Melissa
"What a wonderful night," she sighed, hooking her arm through Amelia's as they strode out onto the street. At some point during the dance, mother nature had dusted the ground with a fresh coat of powdery snow, and it glowed orange beneath the street light outside the town hall.
Amelia laughed, tugging her closer. "It was, wasn't it?" she turned, craning to see over her shoulder. "Are you coming, Josh?"
"Right behind you."
What a perfect night. Melissa sagged with exhaustion, her muscles worn to quivering uselessness. There wasn't a man in town she wanted to settle down and have babies with, but she damn sure didn't hate dancing with them. It made her feel alive, moving her body with the music, surrounded by the heat and noise of dozens of people. What must it be like to dance surrounded by the heat and noise of hundreds?
She was so overheated, the frigid air felt good against her skin. She kept her jacket unbuttoned as they moved out onto the street, treading through pristine snow. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness beyond the street lamp, and once they did she tipped her head back. Overhead, the sky was clear. Whatever clouds had brought this snow had moved on swiftly. Millions of stars blinked and twinkled at her, the broad swath of the Milky Way extraordinarily bright in the moonless sky.
"Did you know that in the orient, it's called the Silver River?" she asked no-one.
"What?" Amelia asked, laughter in her voice.
"She's talking about the stars," Josh answered for her, drawing even with them and pointing out the object of her ramblings. "Melissa almost as obsessed with astronomy as she is with medicine... almost."
"Forgive me for wanting to learn things," Melissa huffed, smiling up at the stars.
"You can't really see the stars in the city," Amelia said thoughtfully, tipping her head back as they walked, and Melissa shuddered at the thought. "There's street lights on every corner. I guess the light probably drowns them out."
"That's sad," Melissa said, and heard her brother hum in agreement. Something tickled her nose and she stopped walking, drawing Amelia to a halt with her. Josh took two more steps before stopping and turning.
"You okay?"
"Do you smell that?" she asked, raising her nose to the air. "It smells like smoke."
"It always smells like smoke," Amelia said, frowning at her. "It's winter. Everyone has a fire going."
"This is different," Josh said, shaking head as he turned a slow circle. Melissa and Amelia followed his gaze until he landed on a thick plume of smoke that blotted out the stars. Melissa couldn't see the source, hidden as it was behind buildings that loomed ominous and dark in the night, but she pulled up a mental map of the town and...
"Vivian's..." she gasped, just as Josh cursed, grabbing Amelia's hand. She stumbled along with her friend as Josh dragged them both back toward the town hall.
"I'm going to leave you two with Paul," Josh told his wife. "He'll take you back to the hotel. I need to--"
Oh, hell no. Heck no. Whatever.
"I'm going with you," Melissa said, unwinding her arm from Amelia's and stopping in the middle of the empty street, hands planted on her hips. Josh stopped, glaring at her over his shoulder.
"The hell you--"
"Josh, spare me. I'm coming. Those girls are my friends. What if they're hurt?"
Even in the darkness, she could see the torment on her brother's face.
"Fine," he ground out, moving again, Amelia half-jogging to keep up with his long strides and Melissa hurrying to catch up. "Let's just take Amelia back to--"
"I'm going too," his wife said, pulling her hand loose and moving to stand at Melissa's side. "I can help."
Josh crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at them both. She saw his head turn to face the smoke. Melissa wanted to curse and rage. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to torch the place, but this appeared to be the most successful effort. Usually Gabe got to the saboteurs before they were able to do much damage.
"Hell," Josh grumbled, reaching out and taking Amelia's hand. "Don't go anywhere near the building, and stay together."
Melissa was already running, one hand wrapped around Amelia's, tugging the other two along behind her. Vivian was like a mother to her. The girls who worked in that burning building were the closest thing to friends she'd had until Amelia arrived. "Hurry!" she yelled over her shoulder as she ran. It was time to put her skills to use.
