On Deadly Ground

by Lauren Nichols

  She still had lights! Thank you, Jesus! Now please, please let the phone work!

  Eighty yards away, the camp store’s faint overnight lighting showed the way. She ran faster, barely aware of the stones cutting into her feet. Sixty yards. Forty. Twenty. Gasping, she leaped onto the stoop, tried the door. Locked! She yanked the wooden No Pets Inside, Please sign off the siding beside the door and smashed the glass pane—fumbled an arm inside to free the latch. Seconds later she uttered a shaky prayer of thanks again.

  She had a dial tone!

  Every nerve in his body pulsed and thumped as Jake yanked a T-shirt over his jeans, jammed his feet into his boots and strode for the door. He jerked his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair on his way out. The police scanner beside his bed was still squawking orders to and from firemen and emergency personnel on their way to the campground.

  Maggie ran after him through his still-open door—jumped into the truck with him when he slid behind the wheel. Then he gunned the engine and roared out of his driveway, his brain all needles and fear. Rachel was too vigilant to have accidentally caused the fire, and she was a stickler for upkeep. No old paint cans or turpentine rags would be lying around waiting to spontaneously combust. That pile of rocks was back in his belly. He wasn’t an alarmist by nature, and he really didn’t like where his thoughts were headed. But after seeing a man skulking around her place on Sunday night, what were the odds that Rachel’s fire was a coincidence? A small voice answered, Low, but keep an open mind.

  Jake rounded the deep curve in the road, saw the sign for her campground in his headlights, then touched a boot to the brake to make the turn. He flew over the uneven lane and skidded to a stop outside her store. She’d told the dispatcher that’s where she was calling from. Already, the smell of smoke permeated the truck’s cab.

  Jake ordered Maggie to stay, then leaped out and quickly ascended the stoop. There was broken glass all over—and no sign of Rachel. He ran down the driveway. He could see flames now, could see smoke billowing from the far side of the house. Jake’s stomach fell to his feet when he spotted her on the deck. She threw an armful of clothes, books and a heavy case over the railing, most of it landing beside her red Explorer with the campground emblem on its side.

  He accelerated, shouted at the top of his lungs. “Rachel! Get out of there!”

  “I’ll be right back!” she cried.

  “No! Get out of there now!” he repeated. “There’s nothing in your house worth dying for!” But she’d already covered her nose and mouth with a cloth and was rushing back inside.

  Jake took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding triple time. “Rachel!”

  She reappeared, clutching something tightly against her chest.

  Latching on to her wrist, he tugged her down the stairs. The blaze had found its voice now, angry orange flames roaring as they lit the night, devouring siding and igniting roof shingles.

  She pulled away—rushed to the items scattered on the ground. “Help me grab my things! Throw them in my car!”

  Arguing was useless, so he moved swiftly, then hustled her into the passenger seat and jumped behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. Hitting the gas, he backed all the way up the drive, then swerved into a parking space outside the camp store.

  He shot her a look of total disbelief, worry making his tone harsher than he intended. “For the love of God, Rachel, what were you thinking, running into a burning house? You have a propane tank out back that could blow to kingdom come and take you with it. What was so important that you’d risk—”

  She jerked a look at him. “Don’t yell at me!” Then her face crumbled, and she started to cry. Slowly, she turned the wedding photo she’d held to her chest to face him, and her voice dropped to a sad, teary whisper. “I couldn’t just leave him in there.”

  Her words hit him squarely in the heart. He couldn’t have felt lower if he’d attacked her physically. Sighing, Jake slid over on the seat and reached for her … wrapped her in his arms as tightly as David Patterson’s picture would permit.

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I know you couldn’t.” But as much as he wanted to keep holding her, with every tick of the clock, the fire crept closer to that propane tank. Easing her away, he spoke softly but seriously. “Rachel, it’s the middle of the night. It’ll take the firemen time to get here. We should try to slow down the fire—keep the propane tank cool.”

