ has no idea where you are.” P
atrick didn’t even glance at Gilly when he spoke, his gaze only on Reuben. Reuben itched for a distraction, the chance to put Patrick on the floor.
As it was, Gilly froze. And Reuben ached for her when she said slowly, “I don’t understand.”
A beat, and Reuben met Patrick’s eyes. Please, don’t hurt her.
Patrick’s voice fell, dark and steely. “I think you do.”
Gilly looked at Reuben, but Patrick took a step toward Reuben. “Sit down, Reuben. Over there.”
He motioned to the sofa, and Reuben held up his hands, glanced at Gilly.
“Let Gilly go. She has nothing to do with this.”
“Nothing to do with what?” Gilly said.
“I’m not angry at Gilly,” Patrick said, ignoring her. “She’s just a casualty of firefighting.” His eyes hardened. “Like my son, Tom.”
Yes. Reuben had put the puzzle together, and connected this moment to last fall’s tragedy.
And what did Brownie say about this being a hard day?
A hard summer. His mind went back to Conner’s lost drone, the one that found its way from the Browning property to the Whiskey Creek fire.
“You blame us for Tom’s death,” Reuben said quietly. “And I understand. I do, too.”
“What?” Gilly said. “Wait—you’re blaming Reuben for the fire? Patrick—!”
“Stay put, Gilly!”
“I know you miss Tom—we all do,” Reuben said, his hands still raised. He was using his very best mental telepathy to tell Gilly to sneak out, that he’d keep Patrick’s attention on himself. Or die trying. “But we can’t change it—”
“Shut up! This is all your fault—all of you. Conner, Pete, and you. Tommy trusted his team. I trusted the team. And you all left him to burn to death on the mountain.”
Reuben had no words. Because Patrick was right.
His jaw tight, Reuben glanced at Gilly, who was staring at Patrick with a white-faced horror.
Burnin' For You: inspirational romantic suspense (Montana Fire Book 3) Page 11