Amelia
Vivian's wasn't a pile of rubble like she had feared. The building was still standing, but flames flickered and licked at the windows and the stench of smoke was overpowering. A gaggle of women already stood out front, their faces soot-coated and tear-streaked. Melissa and Josh broke apart as they arrived, and Amelia didn't know who to follow. Melissa ran to a group of women who knelt over a half-naked colleague who was moaning, her arm blackened and oozing. Josh ran to Vivian, who was directing a half-dozen other women into forming a bucket brigade.
"How many are left inside?" Josh asked Vivian.
"Six," the woman said, her face dry of tears, eyes burning with such fiery anger they practically glowed in the darkness. "Gabe is in there, looking for them." Her voice broke, and Josh rested a hand on her shoulder.
"Do you know where they are?"
"Upstairs."
He nodded, jerking his head in Amelia's direction. "You've got my wife and 'Lis here to help."
Vivian nodded and Josh jogged back to Amelia. His hands closed around her upper arms and he bent his head to meet her eyes. "Please, don't do anything that'll hurt the baby," he said.
"What are you--"
"I'll be back. Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise."
"And keep an eye on Melissa."
"I will," she said solemnly, nodding. She had a feeling Melissa would charge into the burning building herself if she didn't have someone to keep her in check.
Josh smiled, his rough palm cradling her cheek, and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her. For a second she wanted him to kiss her. She was leaning forward when he stepped back, spinning around and running to the girls who formed a line, passing along buckets of water to throw at the flames grasping for fresh air out the front window. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dunked it in one of the buckets before running inside.
Amelia's heart rocketed up into her throat as he disappeared into the orange-yellow glow of the burning building. What if he didn't come back out? What if--
"Amelia!" Melissa yelled, and she spun, running to her friend.
"What do you need?" she asked, sinking to her knees by the woman with the burned arm. The girl moaned, writhing in the snow and fighting her friends' efforts to hold her down as Melissa doctored her arm.
"We need to keep her warm," Melissa said. "Hold her."
Amelia took over holding the girl's injured arm and Melissa shrugged out of her coat. At her command, they lifted the girl up and dragged the coat around her bare shoulders. She was wearing a shift and nothing else, her breasts straining at the silk. She cried out as they moved her, tears streaming down her face.
"There has to be somewhere we can take the wounded," Melissa said, looking around frantically as if some magical haven would appear out of nowhere. All Amelia saw were dark, empty storefronts, their owners either busy at the dance or deliberately staying silent, cowering behind curtains.
"I'll find something," she said, handing the girl's burnt arm carefully back to her friend and pushing to her feet. She'd promised Josh she'd stay with his sister, but these girls needed help. As she stood, a man emerged from the burning building, holding another woman cradled in his arms. The man-- not Josh-- was coughing but the woman wasn't. She hung limp in his grasp, completely naked, one arm dangling off to the side.
Amelia spun around, glancing at all the buildings around them. She shrugged out of her own coat and dropped it by Melissa, the chill battering ineffectively at the hot, buzzing barrier of her excitement. They needed somewhere warm to take the wounded. Somewhere close by.
The general store was across the street. She saw a candle flickering in the window above and knew the store owner was home. Lifting up her skirts, she ran across the street and clambered up the wooden steps, raising her gloved fist and hammering on the door.
"Open up!" she yelled, pounding relentlessly. "We need help! Open the door! Hurry up! Help! I'll break the window if you don't--"
Inside, she heard a man yell and the sound of approaching feet. She recognized the shopkeeper as he ripped the door open, a lantern in his hand and a glare on his face.
"My family is sleeping, miss," he said, and she stared at him incredulously. Behind her, wood splintered. Someone cried out in pain. Light from the fire flickered on the man's face.
"Vivian's is on fire," Amelia said, as if he couldn't see the catastrophe perfectly well with his own two eyes. "We need help."
The shopkeeper snorted and rolled his eyes. "You ask me, they got what was coming to them," he said darkly, glowering over his shoulder as if the heat of the fire wasn't enough and they needed the added weight of his burning hatred.
