Josh
Amelia was right. She'd been saying it all along, and she was right:
He was, quite possibly, the most foolish man on God's green earth.
That was the first thought that struck him when he came to, his cheek pressed to rough carpet and the world falling to pieces around him. Well, that and the heat. It raged all around him, suffocating and loud.
He had turned back to tie off the makeshift rope when he'd heard the roof groan and realized it was coming down. He remembered diving toward the open doorway, but he must not have dove fast enough because the last thing he recalled was a sharp pain in the back of his skull. Now here he was, sprawled in the hallway next to a pile of flaming rubble, about to make his wife a widow.
The smoke choked him and he coughed, but it was remarkably easier to breathe down here on the floor. He turned his face into the crook of his arm and fought for one good lungful of air before lifting his head. He couldn't see well through the smoke and his own burning eyes, but he could make out the flames, licking up the walls of the hallway. He could hear the whole building groaning around him.
He had to get out.
He had to tell Amelia he was sorry. So, so sorry. Why had he thought he was doing her a favor? Why had he thought she would want Brent back at the cost of her husband? Because his father did? Maybe the madness was passed down with man's seed, because Josh had clearly lost his damned mind. Standing there by the porch, with the old man clinging to his hand and Amelia wavering on her knees, tears streaming down her face, he really had felt like the devil. He'd believed, for just long enough to make the worst mistake of his life, that he had brought this upon them.
Well, waking up in Hell sure had a way of setting a man straight.
Gathering his strength, and a lungful of poisoned air, he shoved himself to his feet, staggered two steps down the hall, and then collapsed to his knees, choking on the thick smoke that formed a cloud around his head. He let himself fall forward onto his belly, sucking at the relatively thin air near the floor, his forehead pressed to the runner.
Fine.
Fine, he'd just crawl out. Not the most dignified exit, but at least he could breathe.
Hand over hand, he dragged himself forward, keeping his face down, pushing with legs that didn't want to obey. He'd have passed the stairs and just crawled blindly forward to his death if his left hand hadn't landed on the drop off, fingers instinctively curling around the edge. He had half a mind to throw himself down them, but that wouldn't do any good. He'd knock himself clean out again and suffocate on the smoke ten yards from freedom.
He hesitated, and in that moment a splitting crash rose behind him, the flames flickering brighter against his eyelids. The whole damned house was going to come down on him if he didn't get it together. He fixed his family in his mind-- a mental photograph he'd taken months ago of his girls, asleep in the sun on a blanket by the river-- and sucked in a deep breath, forcing his lungs not to reject the air. Then he surged to his feet, gripping the creaking rail, and half ran, half-fell down the stairs.
He didn't realize he'd reached the bottom until he reached for the emptiness of another step and his foot met solid ground. He stumbled and crashed to the ground, his body aching with the coughs that tore at his throat. He was so close. He could practically feel the fresh air, issuing in from the open door. He could practically see Amelia waiting for him, frantic with worry. He didn't bother to stand. Just clawed his way forward, praying he was headed in the right direction.
His fingers touched something soft-- the rag rug Melissa had made for the entryway.
Thank God.
Thank you, God.
He hauled himself forward until his groping hand met the door frame. Cold air teased, still polluted by smoke, but he sucked in a lungful and clawed his way up the wall, throwing himself out onto the porch. He must have lost his sense of distance somewhere in the burning house, because he misjudged the width of the porch and the ground disappeared from under him. He fell hard, tumbling into the sweet bite of half-melted slush.
He wanted to lay there forever in the blessed cold, but a set of hands closed around his left arm. Seconds later, another set grasped his right. With their help, he staggered to his feet and stumbled away from the collapsing house, blinking away the film of tears, his lungs spasming and screaming as crisp, dry air replaced the smoke.
Paul materialized in front of him, soot-smudged face splitting into a wide grin. Josh wrenched himself free of his rescuers and shoved past his friend. He had to find her. Tell her he was sorry for leaving. That he loved her, no matter what. That he knew she loved him.
It all sounded so good in his head until he saw them--
Rebecca, huddled in her mother's arms. Amelia, huddled in Brent's. His heart seized with a fury to match his lungs, and he staggered to a halt and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. His father knelt beside the cozy trio, one hand on Brent's shoulder, the other wrapped around Melissa, whose own hand rested on Amelia's back.
