Sinister Summer

by Colleen Gleason

  Jesus, God, Diana.

  He tore out of the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition, and ran toward the house, bellowing her name. Cady helped by charging in circles around the blazing building, barking non-stop.

  How could he have let her sleep in that house? Alone? After everything that had been going on?

  He roared up to Jean’s—Diana’s—bedroom window, which was on the far side from the blaze. Thank God. The room was dark, and the window positioned just above his shoulders so he couldn’t see much inside. He pounded furiously on the glass, shouting her name. It was then that he realized he’d left his cell phone behind—so he couldn’t even call for the firefighters.

  Dammit, no.

  He banged on the window, used a small rock to try and shatter it, but there was no response from inside. As smoke filtered out through the small hole in the glass, Ethan tore around to the kitchen at the back of the house, where the fire seemed to be less furious. He turned on the hose and ripped off his t-shirt, then held it under the water until it was soaking, all the while shouting Diana’s name amid Cady’s mad barking.

  Maybe the Hornbergers would hear.

  Maybe she’d wake up.

  Maybe she was unconscious in the middle of the smoke storm and she couldn’t wake up.

  Driven by desperate determination, he wrapped the dripping shirt around his head, with the sleeves dangling to be held over his nose. Then Ethan whaled the hose’s spray head into the kitchen door window. The glass shattered and heavy black smoke billowed out, catching him in the face. Ethan reared back in surprise, but reached through the opening to fumble with the deadbolt. At last he snicked it to the side, freeing the door, and he pulled it open.

  More black smoke—thick, hot, strong—burst through the new opening, and he coughed, at first paralyzed by its venom. He pulled the wet t-shirt over his mouth and nose, and bending low, staggered over the threshold.

  It was a nightmare inside. A blanket of hot, heavy smoke darkened the kitchen, enveloping him instantly. Though he could see no flames in the vicinity, Ethan felt the heat searing into his bare skin. Keeping the wet shirt over his nose and mouth, he strained to see, to hear, something. But only the roar of the fire and smoke filled his ears, and he wondered suddenly where the cats were as well.

  Oh, Christ, not them too.

  He couldn’t call out, for the smoke was too heavy, and it smothered any sound but the insistent blaze. Ethan took two steps and realized he couldn’t go further—it was dark, and close, and incredibly hot. His head was spinning and his eyes and lungs burned from the heat and smoke.

  With a sob of frustration, he turned. Fear lodged in his throat when he couldn’t see the doorway. He couldn’t see anything.

  Then, he bumped against something that turned out to be the kitchen table, which oriented him in the proper direction. He took careful steps—his fingers brushing the hot wood of the table as a guide—until he could see the faintest outline of the doorway.

  Ethan stumbled out of the house and drew great, gulping breaths of fresh night air, furious tears stinging his desert-dry eyes.

  The house seemed like an inferno from here, and he despaired of any hope.

  Diana.

  He tried to cry out for her again, but his voice was nothing more than a croak—his throat parched and tight. His lungs seared when he breathed, and his skin was dripping sweat, but he had no time. No time. He’d dropped the hose on the porch, and now he paused to re-dampen his shirt and spray some cool water on his face, then bolted back to Diana’s bedroom window.

  As he stood outside the window, pounding on it, and looking for something to break the glass with, he heard the miraculous sound of sirens.

  “Hurry!” he cried, his voice raw and desperate. Finally finding a rock big enough to break the window, he heaved it through, hoping that it would awaken Diana.

  The sirens were closer, and he could feel the ground trembling from the weight of the trucks. Ethan was frantically removing splinters of glass from the window when two trucks burst into the clearing, lights and sirens flashing.

  Running toward the vehicles, as if doing so would get them out of them faster, he shouted hoarsely, “She’s still in there! She’s sleeping in there!”

  Then all at once, he heard his name. Spinning around, he saw Diana, rushing toward him on foot from the direction of the Hornbergers’ house.