Bile rose in Amelia's throat at his callous cruelty. She wanted to scream at him. No, she wanted to punch him. He had a soft, round face. Cheeks that drooped beneath his eyes. Chin that sloped into his neck. That soft, pink flesh probably wouldn't hurt her at all if she just balled up her fist and smashed it into his snub little bulb of a nose. She took a deep breath.
"Sir," she said, trying to calm the trembling fury in her voice. "Women are hurt. They'll die if we don't find them somewhere warm. It's only for a little bit until we can take them somewhere else."
"They're whores," he spat at her, reaching for the door. She reached forward and pressed her hand against the wooden surface, shaking her head.
"They're girls," she said, trying to make her voice meek and pleading when what she really wanted was to hurt him so badly he moaned like the poor women, lying in the snow across the street. "Mr. Roberts, I know these women are sinners, but you're not. You're a good man. I've seen you at church. You follow Christ. I'm no preacher, but I don't think Christ would have let these women suffer while he watched on in his nightshirt."
She let her eyes stray over his blue-striped nightshirt, raising her brows, and he clenched his weak jaw. His eyes flicked from her face to the scene of devastation behind her, then back to her face.
"Fine," he spat, stepping back. "You can bring them in here. But I'm not lighting the stove for them, and any supplies you use you have to pay for. And if they're not gone by daylight I'm tossing them out."
Oh, how good he would look with a smashed lip and blood dripping over his chin.
"Thank you," she gushed, batting her eyelashes and dropping into a casual, ladylike curtsy. "Thank you, Mr. Roberts."
Spinning around, she ran across the street and dropped by Melissa's side.
"Mr. Roberts is going to let us use his store," she said. "We can take them in there to stay warm until we find somewhere more permanent."
Melissa looked away from her patient, eyes wide.
"Mr. Roberts? As in the owner of the general store?"
"Yes. He said if we use any supplies we have to pay for them."
Melissa rolled her eyes. "Whatever he wants. If we don't get them out of the cold soon, nothing else is going to matter."
Struck with another idea, she sprinted to the buildings on either side of Vivian's-- a dressmaker and a lawyer's office. When the proprietors finally answered, she babbled and cried as if she was on the verge of hysteria.
"The fire's going to spread!" she wept dramatically, clinging to the lawyer's hand. "Please, come help!"
"If we don't put it out, your business will catch!" she urged the dressmaker, tugging on the old woman's nightgown. "Help us!"
Of course, she knew no such thing. The town was sprawling, broad alleyways between each building, probably a guard against the very scenario she was inventing. But she had seen enough to know that appealing to decency and neighborliness wouldn't bring these cowards out of the safety of their homes.
Having rallied the neighbors, Amelia rushed back to Melissa and joined in as they used scrounged-up bedsheets as makeshift litters, carrying the unconscious or gravely wounded women across the street. Mr. Roberts sat behind the counter, scowling at them, but he made no move to interfere as they cleared a space away from the door and claimed it as their workstation.
The minutes passed like seconds. Amelia didn't have any skill with medicine, so she left Melissa to the doctoring and took charge of the effort to ferry the victims across the street to their makeshift refuge. Twice, she caught sight of her husband. Once, he was stumbling from the saloon with a limp figure over his shoulder. The second time he was crouched with his hands on his knees, back heaving as he sucked in air. The other man stood beside him in the same position, yelling and gesturing up at the second story windows. Josh nodded, and the two men charged back into the burning building.
They were like characters in her dime-store westerns, those two men. Tall, strapping heroes, braving danger. Every time she neared the flames, she felt a bizarre, lustful desire to run in there herself. The fire was hot and alive and dangerous. It was hurting people. She didn't want to help on the sidelines. She wanted to face down that danger and defeat it.
"I'm going to help with the water," she said to one of the other women-- a dark-haired girl wearing a deep red dress with black lace trim. The woman nodded and gestured for her to go, and she jogged to the line of bucket-bearers.
