A Hero in the Making

by Laurie Kingery

  Yes, the man was definitely mellowing. Maybe Dayton thought that the nicer he was to Nate, the more apt Nate would be to stay and go into partnership with him.

  Whether he stayed or left Simpson Creek, though, had nothing to do with the crusty mill owner’s unaccustomed generosity and everything to do with a petite café owner whose black hair gleamed with brown highlights in the sun and whose dark liquid eyes had unlimited depths.

  Light flickered through the café window, casting a faint light on the short path between the road and the café. Had she left on a lamp for him, knowing he’d be arriving soon? How considerate of her, but she shouldn’t waste her precious lamp oil when he’d brought a lantern of his own.

  Then he thought he saw the shadow of someone moving within the café. Had Ella stayed to see him? Could she possibly want to make peace between them, or did she merely want to give him grudging thanks away from curious eyes?

  Curiosity sped his steps. In a few short strides he pushed the door open. “Ella, are you here? It’s me, Nate.”

  But the figure that came toward him possessed nothing of Ella’s lithe grace. It was heavy and lumbering, and leaned on a cane, blocking the doorway. “Yes, she’s here,” Mrs. Powell said, showing yellowed, uneven teeth as she pulled her lips back in an attempt at a smile.

  It was all Nate could do not to groan out loud. What is this woman doing here now? Has she come to make peace with Ella, too? Of all the times to do that...

  He tried to look past her to spot Ella, but Mrs. Powell was too tall and broad. How quickly could he get her to leave so he could talk to Ella?

  “May I see her then?” he said, trying to mask his impatience.

  The old woman stepped aside to let him in, then gestured toward the shadows at the back of the café. “I fear the rude girl couldn’t stay awake to greet you proper-like.” She cackled, and pointed a gnarled finger to a crumpled form sprawled on the puncheon floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It wasn’t a natural slumber, it couldn’t be—not the way Ella’s limbs were splayed out, as if she had fallen instantly asleep and dropped to the floor. “Let me past,” he ordered the old woman, pushing her aside as gently as he could despite the alarm bells ringing in his head.

  “Sure, sure,” Mrs. Powell murmured, allowing herself to be moved. “You come right on in an’ see if you kin wake her up. Maybe with a kiss, like the prince in that old fairy tale,” she added with a cackle.

  Nate ran to Ella’s side, threw himself down to the floor beside her and began pulling on her arm. “Ella, what’s the matter with you? Are you hurt? Wake up!” He patted her cheek with increasing force. Gingerly, he felt her head and found the soft lump at the back, just above the neat knot she always twisted her hair up into when she was cooking.

  “Do you know what happened to her?” he demanded without looking at the old woman. When no answer seemed to be forthcoming, he said, “I have to get her to the doctor, so you’ll have to hold the door open for me—”

  Mrs. Powell stood just behind and to the side of him, he saw out of the corner of his eye. Her cane lay on the floor. Now she held something large over her head—a chair?—but before he could wrench himself aside, she brought it down on him with amazing strength.

  Instant, blinding pain. He fell to the floor, arms and limbs unable to answer his order to move, to seize the old woman and subdue her.

  She is insane...

  As consciousness faded, Nate heard her cackling now as she walked away from him.

  Must stay awake. Must help Ella. Get her away. Must...

  * * *

  Ella wanted to remain in that misty, murky land where the thundering pain in her head was only a distant, throbbing echo, but the stinging in her nose and a distant shrieking were too insistent. Flashing light battered her closed lids. A crackling noise assaulted her ears. Tentatively, she slitted one eye open just enough to see what was making such a ruckus.

  What she saw had her bolting upright in alarm, only to sway dizzily from the blow to her head and the stunning realization that her nightmare had returned.

  By some horrible means, she had been transported back through the years and was once more in the asylum on the night that it had burned to the ground. She could hear a thumping somewhere beyond the wall of flame nearby—the thudding against the door of a dormitory full of helpless children, trying in vain to alert someone—anyone—that they were trapped behind a locked door.

  The cavernous room was filling with smoke. Part of the ceiling was alight, glowing a sinister orange-red above them. She could hardly see the children pounding at the door now through the gray clouds between them, could barely make herself heard through the roaring of the flames when she screamed at them. “Come this way—we’ll get out through the other dormitory! Follow me!”

  Two or three turned around, blinking at the smoke that stung their eyes, as she pointed to the door that led to the adult dormitory next to them. This had been the portal through which her nightmarish tormentor had entered the children’s dormitory and crept unerringly to her bed so many nights. She could picture him clearly now—not one of the crazy old men, but Mr. Kimberly, the superintendent of the asylum.

  Now, though, that door might mean their salvation.

  Then the portion of the roof over the children pounding at the door collapsed with a tremendous crash, and she could no longer see them, just a writhing, dancing inferno where they had been.

  She had to get out! She could no longer help the others, but perhaps she could save herself. There were no guarantees that the adult dormitory was not entirely afire, but when she felt the door, it wasn’t hot. She pushed it open.

