Amelia
If only she'd been strong, it all would have gone differently. She'd have hugged her husband to her. Fought his father off. Pleaded with the man she loved to stay. Reassured him that those cruel, lunatic ramblings were false.
But she wasn't strong. She was dizzy and weak, her throat aching and thick. She could barely draw a breath, let alone speak. She could barely keep her arms around Rebecca, let alone fight the old man. She couldn't even stand.
By the time her sluggish, air-starved brain finally caught up to Josh's absence, his father had him against the porch rail, screaming insults. By the time she managed to push Rebecca into Melissa's arms, the old man had fallen to his knees, begging and pleading. She rose, took a step forward, wavered, and sank to her knees, tears running in rivers down her grimy cheeks. And in that all-important moment, that was all she could manage--
She knelt in the snow and she cried.
She knew what he was seeing. Her silence-- endorsement. Her weakness-- loss. Her tears-- grief for the man she loved.
Only the last was accurate, and damn him for not knowing who it was she grieved.
His mouth thinned, his eyes went so blank he could have been the demon his father claimed, and Amelia's flailing heart went still in her chest.
"No!" she tried to cry as he turned away, but all that came out was a choked cough. "Josh, no!" she tried again, but her lungs seized and she collapsed in a paroxysm of hacking. When the world came back, Melissa was beside her, rubbing her back, and Josh was gone.
Amelia raised her blurry gaze to the house. Smoke billowed from every seam in the siding, rising in shifting black puffs overhead. Some windows showed the glow of flames, and the building was beginning to creak and groan in distress.
"It'll be alright," Melissa said. "It'll be okay. Josh'll get him out. They'll both be okay. You'll see."
Amelia wondered when her smart, practical friend had gotten so painfully stupid.
They were going to die.
Paralyzed by despair and physical weakness, she wavered there on her knees, her shins and feet going numb. There was no way Josh could find his way to Brent's room, let alone carry him back out. Not before choking to death on smoke. Not before that moaning, shifting roof collapsed and crushed him to death, burying him in embers and flames.
As if knowing she needed a reason to be strong, Melissa pressed Rebecca back into her arms. Amelia took her, stroking her hair as the little girl sniffled and hiccoughed into her breast. She wanted to wail herself, but she held it all inside. She bent over, burying her face in her daughter's hair.
Then she heard men yelling. The sound of shattering glass. She jerked her gaze up to see a group of men fall away from the bucket line, circling around to the side of the house. The line expanded seamlessly, filling the gaps they had left. Amelia had to fight for her feet, but this time she was strengthened. By fury. By hope. By Rebecca's need.
"Take her," she said, her voice a bare whisper as she passed Rebecca back to Melissa. The girl took her with a solemn nod, and Amelia staggered off toward the side of the house, following the gaggle of ranch hands. As she moved, a measure of strength returned to her wobbly legs. By the time she reached the house she was running. She ought to feel scandalized, standing amongst these rough men in her nightgown with her hair in a loose tumble down her back. Perhaps later, she would take the time to feel such frivolous emotions.
Standing at the back of the group, she craned her neck to follow their gazes. Glass rained down from the window high above, smoke billowing out. And then, praise God, Josh leaned out, looking down. He must not see her, because he only remained there for a moment, taking in the gathered men before ducking back inside. Long moments passed while Amelia held her breath and watched the flickering light of the flames in the empty window. Then a limp leg appeared, dangling out over the sill. Then another. A torso, shoulders, and a head. Brent's body, clad only in long underwear, hung over empty air, suspended by a length of sheet that was looped around his chest beneath his arms.
A gasp sounded from beside her, and she turned to see Mr. Tucker, staring up at the window with hope in his glassy eyes. Her fingers curled into fists and her teeth ground together.
Later.
She'd kill him later.
She watched as Brent was lowered, inch by inch, toward the waiting arms of the gathered men. The rope appeared to be made of torn bedsheets, and though she couldn't see her husband she imagined he was standing back from the window sill, feeding out the slack.
Brent coughed as the men caught him and lowered him to the ground. Mr. Tucker hurried forward, pushing them out of the way to kneel next to his son. Amelia and the gaggle of ranch hands turned their faces back up to the window. She gathered a lungful of air and tried to scream his name, but her hoarse whisper was drowned out by the voices of the men.
"Tie the rope off, boss!" one of the men yelled urgently.
"The hell with that!" called another to the empty window. "Just jump, man! That roof is going to collapse!"
Whether he planned to jump or lower himself down turned out to be a moot point. As Amelia watched on in mute horror, the roof creaked and groaned and buckled, collapsing into the room. A shower of sparks flew from the window, catching on air and floating gently to the snow, reduced to silent black flakes. Flames lapped at the windowsill and reached for the sky. Even standing back from the building, the heat scorched her face, but Amelia had gotten suddenly, terribly cold.
"No," she whispered, taking a step back as she stared up. Another section of the ceiling buckled and caved inward. He'd be buried in flaming debris. "No," she pleaded, shaking her head in disbelief.
How dare he?
How dare he die?
Brent was coughing and sitting up. The men had taken notice of her and were gathering around, already murmuring sympathy. Someone tried to place a jacket over her quivering shoulders, but she shoved the material away. Smacked the hands aside.
