by Jodi Thomas
Hank smiled. “Help I can use.” He shook hands with the boy, a blink away from being a man. “Willie,” he yelled as the youngest fireman passed his office door. “You heading out?”
“I’m on my way. Dispatch e-mailed me a list of calls from people stuck somewhere. I figured I’d head out east, working them one at a time.”
“You want a rider?”
“Does he come with a shovel?” Willie asked. “I could move twice as fast if I had some help.”
Hank handed Brandon the shovel he’d been using. “He does.”
Brandon hesitated. “You mean that’s all there is to it? I don’t have to pass a test or climb a burning building? I just walk in and I’m a fireman?”
“You’re a helper,” Hank said. “Step one. But if you work today, we’ll teach you what you need to know.”
Brandon looked so excited Hank wouldn’t have been surprised if the kid hugged him. “Willie, do all you can and keep in touch. I want you both back here by one. Martha Q from the Winter’s Inn is bringing a hot meal.”
“We’ll be back on time.” Willie motioned for Brandon to follow him.
Hank looked at the kid. “You’ll be helping a great many people today and you’ll be exhausted before dark, but you’ll know you did some good and that’s what it’s all about.”
“Thanks.” Brandon disappeared out the door.
Hank filled a coffee cup and headed toward his quarters, just beyond his office, wondering if the boy would still be thanking him tomorrow morning when he had every muscle hurting.
Sitting on his bunk, Hank pulled off the first of three layers. The other volunteers who managed to make it to the station were gone in the trucks helping with a ten-car pileup east of town near the interstate ramp. As soon as he thawed and ate a bite, he’d climb back into his huge Ram and join them.
The door opened and closed with a bang. He heard Alex swearing at the weather before she appeared, all red nosed and smiling.
“Will this day never end? Got time for a late breakfast? Cass is keeping the diner open.”
Hank shook his head as he moved toward her. “How about we skip food? I’m the only one home here and I have to man the phones until someone gets back, but we could relax for a few minutes.”
Alex giggled. “No way. I’m starving.”
“Martha Q is bringing over lunch in a few hours. We could eat after we relax.”
She winked. “Not now. I’m not taking off all these clothes for anything that doesn’t last half the night. How about coming across the street to me when things settle down tonight?”
Hank frowned. “I’m not doing it in one of the cells again. I know we’re alone, but I can’t get over the feeling we’re in a prison movie. I want to take off all our clothes and roll up in each other and a few hundred blankets until we see the first sign of spring.”
“Me too,” she whispered, kissing him lightly.
He grabbed her and drew her as close as four layers of clothes would allow. “I need you so much, Alexandra. Marry me. We could run away.”
“I’m planning on it,” she said, kissing him again. “I started thinking about places to run to, then I decided that if you’re with me it really won’t matter where we go.”
He couldn’t believe it. She sounded like she was almost saying yes to a plan . . . to a date. “You serious?”
She pulled a flyer from her pocket. “There’s a ship that leaves Galveston every week. As soon as this snow is over, I say we run away to the beach.”
He kissed her, not completely convinced either of them would really be able to get away, but she’d made an effort and for now that was enough.
A pager buzzed.
He pulled away. “Mine or yours?”
They both fumbled in pockets for their phones. A moment later, a second pager echoed the first.
“Must be something important,” Alex said, all business now.
“It’s been something important since five this morning,” he added as he pulled his phone out from the pocket of his coat. “Hello!” he yelled.
He listened for a minute and said, “She’s with me. We’re on our way. Notify the hospital.”
Alex stood frozen, waiting as he closed the phone and stepped back into his boots. “A 911 call came in to dispatch. Reagan Truman. She thinks Jeremiah is having a heart attack.”
“The ambulance?”
“Both are transporting people from the pileup and won’t be available for at least thirty minutes. We can get to the Truman place and be on our way back to town by then.”