His lungs rejected fresh air as surely as his heart rejected the sight in front of him. He coughed until he retched, collapsing to his knees in the grass. His hearing tunneled. Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else shoved a tin cup of water into his hand. He sat back on his heels and took a gulp of the water. It did little to soothe the burn in his throat, but the next breath wasn't quite such a struggle. He sucked down the air and the water with equal fervor. The empty cup disappeared. A full one materialized in his grip. Paul crouched in front of him, blocking his view of Amelia and the rest of his family. His family. What a joke.
"Maybe you oughta give it a minute, boss," Paul said, his face scrunched in concern as Josh shoved himself to his feet, wavering as his head swam and stifled coughs ripped at his chest. He loved Paul like a brother, but he couldn't stand the man's concern. He couldn't bear the way his damned employees were hovering like his welfare mattered to them. He didn't want their concern. He wanted hers.
"S'fine," he managed, handing his half-empty cup to a soot-stained Hoskins, who hovered nearby. "What..." he broke off, bending over as another round of coughing stole his breath. When he straightened, Paul had a hand on his shoulder. He shook it off. "Where do you need help?"
"We got it handled, boss," Paul said with a stern frown. "Go tell your wife you're alive." He jerked his head toward the huddled group, and Josh wanted to follow his directive. He'd pull Amelia from Brent's hold and fold her against his chest. He'd heft Reb into his arms and squeeze her until she giggled and squirmed for release. He'd load them into the wagon and go home.
Home.
They were such a harmony, the five of them, and the more he stared the more he pictured himself bullying his way into the fold. What would he do? Wrench his wife from the comfort of Brent's arms? Knock his father's reassuring hand from his son's shoulder? Tear his sister from her father's embrace? Steal his daughter from her mother's protection?
Home. Home was that gentle comfort they had found in each other's arms, and there was no goddamned room for him there.
And then Amelia looked up. Just for a moment. One eye, glistening in the firelight, peeling open as she raised her face from Rebecca's hair. Two eyes, shooting open, landing on his face. She froze, motionless but for the tears that streamed down her face and the wind that buffeted her tangled hair. Then she drew in a breath and he watched her mouth move in an agonized whisper.
No.
No, as she elbowed Brent in the stomach and shoved out of his hold, pressing Rebecca into Melissa's.
No, no, no, as she staggered to her feet, gathered up the skirt of her nightgown, and ran.
She hit him with enough force to send him staggering. Her arms looped around him and squeezed so hard he couldn't even find the air to cough. Her tears were warm as she moaned into his chest. He could hear her clearly now--
"No, no, no," she whimpered, her grip tightening spasmodically around him, her body trembling. His heart seized and his knees buckled. Together, they slid down into the snow. He sank back onto his ass and she clambered like a child into his lap. He wound his arms around her waist and held her close as she tried to pull away. Her eyes were wild as they grabbed his, never leaving as her hands ghosted over his body, checking for injury.
"I'm fine, honey," he promised, but his voice was a ragged whisper and her lip trembled. He waited for her to resume crying, but instead her face got hard, her bloodshot eyes flashing. Seizing his shirt in her fists, she yanked him closer.
"I thought you were dead, you idiot," she hissed into his face, shaking him. The motion made his head throb, and he winced.
"I'm not," he said weakly, wishing there was more he could do to reassure her. "I'm fine. We're okay."
"We are not okay!" she exclaimed, her hands a stark contrast to her sharp words as they left his shirt and came up to frame his face. He closed his eyes and wondered if God would grant him mercy and kill him right here, in this moment, so this was the last thing he'd feel. "I'll kill you," she sobbed, the tears finally flooding out of her. Her breath was warm against his face as she pressed her forehead to his. "If you ever do something so stupid, ever again, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?"
Her nearness drifted, and he forced his eyes open. She still held his face between her hands, her touch gentle, but her tear-glassy glare was like lightning. It crackled through the air between them, and his heart began to beat more steadily. Love and hope spread roots somewhere deep inside his chest. He wasn't the devil. Maybe soft, simpering angels cavorted with evil, but this one wouldn't. She was too strong, and her sight was too true.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, pulling her closer and lowering his face to the crook of her neck. She smelled like smoke. He needed to get her home and in a bath so she could smell like herself again. "I'm sorry."
When he raised his head, she looped her arms around his neck and all that beautiful anger in her gaze broke apart. Like rolling storm clouds, her fury parted and love burst through, blinding and brilliant.
"Don't apologize," she whispered, her lip quivering as she fought tears. "Just take me home."
He drew her in and kissed her. She tasted of smoke, but so did he. She was filthy and sweaty, but so was he. Nothing on earth could make him let go. Not the cold, not the fire, not his father, not goddamned Brent, not--
Small fingers prodded him in the side, tugging on his shirt. "Papa?"