Her feet moved, carrying her back around the house. She shoved through the bucket line, breaking into a mad dash as she rounded the front of the house. The roof had collapsed but the front door still stood. She didn't hesitate, launching herself up the steps. If he was going to martyr herself for her happiness, then she'd martyr herself for her grief. She had a right, dammit.
Just as the heat licked her face, hands caught around around the waist and dragged her backward.
"Stop, Mrs. Tucker," a low voice said in her ear. She fought, her elbow landing in soft flesh. The arms loosened and she launched herself forward once more.
"Stop!" Again, hands caught her. Another unwanted obstacle stepped in front of her, walking forward as the hands pulled her backward.
"Let me go!" she screamed, her voice a high-pitched hiss as she struggled against the hands. "Let me go! You have to let me go! He's still in there! Let me go!"
"Ma'am, please." The man in front of her took her shoulders in large but gentle hands. She knew him. He came to dinner often. He was Josh's friend. Her friend too, really. Why couldn't she find his name? What was his name?
"Paul?" she whimpered, sagging into the hands that held her. It was only momentary acquiescence. Paul smiled sadly.
"Let's move back, now," he said kindly, taking her arm and turning her away from the house. She didn't recognize the man on her other side, but she didn't care. She let them lead her away, waiting until their hands loosened on her arms. Then she tore herself away and ran back toward the house, aware but uncaring that grief was driving her mad.
Before she reached the porch, she ran into another body, this one softer than the others. Hands grasped her arms and pushed her backward.
"Amelia, stop." She blinked away her tears, bringing Mr. Tucker's worried face into focus. "You need to stay back," he urged, the picture of reason and compassion.
She felt the pain flash up her arm before she realized what she'd done. Her father-in-law stumbled back, a hand shooting up to his cheek. Had she hit him? Yes. Yes, she had. Just the way Josh had showed her, with her hand balled into a loose fist and her thumb on the outside not the inside. It had felt good.
"Go to hell, Owen Tucker!" she screamed, her voice cracking and raw. She drew back again and he didn't raise a hand to defend himself as she socked him in the jaw. He fell onto his backside in the snow, staring up at her, stunned, blood trickling from his lower lip. She wanted to haul back and kick him. She wanted to pin him to the ground with her knee and punch him until he was crumpled and bleeding. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips and glared down at him with all the righteous fury that roiled inside her smoke-ravaged chest.
"Amelia--"
"Shut up!" she snapped, curling her toes against the urge to kick him. "You think this is what your wife wanted, you miserable old fool?" He flinched as if she'd hit him again, and she felt her lips turn up into a cruel sneer. "I should be holding you back, you coward. He's your son. He's her son. You call yourself a Christian, but you're the cruelest man I know. What follower of Christ sends his son into peril with words of hate? I hope you burn in Hell for all eternity for what you've done to him. I hope you see what evil truly is, and I hope you spend every passing age of your suffering knowing that you were wrong."
The old man wilted backwards into the snow, his face crumpling. "He brought this upon us," he whimpered, his eyes pleading. "I trusted him, don't you see? The reverend warned me that if I welcomed him back and forgave him I would be punished. Look around you, Amelia. I was ready to forgive him. I was ready to welcome him back. This is my punishment!"
At that, she did kick him. Hard, in the side of the leg. He winced and drew his leg away, a pitiful little ball of a man, sprawled in the melting snow. Their exchange had gathered a crowd, but none of the men came forward to pull her away or help him to his feet. Emboldened, Amelia left him lying in the snow and shoved through the wall of bodies. Her footsteps resounded on the hollow steps of the porch. Smoke hit her in the face and she coughed but lowered her head. What if he was just inside, collapsed just feet from the door? She could drag him that far. He'd saved her, she could find the strength to return the favor.
But, where the men hadn't moved to protect their employer, they surged forward to pull her back from the flames. There was Paul, in front of her once more.
"I can't let you, Mrs. Tucker," he said grimly. "The whole building is about to come down. You'll be killed."
"He'll be killed," she whimpered, sagging against his bulk. He didn't answer.
Vaguely, she registered that she was walked backwards away from the house. Her knees buckled and she was lifted, carried, set down on something warm and dry. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. A small, soft body was placed in her arms.
"Mama?" Rebecca whimpered, and Amelia couldn't find the strength to offer words of comfort. She closed her arms around her daughter by instinct rather than intention, and when she began to rock back and forth the motion was as much to comfort herself as to comfort her child.
She looked up just in time to see the roof collapse entirely. The right side of the house caved in. The men yelled and staggered back, still throwing buckets of water on the flaming mess. There was no way he could survive that inferno. He was gone. Perished in all his idiotic glory, thinking he'd martyred himself for her happiness.
A warm body settled beside her on the blanket with a groan. It smelled wrong, like bay rum and smoke. Strong arms that weren't strong enough wrapped around her, holding her against a chest that wasn't broad enough. A voice that wasn't deep enough rumbled unwanted comfort in her ear.
"Get off," she said weakly, elbowing him away. He didn't listen. He never listened. She gave up holding him at bay. What did it matter? What did any of it matter?
"No," she whispered into her daughter's hair, rocking slowly back and forth. "No, no, no." Brent held her in his traitorous arms. Melissa's voice joined the cacophony of unsolicited comfort. The cold bit at the exposed skin on her neck and numbed her bare feet.
Irrelevant details, consumed by flame.