  Jake saw her eyes widen as she realized how much worse the situation could become. The woods, her cabins and store—her very livelihood—could go up in a fireball explosion that seared the sky.

  “Your garden hose has a high pressure nozzle,” he said quickly, opening the car door. “It’ll spray a hundred feet.” Whether that would do any good was a mystery, but they had to try.

  He didn’t have to say another word. She was already halfway out of the car.

  Hours later, Rachel stood by Jake’s side, tears streaming again as she watched volunteer firemen training their hoses on hot spots, and continuing to wet the utility shed where David’s truck, golf cart and lawnmowers were stored—wet down the trees surrounding her home. Utility servicemen still milled around, talking to firemen and drinking coffee supplied by the ladies of the firemen’s auxiliary.

  The house itself was all but gone now, nothing left but charred timbers, a creek stone chimney that wouldn’t give up, and the acrid smell of burned memories she would remember all of her life. It hurt so much that she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Jake slid his arm around her shoulders, and she turned into him, holding on tightly and grateful for his strength.

  “Let’s go back to the camp store,” he murmured against her temple. “We can grab another cup of coffee or a donut or just sit for a while.” After the firemen had arrived, Jake had pulled a pair of flip-flops, bottled water, towels and antiseptic spray from her store shelves. Then, over her teary objections, he’d knelt down to clean the dirt from her feet and attend a bloody cut she didn’t know she had. “You should give your foot a rest. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  She knew that, but somehow she couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop monitoring every word the firemen and hazmat team called to each other. She’d managed to save some of her things; besides her wedding portrait, she’d gathered a photo album, the clothes from her dryer and her security box. Thankfully, David had insisted the box be placed in the laundry room off the kitchen—not in the bedroom or living room where thieves might expect it to be.

  Rachel swallowed hard. Electric service to her home had been separate from the store and campsites, and light poles throughout the campground glowed in the lingering smoke and haze. She stepped back from him, but not very far. “You’re a good man.”

  “I try,” he said quietly.

  “You do more than try.” He’d barely left her side since he’d arrived except for a few minutes a half hour ago. Once it was certain that the fire wouldn’t spread to the woods, he’d driven Maggie back home and put her in her pen. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for everything you’ve done tonight.”

  He smiled. “Well, it’s not as if I was busy doing anything else.” At some point, he’d slipped his green jacket over her dorm shirt—startling her because she’d forgotten how she was dressed. Now he adjusted it on her shoulders. “Come on. The firemen’s auxiliary’s been working hard back at the store. You don’t want the ladies to think they’re unappreciated, do you?”

  “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t want that.”

  They were preparing to walk back up the lane to the store when, from some distance away, Fire Chief Ben Caruthers called for Rachel to wait.

  “Give me a minute?” she said to Jake, automatically backing up several feet.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’m through.”

  Dressed in smoke-smudged, dull-gold bunker pants and an insulated coat striped with reflective tape, Ben came toward her. An SCBA mask dangled fro
m his neck. Like many of the firemen who attended her church—Roy Blair, Nate, Joe Reston and the Atkins brothers—Ben had offered his sympathies earlier. She wasn’t surprised when Reverend and Mrs. Landers showed up to offer their prayers and visit for a few minutes. They were loving, caring people who did whatever needed to be done for St. John’s congregation, day or night. The big surprise was the courtesy that off-duty Chief of Police Lon Perris had shown her. Maybe it was the lack of a uniform and a gun on his hip that seemed to soften his demeanor. But by the time Charity P.D. officers Charlie Banks and newly hired Caleb “Call” Drago took him aside to talk, she was nearly ready to change her opinion of him.

  Ben pulled off his helmet and heavy gloves as he reached her—kept his insulated hood on. “Sorry, Rachel. The house was just too far gone by the time we got here. But you were insured and you can rebuild. Focus on that—and the fact that you got out alive.”