  The other room was impenetrably black with smoke, but she could see no flames. There seemed to be a few inches of relatively clear air at her ankles, so she dropped to the floor and began to crawl, dodging the shapes of cots and men and women awakening to the horror of the smothering thick smoke. She had to find the door—and then she did, and scrambled through it. The corridor was only a little smoky, and she ran through it, coughing until she reached the door to the outside and retched in the cold night air.

  She began to run, unaware that she wore nothing but a sooty, singed nightgown. She never stopped until the fiery asylum was a distant torch behind her.

  But something was wrong. She wasn’t free. She hadn’t escaped. Ella still smelled the lung-strangling smoke, saw the flames around her. She hadn’t outrun them the way she had that night.

  The years fell away again, and Ella knew that this nightmare was real. Dear God, the café is on fire! Red tongues licked the wall behind her. A curtain of flame lay between her and the door; another arching, writhing, spark-spitting red-gold line separated her from the west wall that faced the creek.

  Mrs. Powell had done this, Ella realized—had knocked her insensible and set the fire to rid herself of her competitor and her competitor’s establishment in one fell swoop. Perhaps the woman’s odd behavior of the past few weeks had been only an act designed to allow Ella to trust her just enough to let her into the café when everyone else had left. Night would cloak the flames from the town until the place was nothing but a smoking ruin—and Ella’s body with it.

  Where had the woman gone? she wondered. Was she watching from a distance among the trees that lined the creek? Or had she crept back to her little room in the back of the hotel, so that morning would find her feigning blissful ignorance of the tragedy that had befallen Ella?

  She didn’t have time to speculate about Mrs. Powell. Flames caressed a portion of the ceiling above her now, showering the floor with sparks. A couple of them landed on her skirt and smoldered. With a shriek she beat at her skirt until they were nothing but blackened holes in the fabric.

  She had to be calm, had to gather her wits and get out. Panic was useless and lethal. She’d survived a fire
before, she could do it again.

  Her only possible exit was the window at the back, the one she looked out when she washed dishes. She could clamber up onto the table and escape from her burning café.

  But the table was gone, and she dared not waste precious time in the smoke trying to find it. It would be awkward getting out of the window without the table, but she could do it—had to do it, and quickly, before the ceiling fell in on her the way it had on those poor luckless orphans at the asylum. She’d land on her head and hands, but with any luck she wouldn’t break her neck...

  Then she heard the thumping again behind her, past the line of flames, and realized it hadn’t been the children in the asylum. Someone was in the burning café with her, beyond the writhing line of fire. Was it Mrs. Powell? Had she fallen victim to her own trap? Ella had to try to help her get out.

  The fire bowed low for a moment, and she saw that it wasn’t the malicious old cook but a man. A man whose hands and legs were bound with rope, whose mouth was gagged by a rag tied around his head. Nate! He was thrashing against the floor with his legs, trying desperately to free himself—that had been the noise she’d heard. He’d come to finish his work, and somehow that evil, crazy woman had managed to lure him inside and knock him unconscious, too.

  “Nate!”

  He heard her yell, and twisted around in his bonds to see her. The words he tried to speak were incomprehensible, of course, but the anguish in his eyes said everything he needed to. He was afraid they were both going to die in this fire.

  “I can...get out!” she cried, then paid for inhaling the smoke with a fit of coughing that brought stinging tears to her eyes. “Th-through the window—then I’ll come around and get you loose!”

  The smoke hid the doorway from view, but she saw no flames in that part of the ceiling, and thought that fire hadn’t reached it yet. Of course—Mrs. Powell had left herself a way out. She’d set the fire at the back, hoping it would kill Ella and Nate before consuming the rest of the little building.

  She looked back at Nate. Through the smoke, she saw him shake his head. He was telling her to save herself, not to expose herself to more danger by trying to save him, too. Of course. He was not her father, who’d thought only of himself and abandoned her. Nate was putting her safety, her life, before his.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. The heat was unbearable. Any moment now she’d miss a spark landing on her clothing, and her skirt or her blouse would catch fire. The fire was creeping closer, not only to where she stood but to where he lay, and overhead, too. What if the roof collapsed over him before she could struggle out the window and come around to the front?

  Lord, save us!

  With a smothered cry, she lunged for the window. But she couldn’t raise it! Had Mrs. Powell rigged it closed somehow, or had the heat in the room swollen the wood? Quickly, raising the thick twill fabric of her skirt, she wrapped it around her fist and, closing her eyes, struck at the glass. It cracked, then broke, raining shards of glass outside. She struck frantically again and again until most of the glass around the frame had fallen out. She’d still probably get nicked by the remainders of it as she went through, but her clothing should protect her to some degree.

  She threw her arms out the window, then, clutching the outside wall, pulled herself farther out, her high-buttoned short boots scrabbling at the wall inside, trying for a foothold. When her waist hit the window, something pressed against her abdomen from inside the apron. She didn’t have time to wonder what it was. A forgotten spear of glass gouged the top of her head. She ignored the pain.