  “Ethan.”

  He dropped the hot, soggy shirt and yanked her into his arms. “Jesus, God, Diana, I thought you were in there!” He didn’t think; he just buried his sooty face in her hair and held her tight. “Jesus, I thought you were in there.”

  Diana was being smothered against a sooty, sweaty, smoky, bare chest—and she didn’t mind a bit. When he loosened his hold, she pulled back to look up at him as thousands of questions flew through her mind.

  Even in the darkness, she could see the wildness in his eyes. But as he looked down at her, that emotion calmed and his rapid breathing slowed into a small cough. His hair was everywhere, in dark, smelly tufts and curls and waves, and soot blackened his face. His breaths rasped in and out, but he smiled, then turned away slightly to cough. There were black streaks all over his body, along with a sheen of sweat and ashes, and cuts oozing with blood and that’s when she realized—

  “You didn’t go in there, did you?”

  “Of course I went in there.” His voice sounded as if he’d swallowed shattered glass. “Did you think I’d just let you go up in flames without trying to get you—and the cats—out?”

  “Are you insane?” Without thinking, she grabbed his arms and gave him a little shake—or tried to. He was far too solid for her to do more than jolt him. “Why would you do something so—”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but you need to get out of the way,” came a firm voice that bordered on annoyance.

  “Right. And this man needs to be checked over for smoke inhalation damage and—everything else.”

  Diana dragged a protesting Ethan to a paramedic as he argued in that rough raspy voice. Only when he demanded, “The cats?” did she pause.

  “They’re out there somewhere,” she said, gesturing toward the forest. “They were sitting on the grass when I got home. They’re all right.” She looked up at him. “I think…I think he let them out before he set the fire.”

  “You went inside a burning building like that?” said the paramedic, forestalling anything Ethan might have said. She lifted her eyes and frowned at his bare chest, cargo shorts, and bare feet shoved into boots.

  “I didn’t get very far,” Ethan admitted as the paramedic used a stethoscope to listen to him breathe.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t,” the medic said briskly. “Most people who die in fires die from smoke inhalation, not from burns—and going into a building that’s burning like that without a mask or any protective covering is foolish, no matter what the reason. You’re lucky you didn’t lose your bearings and get lost inside there.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to just stand by and let her die,” he snapped as he swiped a forearm across his blackened face. The swipe made it worse, and a crust of ashes formed in his brows and along his hairline. “I left in such a hurry I didn’t have a phone and—you must have come home to find this. And called?”

  “Yes. My cell didn’t work, of course, so I had to run over to the house next door. Hornbergers?” Diana looked toward the house. “The house was burning when I got home, but it wasn’t as ablaze as it is now. I wonder if anything can be saved,” she added as a wave of grief took her by surprise.

  Another loss.

  And this one seemed, somehow, even more painful.

  More sinister.

  Ethan, Diana, and a panting Cady drove up the drive to his cabin just before dawn. The cats had declined to join them, so Diana opened the garage door at Aunt Jean’s enough for them to slip inside.

  All three of them were tired and sooty, but of course Ethan was the worst of the bunch, still overcome by random coughin
g bouts due to the smoke he’d inhaled.

  Diana had tried to send him home hours ago, but the stubborn idiot had refused. He not only insisted on staying until the firefighters were finished, but he helped them where he could—managing one of the anaconda-like hoses that used the fire truck’s engine to pump water from the lake.

  Though she was exhausted, and the light was dim, Diana noticed how pleasant and welcoming his home was. A two-story log cabin made from squared-off cedar, its main entrance was reached via a long, screened-in porch, and topped by a broad second-floor dormer.

  Once inside the log cabin, Ethan toed off his boots in a small mudroom. “Let me get out of these filthy clothes, then I’ll show you—”

  “I can figure things out, Ethan. Just point me to where you want me to sleep, then you go up and take care of yourself.”