  “I am, Ben. And believe me, I’m grateful.” But she couldn’t think about rebuilding right now. She was too worried that she might have inadvertently caused the fire. “Do you know how it started? I can’t think of anything I did that might have—”

  Caruthers glanced aside for an uneasy moment, then said, “I can’t say, Rachel. That’s up to the fire marshal to determine. I expect he’ll be here tomorrow.” He exhaled heavily. “In the meantime, what are your plans? Do you know where you’ll be staying? We’ll need to get in touch with you.”

  A firm voice came from behind her. “She’ll be staying with me.”

  Rachel turned sharply and her eyes welled with tears again. “Jenna.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenna murmured, hugging Rachel close. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Rachel tried to keep her voice from cracking but failed. It was nearly daybreak, and Jenna should have been in her kitchen preparing breakfast pastries for her guests. “Jen, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Of course I should. You’re my friend.”

  “You have an inn to run.”

  “Not for another three days. I’m not reopening until Monday.”

  Rachel sighed. That was right. They’d talked about it yesterday. Or was it the day before? She couldn’t think. Everything except the present was a blur. “How did you know about the fire?”

  With a cheerless smile, Jenna turned her to face Jake, and there was no need for her friend to answer. “You’ve been a busy boy tonight,” she murmured.

  He ambled closer. “I figured you’d eventually get sick of me, and want someone who could actually do you some good. I phoned Jenna when I took Maggie back home.”

  “But how did you—?”

  “—know to call Jenna?” He smiled. “You’ve mentioned her enough times that I knew she was important to you. Not all men have selective hearing.”

  Gratitude cinched her voice. “I owe you.”

  He shook his head. “Anyone who knows you would have done the same.” He glanced around, seemed satisfied that she was in good hands, then backed away. “I’ll see you later. If you need anything, holler.” He turned to Jenna. “You have my phone number. Thanks for coming.”

  “Thanks for calling,” she replied. “I just wish you’d done it sooner.”

  Then Rachel watched as he strode back to the camp store where his truck waited and—not for the first time tonight—thanked God for his friendship.

  Why wasn’t she dead? Why wasn’t this over?

  He was far from the madness of smoke and flames now, but his heart still pounded so frantically that he feared he’d stroke out. Rushing to the bathroom medicine chest, he snatched a bottle of aspirin from the shelf and turned on the cold water spigot. Pills clacked against plastic as he shook out two tablets, then swallowed them with a handful of water. He jammed the bottle back inside the mirrored chest and stared at his reflection.

  He could still feel the heat of the fire, still feel the weight of his gear and the SCBA mask pressing into his face. And despite his shower, he could still smell the stench of smoke.

  He wet his hands—pumped liquid soap into his palm and scrubbed his face. Pushed frothy bubbles into his nostrils to cover the smell.

  He’d been smart about the fire—used a common accelerant that would positively point to arson and rule out an educated fireman. In this day and age of forensics, it was nearly impossible to create an “accidental” fire. Kerosene and gasoline would have done the trick because they had low flash points. But ultimately he’d chosen one that fit his purposes better in the event that Rachel lived through the blaze. He’d used the same stove-and-lantern fuel she sold in her store, and in doing that, planted a little seed that she might have started the blaze herself.

  He walked around, fretted, wondered if the aspirin was burning a hole in his stomach lining. He’d heard of repressed—or was that suppressed?—memories. What if she woke up one morning and realized he was the man she’d seen Sunday night? Tears formed in his eyes. She’d tell. And life as he knew it would be over. Everything he’d worked for would be over!

  Suddenly his insides revolted, and with an anguished cry, he bent over the toilet and emptied his stomach. “God, help me,” he whispered gripping the bowl. But he doubted that God was listening anymore.

  Rachel swam toward consciousness in the shaded room, the world around her slowly taking shape. Two tall posters rose at the bottom of her cozy bed, and from somewhere to her left, a soft breeze touched her face. She smiled—stretched a little.

  Then reality swept away contentment, and a cold hard stone settled on her heart. She was at Jenna’s, in one of her rooms at the Blackberry. Her home and everything in it was gone.