"Take a break," she said to the woman nearest the fire, whose hair clung to her face, sweat staining the bodice of her dress. The woman smiled gratefully and jogged away. Amelia took her place, seamlessly integrating into the line as she accepted the bucket handed to her and tossed it at the fire through the window. This close, she couldn't even feel the cold. Heat enveloped her, rolling from the fire in waves. Sweat poured down her spine and soaked her dress. Her heart pounded in her chest, blood rushing in her ears, heat prickling her skin.
She was painfully, gloriously alive.
Josh
Josh followed behind his friend, one hand on Gabe's shoulder, fingers wrapped in the sweat-soaked fabric. All around them, the fire raged, the smoke blinding. Choking. With his free hand, he held a damp kerchief tight against his mouth, but it was no longer helping. He didn't know how Gabe was navigating the smoke-choked hallways, but perhaps if his own house was on fire he'd be able to find his way blindly as well.
They were down to two victims. A girl and her client, presumably last seen in a room at the end of the hall. Gabe staggered to a halt and turned, charging at a closed door and slamming his shoulder into it. He bounced off it and sagged to the floor, coughing. Josh shoved him aside and drove his own shoulder into the door. Once, and the frame cracked. Twice, and he sank to his knees as well, his head swimming. They were losing strength. If they didn't get in, soon, they wouldn't be able to rescue themselves, let alone whoever was behind that door.
Rough hands pushed him away, and he watched as Gabe backed up and threw himself forward, disappearing through the doorway as the wood splintered and gave way. Josh stumbled to his feet and followed. Both man and woman were in the room. The man was collapsed on the floor, wearing only his shirt. The woman huddled, naked, beneath the window, half-conscious and coughing spasmodically.
Josh shoved Gabe toward the woman and staggered to the man. It took him three tries to haul the deadweight over his shoulder. By the time he managed it, Gabe was hovering near the door, a silhouette of darkness against the shifting yellow of the flame-lit smoke. Josh hurried to join him, planting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing to indicate he was ready to go. Together, they stumbled down the hallway, down creaking stairs, and toward the door. Josh hadn't feared the collapsing ceiling on his way in, but on the way out he felt that he could sense it trying to give way. Like some secret eye in the back of his mind was watching wood sag and splinter and crack.
Relief slugged him in the stomach as they staggered out the front door and down the stairs, dropping to their knees in the snow. Someone lifted away his burden and he hunched over, coughing so hard he couldn't breathe. The sounds around him were overwhelmingly loud. Gabe at his side, retching into the snow. Women screaming. Women yelling commands. Footsteps running. Wood crackling and burning.
Splintering.
He sat back on his heels, still coughing, and caught sight of his wife. His wife who, only a short time ago, he'd instructed to stay safe, goddammit. His wife, several months pregnant, round belly pressing against her dress, slinging water through a shattered window at the flames. Handing the empty bucket back. Receiving a full one. Throwing it as well.
The world swam dizzily as he shoved to his feet, prepared to yank her away from the danger, kicking and screaming if she wouldn't come quietly. What was she thinking, putting herself in harm's way? Putting the baby in harm's way?
He had one foot on the porch steps when he heard it.
Cracking wood. Groaning support beams.
"Get back!" he yelled, just as Vivian yelled the same thing. As the older woman broke up the bucket brigade and ushered them back, he charged up the stairs onto the porch. Amelia was already turning to run, but he snagged her around the waist anyway and dragged her away. Off the porch. Through the snow. Across the street.
"Where is Melissa!" he demanded as he set her down, an empty bucket still clutched in her hand.
She pointed wordlessly at the store behind them, and he breathed out a sigh of relief that caught in his throat and made him cough. "What--"
Her question broke off as Vivian's Saloon crumbled in on itself. The roof caved, sparks and flecks of debris floating through the air. Josh looked at Vivian, who stood beside him. Her dirty face crumpled like the roof of her business, finally giving way beneath the pressures of the night. She didn't cry, but she sagged into the snow, sitting back on her haunches. Two strides in front of her, Gabe stood with his arms hanging loose at his sides, hands clenched into fists.