They were running moments later when they hit the door. His Dodge Ram wasn’t the perfect vehicle to transport in, but it was the best they had. The Ram would eat up the snow on back roads faster than the police cruisers. He kept medical equipment in the lockbox in the bed, and it was big enough to lay a man on the backseat.
Hank drove. Alex got on the phone with Reagan. He could hear the girl’s panic as Alex talked to her calmly, pausing between each comment. “Where is he? Good, if he’s on the floor we don’t have to worry about him passing out and falling. Is he awake? Can he talk to you? Good. First, Reagan, I need you to calm down. Is there oxygen in the house? That’s okay, we’ll bring it in when we get there. Cover him, elevate his head, and try to get him to relax. Panic will only make it worse. Have you got an aspirin you could give him? Good, do that, we’re almost there.” She held the phone away for a moment, but didn’t say anything to Hank. They both knew what was at stake. Alex waited, then said, “Now, Reagan, we’re close. Get your coat on, and his if you can. Collect as many blankets as you can. Unlock the front door, we’re turning off the county road. I can see the house.”
Alex closed the phone, unbuckled her seatbelt, and grabbed two of the aid bags in the backseat.
Hank slid up to the house, bumping the steps before he stopped. They were both out of the cab and running.
Reagan met them at the door.
They followed the drills they’d both been taught. Within five minutes, Jeremiah was surrounded by blankets in the backseat of Hank’s truck. Reagan knelt next to him, tears streaming down her face.
The drive to the hospital was measured in heartbeats.
Alex made sure a crew was waiting at the emergency door. In what seemed the time it took to blink, Jeremiah was rushed away and the three of them stood alone at the entrance.
The snow fell silently just beyond the wall of windows. Wind blew in each time the doors opened, but they didn’t notice. Reagan asked no more questions. Alex offered no more advice. They just waited.
Chapter 42
FRIDAY MORNING
FEBRUARY 22, 2008
MATHESON RANCH
DENVER POUNDED ON THE DOOR WHERE HE KNEW CLAIRE had been holed up for days. No one answered at the ranch house, so he pounded again. He’d stay here until he froze, but someone would have to eventually answer the door.
He heard them talking, trying to guess who would come to the front door during a snowstorm, before he confronted Claire’s two great-aunts. They were bundled in layers of flannel and fluff, Aunt Pat in pink, Aunt Fat in purple. As always, they looked adorable.
“Oh, look, Pat, it’s Gabriel’s friend, Denver Sims.” Aunt Fat held the door wide. “Come on in, Mr. Sims. We were just about to have our morning tea. We usually have it an hour or so earlier, but sister wanted to make scones to go with it and with no one else to eat with, we decided to set our own schedule this morning. Tea after ten. Lunch after our naps.”
Denver walked in, stomping his boots on the entry rug.
“How did you get here in this blizzard?” Pat asked as she motioned for him to leave his boots on the rug.
“I borrowed my friend’s Land Rover,” he said as he followed the silent order. “I was driving him crazy. He said if I didn’t come over here now, in a few more hours I might not be able to until the storm blew over and I couldn’t wait that long. Is Claire here?”
Both aunts stared at him as if they needed tim
e to have their hearing catch up with his fast speech.
Aunt Pat recovered first. “She’s painting and can’t be disturbed, but we’d love you to have tea with us.”
Aunt Fat just nodded as if she needed an interpreter.
Denver could imagine them seventy years ago at Halloween going from house to house with Pat leading the charge, doing all the talking and Fat simply holding out the bag.
Denver fought the urge to storm past them and climb the two flights of stairs to where he’d heard someone say Claire had her studio. He’d gone mad waiting for her to call. Gabe had tossed him the keys and almost kicked him out.
Denver wasn’t going home until he saw her, even if he had to have tea first.
The aunts drew him back down the hallway he remembered so well to their quarters. They chatted as he drank tea, telling him all about the days when they were young and once dated twin brothers.
“Pat always swore they kept switching on us,” Aunt Fat said. “She claimed one kissed better than the other.”