  It all came back to her. She remembered the fire, remembered the fear … remembered Jake holding her and washing her feet.

  “Come on. Sit down and let me do this. Looks like you stepped on a piece of glass—probably when you broke into the store.”

  “I’m okay. I can do it.”

  “I know you can,” he’d replied, the compassion in his eyes touching her. “But let me.”

  She smiled sadly. Who would have thought a big man could be so gentle?

  Blinking back tears, she got out of bed, grimaced a little when her left foot touched the floor, then pulled Jenna’s robe over the nightgown she’d borrowed. She’d asked Jenna to wake her if she slept past twelve-thirty, and according to the clock beside the bed, it was nearly that now. She found her friend in the sunny little breakfast nook off the kitchen, setting the table with white china cups, saucers and plates ringed in tiny pink roses. It was a lovely, welcome sight after the horror of charred wood and broken dreams.

  “Good afternoon,” Jenna said, smiling and looking up. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Better than I can remember,” Rachel replied, returning her smile. She took a seat. “If all the beds in the Blackberry are as comfortable as mine, no wonder business is booming.”

  “I’m not sure it’s booming,” Jenna said, pouring coffee for the two of them. “But reservations are coming in. I’ll be full—except for your room—on Monday.”

  “How wonderful,” Rachel returned, then took in the table. Glazed cranberry-almond scones were piled on a footed crystal platter, and at each of their place settings, glasses of orange juice sat beside small bowls of chilled berries and fruit. Pale green rings held pink linen napkins.

  She wasn’t used to such lavishness. She loved nice things and enjoyed dressing up for special occasions. But for the most part, she was a hot dogs-and-mountains, pies-over-a-fire woman. It still felt wonderful to be pampered—if only for a day or two.

  Jenna was moving again, taking a bowl of whipped cream from the refrigerator, then adding a huge dollop of it to their fruit. “Now what else can I get you? An omelet? Cereal? Waffles?”

  Rachel had to laugh. “Nothing. This is almost more than I can handle.”

  “You’re sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, then.” She took a seat across from Rachel and drew a dee
p breath. “What’s your plan today?”

  The hurt came back. “I guess I should contact my insurance company first. Then I’ll call Ben. He said the fire marshal would probably be investigating today. And I suppose I should drive down to the campground—see what I have to work with in the light of day.”

  Jenna’s look softened. “That should be a lot of fun. Need some company? I’m not busy today.”

  “Thanks, but I need to face this on my own. Besides, I’ll be there for a while. I need to have the glass replaced in my door, and call my guests—give them the option of bowing out. I’m afraid the smell of the fire could linger for a while.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “I know I should call them—at least let my mom know. But with Dad still recovering … Jenna, I just can’t. She’d want to be with both of us, and it would tear her apart.”

  Jenna stirred cream and sugar into her coffee. “They lived here for a lot of years. What if they hear it from someone they still keep in touch with? This is the era of texting, emails and instant messaging.”

  Rachel sighed. “I guess I’ll deal with that if it happens.”

  Her dad’s job had taken her parents back to historic Williamsburg following her wedding, and Rachel’s Southern belle mom had loved returning to her roots on the James River where so much history had been made. Then two months ago, her dad had suffered a slight stroke, and Rachel had hurried to Virginia. Toward the end of her two-week visit, she’d convinced her mom to surrender her dad’s care to her aunt Chelsea for a few hours, and they’d toured an old plantation. Her mom had insisted that she’d had fun, soaking up tales of traveling tinkers and spoon-stealing union officers. But Rachel knew she’d worried constantly. The last thing she wanted to do was add to her worries.

  Reluctantly, she met Jenna’s eyes. They were the same lovely blue as the figure-skimming V-neck rib-knit top she wore with matching slacks and a tiny pearl timepiece dangling from long, thin chains. Rachel couldn’t recall a night or day when her friend didn’t look as if she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine. “I have a favor to ask.”