Josh loved Gabe and Vivian. Vivian was kind and strong and nearly-saintly in her patience-- living proof that a woman's sexual choices didn't define her character. Walking evidence that, no matter what that goddamn preacher said about his mother, his memory of her being a good woman wasn't false. Gabe, meanwhile, was more a brother to him than Brent. As boys, they'd formed an alliance built on their bastard status. Josh had stood by his friend's side when the folks in town were cruel. Gabe had listened patiently and huffed in angry, empathetic indignation when Josh shared the latest of his father's cruelties.
Josh loved Gabe and Vivian, but in that moment, when their lives were crumbling to the ground, he barely spared them more than a sympathetic glance before rounding on his wife.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded hoarsely, and she glowered up at him.
Glowered?
"I was helping!" she spat, gesturing at the burning building.
"I told you to stay safe!"
"I was safe!"
"You were standing on the porch of a burning building! You were feet away from the fire!"
"They needed help!"
"You couldn't help from farther away?"
"Do you see a burn on me?" she yelled back, throwing her arms out to her sides. "I'm fine!'
"Because I got there just in time to drag you away!"
"I was already turning to run!"
"What about the baby?"
"What about the baby?"
"You were slinging buckets of water, Amelia! You think that's good for an unborn baby?"
"It's not not good for an unborn baby! Christ almighty, Josh! I'm pregnant, not dying of the plague!"
"You could have been hurt!"
"Says the man who ran into the burning building!"
"That's different!"
"How?"
He stared down at her. Her chest was heaving, skin flushed, hair in wild disarray. Her eyes burned brighter than the fire and her hands were clenched into fists, propped on her slim hips. Though she was tall, the top of her head barely reached his nose, and she had her head tipped back to meet his eye. Even so, he felt like she was looking straight at him, or perhaps even down at him.
"Well?" she asked, stamping one foot. "How is it different, Josh?"
"I..." he looked around helplessly, hoping for some assistance or distraction, but the crowd around them had drifted away. Healthy bodies had reformed the bucket brigade, stifling the flames that smoldered in the pile of rubble. The rest, wounded or weary, had retreated into the general store. They were alone on the sidewalk.
"How is it different?" Amelia asked for the third time. She'd shoved her dress sleeves up to her elbows and goosebumps prickled the bare skin. He moved to shrug out of his jacket and offer it to her, but thought better of it. Perhaps now wasn't the time for chivalry.
"It just is," he said weakly.
"It's because I'm a woman?" she offered. He shrugged in defeat, and she glared, her eyes burning so bright he thought if he looked up, he wouldn't be able to see the stars.
"It's not that you're a woman," he said finally, honestly. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, tipping his head back and seeking strength from above. He lowered his gaze and forced himself to meet her eye. "It's that you're my wife."
She blinked up at him, cocking her head. "What?"
"Half the people fighting that fire are women," he said, gesturing toward the ruin of Vivian's business. "That doesn't bother me near so much as you fighting it. You're my wife, Amelia. It's my job to protect you."
She lowered her face to the ground, toeing at the snow. "I don't want to be protected," she mumbled, so quiet he almost missed the words.
"What?"
"I don't want to be protected," she said again, raising her chin. Her eyes no longer glowed with anger. They were sad and defeated. "I'm not a china doll, Josh. I'm a person. I don't want to spend my life on a shelf. I've never lived this way, and it's making me insane. I'm not ungrateful for everything you've given us-- the security and... I'm not ungrateful. And I'm sorry that I've worried you. I just..." she sighed, her shoulders sagging. He felt as if she was watching her climb back up on that shelf she'd just told him was driving her mad. Dusting off her skirts and folding her hands demurely on her lap as her eyes glazed and she sank back into the role he'd unwittingly given her. "I'm sorry," she said, lowering her gaze. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you."