  A little pang of disappointment surged through Diana when she realized she would have been very happy to take care of him—help wash off the soot, settle him into bed…especially as he began to unfasten his blackened shorts. Neither of them were thinking about modesty at the moment.

  “All right,” he rasped. “Guest room’s down that hall; it has its own bath. You can find towels and—”

  “Ethan. I’ll be fine. Clean up, and get some rest.” She was still overwhelmed by the knowledge that he’d risked his life trying to find her in the burning house—and then stayed to help fight the fire even when he was weak from smoke.

  “Unless you’re hungry? I’m sure I could find something in your kitchen.” Diana glanced down the hall where she could see a high-ceilinged great room with a compact, cozy kitchen tucked in next to it.

  His short laugh was gritty with smoke and exhaustion, then ended with a bout of coughing that made her wince. It sounded painful. “I just want sleep for now. And water. My room’s up there, by the way.” He gestured to the stairway as he stepped out of his shorts. He was wearing dark briefs that looked like bicycle shorts and, Diana told herself primly, they revealed no more than real bike shorts would.

  But that was plenty.

  “I promise I’ll be a better host in the morning.” He gave a wry smile, seemingly unconcerned about his lack of clothing, then, leaving his clothes in a heap, started up the stairs.

  Diana picked up his t-shirt and shorts and tossed them into the laundry tub to soak.

  Then, suddenly realizing how exhausted she was, she found her way to the guest room. Diana didn’t even mind when the huge black lab padded along behind her, for she hadn’t had the luxury of indulging her nervousness about the dog during the last few hours.

  She still couldn’t believe Ethan had gone into the house to try and save her.

  What a fool.

  What an amazing, brave fool. She fought back a smile and a rush of affection.

  He was just doing what anyone would do.

  Wearily, she stripped off her smoky clothing and realized she’d have to go shopping for…well, everything…tomorrow. Dressed in a long t-shirt she’d scrounged in the bureau, she padded down the hall—which, like the rest of the house, was finished in smooth, glossy paneling—and tossed her clothing in the laundry tub to soak with Ethan’s.

  Then, gratefully, she crawled beneath the covers of what seemed to be a very comfortable queen-sized bed. On the floor nearby, Cady turned around and around in circles, then finally thumped herself onto the colorful braided rug near the side of the bed.

  About a third of Aunt Jean’s house had burned, though much of the shell of even that area remained. The rest of it, though blackened with smoke and stained with water, was still standing.

  Later tomorrow—well, today—Diana might be able to walk through some of the smoldering cinders, and assess the extent of the damage. But she already knew the library had been the genesis of the blaze, and most of the upstairs and part of the bedroom Aunt Jean used was definitely gone. The kitchen seemed mostly intact as far as structure, but the smoke damage would be awful.

  She closed her dry, gritty eyes and smelled nothing but smoke, saw nothing but dancing flames.

  “How do you think it started?” Diana had asked when they left the ruins of the house.

  The firefighter had looked at her. “It will be a little while until we know what caused the fire. You say you weren’t home when it started?”

  Diana nodded. “I went to Grand Rapids for the evening and when I got back, I drove up the drive and saw the house on fire.”

  He shook his head. “Could be anything—especially with a house this old. Faulty wiring, anything.”

  Diana glanced at Ethan, catching him exchanging glances with the fireman. A dull nausea roiled in her stomach, for she knew what he was thinking. The fire had not been caused by faulty wiring.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, as though she could block the horrible reality from her world. Could someone have been trying to kill her too? Or had they known she was gone and wanted to destroy the house—and whatever was in it?

  But…whoever it was had let the cats out first. That meant something, didn’t it?

  Well, whatever the intruder had been looking for, it was gone now.

  The chances of Diana ever finding out who or what or why were slim.

  Maybe I should go back to Chicago and forget about all of this.

  That thought settled in her mind as she forced herself to try and sleep…but the last thing she remembered thinking was: Don’t you dare.

  And it wasn’t her own voice she heard in her head.