He let go.
Pulling away from Amelia, he looked down to see Rebecca's small face peering up at him. She had a smudge of soot on her cheek and he lifted his hand to wipe it away. His dirty fingers just smeared the stain across her jaw. Her face crumpled and he tugged her in, wrapping her in his arms before he had to suffer the sight of her tears. Then Amelia's arms were back around his neck, and they sandwiched their daughter between them.
It was a long, long while before they broke apart. Maybe they'd have stayed there forever if the cold wasn't so biting. Eventually, Amelia began to tremble and he realized that, while he was fully clothed, she was out here in the snow in nothing but her nightgown.
Forcing himself to pull away, he dragged himself to his feet, holding his daughter against him and offered a hand to his wife. Looking around, he found they'd acquired an audience. Brent still sat on the blanket Amelia had abandoned, one hand pressed to his chest, his expression empty. His father knelt beside him with a hand on his son's shoulder. Melissa was standing nearby, a blanket around her shoulders and another draped over her arm. She held it out mutely, and Amelia took it. She wrapped it around herself with a shudder of cold.
Paul approached, having wandered off to give orders. He grinned broadly, as if none of the trauma of the evening had just transpired. "We've got a corner of the barn set up for you to get warm," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Josh glanced at Brent, who clearly lacked the strength to stand.
"Go ahead," he said, giving Amelia a gentle push and reaching up to pry Reb's arms from around his neck. "I gotta--"
"You go on, boss," Paul said. "We'll get the others."
If Paul said he'd do it, it would get done. Wrapping an arm around Amelia's back, Josh hurried them toward the barn. Luckily, it stood some distance from the house, although the hands had already brought all the animals out to the coral in case the wind shifted and picked up.
Just inside the door, someone had spread a layer of blankets over a mound of hay. Another stack of blankets sat nearby, and Amelia sank down to the nest with a groan. Her poor, bare feet were waxy and pale, and she was shivering hard, her teeth clacking together.
Josh passed Rebecca off and grabbed two more blankets, pilling them over his family. He knelt by Amelia's feet and took them in his hands. Even against the chilled skin of his palms, they felt cold. A lamp sat on a nearby table, and he turned her feet over carefully, studying them in the flickering light.
"Doesn't look like frostbite," he said, relieved. Her teeth chattered, and she offered him a weak smile.
"Just cold?"
"Just cold. You and your thin southern blood."
She laughed weakly, and he unbuttoned his coat, hissing as he tucked her frigid feet beneath his shirt, pressing the soles against his stomach. She jerked herself away, but he held tight to her ankles.
"Best way to warm 'em up," he said hoarsely, offering her a grin. His thumbs found the arches and began to massage, and she groaned in pain and pleasure, her head dropping back against the wall. She wiggled her toes, and he was about to say something inappropriate when the door slid open and Paul walked in, lugging Brent and followed closely by Melissa and their father. Paul lowered Brent to the makeshift nest beside Amelia, and Josh swallowed a tug of joy when his wife unsubtly shifted away from his brother. The old man sank onto a bench beside the door, his eyes wide, his expression blank. Melissa knelt next to Josh. Ever resourceful, she'd managed to find and slip into a pair of overlarge boots to protect her own feet.
"Frostbite?" she asked, and he removed one of Amelia's feet from beneath his shirt so his sister could inspect.
"I don't think so."
"Nope, looks like the color is already coming back!" she said cheerfully, but her voice was scratchy and heavy with fatigue.
"I'm fine," Amelia grumbled, sitting up and tugging her feet beneath her. "Josh is bleeding."
Before he could tell his wife she was imagining things, Melissa was clucking her tongue and prodding at the back of his head. Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the trickle of warmth oozing down the back of his neck.
"Nothing serious," Melissa determined. "Just a little bump. Needs to be cleaned, but otherwise you're alright."
Josh glared pointedly at his wife, and she rolled her eyes.
"Josh." His gaze snapped to Brent. His brother was pale and drawn, his voice as raspy as the rest of them. His eyes dropped away and he fiddled with his own blanket. "I thought I was going to die," he whispered, rubbing his forehead with shaking fingers. Josh couldn't find the heart to comfort him.
"Well, you didn't," he said gruffly, shoving to his feet and turning to Paul. "Can you see about getting a couple bunks set up for my father and brother?"
"No problem, boss. You want a couple of the guys to take you and the girls home?"
"Nah, I'll get the sled hitched up. We can't spare the bodies."
"You sure, boss? It's no trouble. You've had a hell of a night."