He should have been grateful. He had a feeling she'd go anywhere she told him right then. She'd retreat to the safety of the general store and help Melissa. She'd take his jacket if he offered it. She'd ride home in the morning in the back seat of the sled, warm and comfortable and safe. He had her trapped. Circumstances and his brother's child had her trapped. She was a china doll on a shelf. Quiet. Demure. Subservient.
He raised and brushed a thumb over her cheek, wiping away the soot to reveal the porcelain skin beneath. Pictured her clean and safe, clad in a nice dress. Curled in the window seat of their bedroom, warm and secure, reading a book. Beautiful.
He conjured the image of her, slinging buckets of water at the grasping flames. Yelling orders at the women around her. Sweaty and flushed, dirty and loud.
"Let's go," he said, taking her hand and tugging her across the street. She followed a half-step behind, wordless. When they reached the line of bucket-slinging women, he jerked his head at the ones nearest the flames and they stepped away, chests heaving with exertion. He dragged Amelia into place beside him and they joined the rhythm. He slung the buckets on the fire and passed them off to his wife, his chest burning with the wrongness of it all. She shouldn't be so close to the danger. She shouldn't be sweating alongside him. She should be safe. She should be clean.
They'd been working for eons and he was drenched in sweat beneath his jacket when he passed off a bucket and she finally met his eye. She, too, was sweaty, heavy droplets streaking down her face, clearing clean tracks in the soot. It looked like war-paint. She looked like a warrior. The burning in his chest lessened.
Two women arrived, nudging him and Amelia aside, and they staggered together to the general store, where Vivian had set up a rest station. They both accepted tin cups of water, gulping the liquid. His throat still burned, lungs aching, and the water felt like heaven. When he lowered his cup, Amelia was frowning up at him, chest still heaving with exertion but goosebumps already rising on her exposed skin. The heat of the fire barely penetrated the frigid air, even so close.
His wife set aside her cup and stepped close, and before he could ask what she was doing her hands were on his shoulders and her lips were pressed to his. He froze in shock, his body torn in too many different directions to pick one. Place his hands on her waist or the sides of her face? Open his mouth or keep it closed? Tug her close or leave the space between them?
He bit back a groan when she stepped away, nodding toward Vivian. "We should see what she needs," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "Maybe Melissa needs help with the wounded."
He nodded, taking a chance and shrugging out of his jacket, holding it out to her. She accepted it without argument, shoving her arms gratefully into the sleeves. It looked ridiculous on her, but she sighed gratefully, tugging it close around her. "Thank you," she said, and he got the feeling she wasn't talking about the coat.
"You check in with Vivian," he said. "I'm going to see if I can find a long-term solution for the wounded."
She nodded briskly, reaching out and snagging his hand as he turned to go. He turned back around and found her smiling up at him.
"You're a good husband," she said, delicate fingers tightening around his. "I'm sorry I yelled."
"You're a hell of a firefighter," he said, bending close and kissing her cheek. "But as a wife, you're going to be the death of me."
She laughed quietly, her eyes sparkling. He felt like an absolute heel because he shouldn't feel so light when he was surrounded by so much destruction. He shouldn't want to smile when his best friend's livelihood was a pile of rubble of ashes. Josh would never have called himself a saint, but he'd never have guessed that he'd be so goddamned selfish as to feel this flicker of unfettered happiness while people suffered so close by.
"I'm going to go," he said, because he needed to put some distance between them. Maybe if he wasn't looking directly at her stunning, filthy face he could relocate his decency and perspective.
But as he jogged away, his mind churning through options-- folks he knew who might offer quarter to wounded, homeless prostitutes-- his stubborn mouth just kept turning up into a giddy smile.
No, Josh Tucker wasn't a saint, but the shy, polite, delicate woman Brent had brought home and abandoned had possessed him to act like one. To dig deep within for saintly patience and saintly generosity and saintly kindness.
This woman he'd met tonight, though? The one with the soot-stained face and fire-laced eyes and the steel woven into her angry voice?
She made him want to sin.