  Precious seconds of struggling later, she had pulled herself out of the window far enough that her weight took her the rest of the way. She fell in an ungainly heap onto the ground below, her back scraping against the rough bark of the big live oak closest to the window.

  Was Mrs. Powell waiting out here, she wondered, ready to bash her over the head again? Ella peered around, but she didn’t see her. The fire had roared to new life behind her, as if frustrated that it had lost its prey. Has it already killed Nate? She could hear nothing but the crackling of the flames within.

  Now that the little building was a blazing inferno, would anyone in town see the smoke that Ella guessed rose above it like a tower and raise the alarm? The parsonage was closest, but it was the middle of the night. Before anyone was roused by the fire, it would be too late.

  She scrambled around the side of the building, dashed to the door and pulled at the handle, and when it wouldn’t move, threw herself against it. It gave way and she fell heavily on her shoulder just over the threshold.

  There—there was Nate! The fire hadn’t reached him yet, though it sprinkled sparks all around him. Leaning over, she pulled at his lower legs, but she couldn’t budge him.

  Aware she was there now, he jerked his head toward the door, making more of the incomprehensible noises that were all the gag would allow him. Then his gaze went to the ceiling.

  Her gaze followed his. The ceiling was entirely ablaze above them now. He looked back at her, and once again jerked his head toward the door. As clear as anything he could have said without the gag, he was ordering her out, ordering her to leave him to his fate.

  She wasn’t about to do that, though she had to clamp her jaws over the shrieks of terror that threatened to escape her lips. Help us, Lord!

  Then she remembered the object that had poked at her belly when she’d clambered over the window ledge. Can it be...yes! She still had the carving knife she had carelessly dropped inside her apron when she had first heard the knock at the door. It was a wonder it hadn’t fallen out when she’d gone headfirst out the window.

  No, not a wonder—an act of God.

  She pulled out the knife, and Nate’s eyes widened. Glancing at the ceiling again, she saw that they might have only seconds before it would come crashing down on them. Running out of time, she cut the bonds at his feet—he could run out with his hands still tied.

  Hands shaking, tears pouring down her cheeks, coughing so hard she could hardly breathe, she knelt by his side and sawed at the rope around his legs.

  It seemed to take forever, and she was afraid she’d go too far and slice into his skin, but then the knife cut through the rope and he was scrambling to his feet. He was clumsy because he could not use his hands, but at least the old woman had tied them in front of him, and Nate was strong enough to lean on his bound-together wrists and use them, along with his newly freed legs, to lever himself up off the floor, which was beginning to smolder around them.

  Once outside, they ran to the road, far enough from the café that flying sparks couldn’t reach them, and she cut the rope between his wrists, then, holding the cloth carefully away from his cheek, slashed through the gag. He spit it out.

  He threw his arms around her, pulling her against him.

  “Oh, Ella,” he said. “Thank God you’re safe. Thank God.”

  “Thank God we’re safe,” she said against his soot-smeared torn shirt, but his heart was beating so hard she wasn’t sure he could hear her.

  As if it had been waiting for just such a signal, the roof of Ella’s café crashed in just then, and all four walls were alight.

  Behind them, past the creek, the bell of the Simpson Creek church began to toll, and she heard distant shouts.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You saved my life. I love you, Ella Justiss,” Nate heard himself telling her as they clung together, barely conscious of the chilly October night at their backs. “I was going to tell you so later today, and let the chips fall where they might. I was going to tell you how sorry I was for the angry way I spoke to you when I came back, and to tell you that I wanted to stay in Simpson Creek—if you’d have me, that is. Don’t know why you’d want a fellow who changed his mind so many times about whether he was going or staying, though.”

 
He felt her sigh against him. Then, incredibly, she said, “Oh, Nate, I love you, too. Of course I’ll have you. Do you think I’d let you get away if I had a choice?”

  “You just saved my life,” he said once more against her forehead, before lowering his lips to hers for the kiss he’d been waiting for all his life. And this time she didn’t get scared or pull away but kissed him back as fervently as he was kissing her.

  Probably the fire had drained all the “scare” out of her and she wasn’t able to resist him. She’d change her mind later, he thought—he was honor-bound to let her come to her senses. Until then he’d wallow in the happiness of knowing she was his, no matter what else had happened tonight.

  They heard running feet coming toward them, and looked up to see Reverend Gil, followed closely by his wife and Sheriff Bishop. “Are you two all right? We saw the fire— How’d it start?” the sheriff demanded.

  “You can talk to them later, Sam,” Faith said. “Right now they must be in shock and chilled to the bone.” Then she was draping a blanket over each of them and leading them away, murmuring about getting them into the parsonage and out of the cold wind.

  As they crossed the bridge, Nate saw more and more townspeople run past them, buckets bouncing at their side, to form a line from the creek to the raging inferno that had been Ella’s café. The building was gone, but Nate knew they needed to put out the fire so it wouldn’t spread to the meadow and start a grass fire that could burn for miles if the wind was right. It might even leap the creek via the trees and destroy the church again.