"We're fine, Paul. Just see about those bunks, and let me know where we're at on the fire. I don't want to leave until we're sure it's not liable to spread."
With a nod, Paul turned and left, pulling the barn door closed to a crack behind him. The vaulted space seemed to close in, the tension a soupy, vibrating current that made the air difficult to breathe. Or maybe that was just the smoke in his lungs.
Melissa slumped next to her father on the bench and Brent was drifting in and out of sleep. Rebecca dozed as well, one hand fisted in her mother's tattered sleeve. Amelia's blurry eyes were heavy-lidded but she kept her gaze on Josh as he turned over an empty crate and sat down on it.
"I'll hitch up the wagon in a minute," he said, lowering his face into his hands.
"Take your time, love," Amelia said softly, uncurling her legs and reaching out to tap his calf with her leg. He looked up and found her smiling. "We're going to be alright," she said, her hand moving beneath the blanket, smoothing up and down Rebecca's back. Then her eyes flicked to his father and went suddenly steely. Josh followed her gaze and found the old man looking at him. He stared back, a silent challenge. A dare.
When his father didn't speak, Josh steeled himself and rose to his feet. As he approached, Melissa stood and vacated her spot so he could sit down. It should have hurt when the old man shifted away from him, as if he carried some disease, but he was so far beyond hurt.
"I know what you think," Josh said, his hands gripping his knees for strength while the old man clasped his own in front of him. "But you're wrong, sir, and this can't go on. I've let too much go unsaid all these years and I can't let it continue. Highwaymen killed your wife, not me. Chance brought droughts and blights, not my presence. And I damn sure don't start fires, least of all in places where they're liable to hurt the ones I love. Your preacher does that, when he thinks he's being ignored. Ask Vivian about her saloon. Ask the Fitzpatricks about their barn. He's not subtle. Ask Robinson about his fields."
The old man ignored him, and it was just as well.
"Me and Ames and Reb are leaving here," he said, ignoring Brent's gasp of shock and Melissa's huff of understanding. He glanced up and caught Amelia's eye. She wore a small smile of encouragement, and he lowered his gaze and went on. "I know you hate me, and I know you think I'm causing all this nastiness. I'd hoped I could convince you otherwise, but I see now you're set in your beliefs. As soon as the roads clear, we'll be leaving. All we ask is that you give us the rest of the winter to pack up. I figure it'll be best for both of us, since I'll have time to train my replacement. In the meantime, we'll stay out of your hair so long as you stay out of ours."
He waited for a response. Anything. An apology, an attack. Anger, sorrow, relief... something. Something to acknowledge the sacrifice he and Amelia were making because he couldn't move beyond his delusions.
"Fine," the old man said, finally, clenching and unclenching his hands. Josh waited for more, but nothing followed.
"Fine," he echoed, pushing to his feet and forcing a pointless smile onto his face. "Ames, honey, I'm going to go out and hitch up the sled. 'Lis, did you want to come home with us?"
"Yes," his sister said, unusually subdued. "I'll help you with the wagon."
"Nah, you stay here," he urged. He didn't want to leave Amelia and Reb alone with the other two men. "I'll be right outside. Just call if you need me."
At Amelia's subtle nod, he left them in the warmth of the barn and trudged out into the snow. The house still blazed, and he supposed he would feel sad about it later, once the shock wore off. For now, he just felt numb. A handful of men closed in on him when he emerged from the barn, and now that he was no longer mired in self-pity, their concern was less grating and more annoying.
"Christ, boss, we thought you were dead!" said one, and he rolled his eyes.
"How the hell you get out, anyway?" asked another.
"You're a goddamned Christmas miracle!" said a third.
"Hey you want some more water? We got whiskey too, and cook brought up some coffee."
"Gotta say, boss, you look like hell. You wanna sit down?"
"Here, I brought you a coffee."
Josh took the coffee, but shoved through the crowd.
"You lot are a gaggle of kiss asses," he scolded over his shoulder, searching the crowd for Paul.
"Damn straight we are," agreed one of the younger guys. "Say, who gets to go on this year's drive? I think us firefighters oughta get first dibs."
"Not a lot of fires on the drive," Josh said absently, spotting his friend. He didn't have the heart to tell them, right then, that he wouldn't be the one making that decision, or many others for that matter.
Damn.
That realization hit him harder than the sight of his childhood home, burning to the ground. Or maybe that realization was his childhood home, burning to the ground. This was his home...
No, no it wasn't. Amelia was his home. Reb was his home. Wherever they were, he'd be happy. Even if that was far, far away from here.