“Now, Fat, you know it’s true.”
Denver couldn’t think of anything to say, but it didn’t seem necessary. They told him all about Joyce and Saralynn’s adventures in Dallas and how Hank and Liz were both staying in town.
“The house is just far too quiet.” Aunt Fat patted him on the knee. “We’re glad you came by.”
After twenty minutes, Denver stood, thanked them for the tea, and said he had to leave. He mumbled something about just dropping by to see if they were okay, even though Leary’s place on Timber Line Road was nowhere near their ranch.
When they started to walk him to the door, he stopped them with gentle hugs. “I’ll show myself out. You two need to get back to your quilting. One of these days I may be begging for one of those quilts. If you ask me, they’re as much art as anything anyone else in this house does.”
Both aunts giggled and waved him good-bye.
Denver was careful to close both hallway doors to the rest of the house, then climbed the stairs silently and tapped lightly on Claire’s studio door.
She answered after a long minute. Her beautiful hair was tied up on top of her head in a haphazard knot. Her shirt was spotted with dark paint and the pants she wore were skintight with thick socks pulled over them past her knees.
He thought she looked sexy as hell.
Before he could say a word, she blocked the entrance and snapped, “What are you doing here?”
Denver told himself he hadn’t hoped that she’d be glad to see him. She never was, but still her words stung. No woman who’d kissed him like she had in the hallway downstairs and again at the roadside park could be anything but crazy about him. Maybe she needed to work on her verbal communication skills, but her nonverbal skills were coming through loud and clear.
“You didn’t call.” He pulled her to him with a quick jerk and leaned down to kiss her. “I decided to surprise you.”
She shoved away, reaching for the door. “I’m working, Denver. You’ll have to go.”
He smiled. “Well, at least you know my name. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Go away,” she said slowly.
“Not before we talk,” he said, shoving the door open and stepping inside before she could stop him. He’d made up his mind on the way over that he wouldn’t leave until she set a time to meet him. He would wait a week, a month if he had to, but he would see her, preferably somewhere alone.
The high-ceilinged room was warm, with wide shutter-less windows that made him feel like he was on a grand stage. Painting supplies were on every surface, and the smell of turpentine and oils filled the air. Pencil drawings carpeted the room around a window box. Half-empty cups were scattered everywhere. This was where she lived and worked. This was her sanctuary.
“Get out,” she ordered. “Get out right now. I told you I’m working.”
When he turned toward her, thinking she’d forgive him once he was holding her, he saw a huge canvas four feet high and maybe eight feet wide covered in a black cloth. Sketches were everywhere around it: taped to the wall, on the table beside the canvas, and even scattered on the floor below. Drawings of winter trees, and whirling snow, and him.
He ripped the covering off, knowing that this work had to relate to him . . . to them. Her scream echoed through his brain, but nothing registered but the painting before him.
Denver stood frozen as he stared. She’d painted the roadside park they’d stopped at. He could see the hazy outline of the canyon in the background and the road running at the bottom. The picnic table pushed beneath a willow was the same, but the rest of the picture was wrong. Very wrong.
A man’s body lay frozen on the ground, his face turned to the shadows. One bare man’s foot, gray and lifeless, rested in the center of the table.
He glanced down at the gold tag in the corner of the painting: Barefoot Picnic by Claire Matheson.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, already knowing it wasn’t. The memory of how her work had been described came to mind. Haunting, cruel, vengeful.
“No, Denver, it’s what I do.” Claire’s voice was calm, cold, dead as the man in her work.
He moved to the next draped painting and pulled off the cover. A man, relaxed in death, was hanging by a noose between two pictures in a long hallway. The tag read, Latest Acquisition.
“Are there any more?” he asked. He wasn’t sure he could take it if there were. Both works showed the face only in shadow, but the body build, the hair, even the color of clothes was his.
“No. I’m finished. Two was all I planned to do.”
“And we’re finished, right?”