  It was Aunt Jean’s.

  Ethan peeled his eyes open to a bright wash of sunshine. From the looks of it, he’d slept till almost noon. Which wasn’t surprising, since when he’d tumbled into bed the clock said five.

  He’d showered briskly but thoroughly last night, but he could still smell smoke and soot coating the insides of his nostrils. Guess I missed that part. His eyes were dry and gritty, and there was a general ache everywhere in his body.

  But worst of all, here it was—almost noon, and he was in bed solo, with a gorgeous, intriguing, and prickly woman just a few steps below.

  Damn. What was the world coming to?

  He smiled wryly to himself and scratched the hair on his chest, then was surprised by a rough cough that hurt his lungs. Man, that was stupid, he told himself as a flash of that terrifying moment in the dark-as-night kitchen came back. You nearly got yourself killed.

  Thank God she was safe.

  Stupid as it might have been, he would do it again. There was no way he would not have tried to go in for Diana. Or the cats.

  The cats.

  She’d said the cats were outside when she got home. He must have let them out.

  Either that, or Aunt Jean did.

  Ethan gave a little laugh that brought up another raspy cough, hurting his lungs a little. As ghosts went, Genevieve Fickler was a trip.

  And so was her niece. A nice, hot, interesting trip.

  This is not the time, Murphy, and Diana’s not the—

  Before he could complete the thought, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Diana had been sleeping soundly, curled up in one of the most comfortable beds she’d ever experienced. She’d rolled over, up against a warm body…Ethan, her sleep-fogged mind told her.

  The thought fluttered through her in a wave of heat, and she smiled lazily in her sleep. However he’d come to be here, the memories couldn’t be bad, she thought, snuggling closer…then she opened her eyes.

  And screamed.

  Diana stumbled out of the bed as Cady’s head shot up and she looked at her with startled brown eyes.

  The sound of a heavy thud upstairs, then faster, staccato thumps down random steps alerted her to the fact that Ethan had heard her.

  The door to her room burst open and he flew in. “Diana? What’s wrong?”

  Diana gawked. He was naked, and absolutely magnificent in this natural state. For a moment, she couldn’t say a word—she was caught between embarrassmen
t, shock, and speechless admiration.

  Cady hadn’t moved from her place on the bed, and Ethan’s gaze fell on her. Understanding dawned in his expression, then he obviously realized his state of undress. A splash of red tinted his cheeks and he ducked into the bathroom to grab a towel.

  “Sorry,” he said as a smile tugged at his mouth. “Did Cady startle you? I should have warned you to keep the door closed if you didn’t want her in here.”

  “It’s—it’s all right,” Diana managed to stammer. Although she’d averted her eyes as soon as she saw him—all of him…every square (and linear) inch—she could still picture his flat stomach, lean hips…and the evidence that he didn’t sunbathe in the nude.

  Deep breaths, Diana, deep breaths.

  “I—uh—I’m sorry if I woke you,” she added weakly.

  “I guess we’re even now, hmm?” he replied, his expression blank. When she looked at him uncertainly, he explained: “Monday? When I was mowing the lawn? I woke you up?”

  “Right.” He’d only been bare-chested then. Diana swallowed hard.

  Ethan gestured and Cady jumped off the bed, then paused to stretch with her tail in the air.

  “I’m sorry about her,” he said again, tightening the towel—which, really, he was wearing so low it hardly mattered if it slipped a bit. “Other than that, did you sleep all right?”

  “I slept like a rock,” Diana replied.

  “Glad to hear it. Well, how about some breakfast—I’ll cook while you shower. You’ve still got some smudges on your face.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks warmed, but when she finally saw herself in the mirror a few minutes later, she gasped in shock and horror. She looked like a harridan.

  Her hair was everywhere, literally standing on end like some sort of curly explosion. Her face was crusty with ash and soot—probably from when she was crushed against his bare, smoky, hot chest—

  Stop thinking about that, Diana.