“Right.” She moved away from him. Folded her arms as if blocking him from her thoughts. She looked out at the storm as though simply waiting for him to leave.
“You were just using me.” He felt like the biggest fool in the world. Of course she was using him, that’s why they never talked. She didn’t want a lover, or even a friend, she wanted a victim for her latest work. “Admit it, Claire. I’m just someone who came along and was convenient to use for a model.”
“I let you touch me,” she said as if in defense. “I let you play it out any way you wanted. I would have let you go further in the paying of my dues, but you stopped both times. In the end I knew you wanted more than I have to give, but what you gave me will go down as some of my best work.”
For years he’d been just playing at loving, figuring it was just a game and everyone knew the rules. All the one-night stands, the affairs that were counted in lost weekends, the quick encounters never meant to mean anything, came back to him. Mocking him.
Finally, he’d met a woman he thought knew nothing about the game, and she’d played him completely. He’d thought she’d been on the way to real love for him, and all he’d been to her was something to be used.
Anger finally boiled over in Denver, and he swung around toward her, fighting down a yell that would shake the house.
She covered her head and ducked, curling into a ball at his feet.
Denver stared at her. “You think I’m going to hit you, don’t you?”
She lowered one arm enough to look at him.
“You don’t know me at all, Claire. For once in my life I wasn’t playing and I wasn’t just touching you. Idiot that I am, I thought I was loving you.” He turned and stormed out of the attic and down the flights of stairs. He was in the Land Rover before he drew in a breath. She’d not only murdered him on canvas, she’d left him dead inside for real. He’d finally let himself believe in a tiny hope that he might have a real life. A life he shared with someone. She’d shattered that possibility and left him hollow.
He drove slowly back to Gabe’s farm without bothering to turn on the heater. He felt like he was frozen from the inside out. Somewhere in the silent white of the storm, his hurt had turned to anger, not toward Claire, but toward himself.
Chapter 43
FRIDAY, 2:00 P.M.
FEBRUARY 22, 2008
HARMONY FIRE STATION
MARTHA Q WATCHED AS TWO YOUNG MEN STORMED INTO the fire station. They were laughing and joking around as if the snow shovels were swords, reminding her of two mighty crusaders returning from battle. For a moment she just watched, waiting for them to see her.
“I thought we’d never get that last car out.” One shook off snow like a dog does water.
“Me either. I considered telling the guy I’d pay his parking ticket if he wanted to just leave it on the median until spring.” The second one tugged off his heavy coat and hung it on a peg. “Thanks for coming along, Bran. I’d still be out there if you hadn’t.”
Both stopped as they saw Martha Q.
When neither spoke, she smiled and announced, “I cooked lunch for an army and no one came. I hope you boys are hungry.”
The first one, maybe two years older than his buddy, laughed. “You bet, lady. We’re starving.” He began removing the first layer of thick winter clothes. “Thank you for coming. I’m Willie Davis. Everyone’s probably like us, running late, but they’ll all be hungry when they make it in.”
Brandon took his lead from Willie. “I’m Brandon Biggs. This is my first day as a volunteer. It sure does smell good.”
Both were down to sweaters and stocking feet by now. Martha Q moved aside and called, “Well, come and get it. Me and Mrs. Biggs have been cooking all morning.”
Brandon glanced in Mrs. Biggs’s direction, shrugged, and kept pulling off his outer layer of clothes.
The boys washed up and sat down as two more teams of volunteer firemen came in. Suddenly, the place was loud with laughter and stories.
Martha Q served, talking to the men as if she’d known every one of them since birth, but she kept her eye on Mrs. Biggs. The quiet lady hadn’t taken her eyes off Brandon Biggs since he’d said his name.
Finally, when the men were all packing food in as fast as possible, Martha Q had her chance. “Brandon, you kin to any Biggses from Harmony?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. None that would claim me, anyway. I don’t know much about my dad. Never even heard Mom say where he was from. My mom said he didn’t have any family. He was never around us much either. We heard he died years ago.”
