Echoes of Danger. Lenora Worth
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another more ominous noise. Silence.
Seconds passed, as she listened to the quiet that was even more deadly than the storm’s rumbling rage. Dana didn’t like silence.
“Stephen?” she called, trying to pry herself out of the stranger’s iron grip. “Stephen, where are you?”
She looked up at the brooding, foaming dark sky. This storm wasn’t finished yet. “Stephen?” she called again, trying to raise herself up. A bump on the side of her head throbbed in protest, but she tried again until she realized that the grip on her arms was caused by a set of strong hands holding her down. A man’s hands.
She was flat on the ground, with a big man holding her there. Then Dana remembered how the man had thrown himself on top of her to shield her from the tornado.
“Stephen?” she asked again, hoping the man would tell her something about her brother.
The man lifted his head and looked straight into her eyes. The first thing Dana noticed was that his eyes were as blue-black and cloudy as the storm’s lingering coattails. The second thing she noticed was that he wore all black, from his button-down shirt to his Levi’s and boots. His long dark hair was pulled away from his face in a ponytail, but the wind coming through the open field where they lay was doing its best to unleash his thick mane.
“Who…who are you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Where’s my brother? Where’s Stephen?”
The big man looked down at Dana. “It’s all right, lass. You’re safe.”
He had a lilting accent that immediately flowed like a fine melody over Dana’s shot nerve endings. Scottish? Irish, maybe? What in the world was he doing holding her down in the middle of a field in Prairie Heart, Kansas?
“Who are you?” she asked again, thinking of looters and dangerous criminals and the fully loaded .38 she had in the glove compartment of her truck.
He shifted closer, giving her a black stare that left her both breathless and wondering. With one hand he touched the tender, bruised spot just over her right temple. “You’ve bumped your head. How does it feel?”
Dana swallowed back the knot of fear forming in her throat. “It’s aching, but I can handle it.” The knot came back, causing her next words to sound raw and husky. “My brother—he’s only twelve and, well, he’s a very special boy.” She inclined her head toward the farmhouse. “He’s all alone with my neighbor. She’s eighty and afraid of storms. I have to get to him.”
The stranger’s inky eyes softened as a look of concern tightened his face. “We’ll go find him.” At the apparent worry on her face, he added, “You have nothing to fear from me. I was pulled over on the road, watching the storm. I saw you wreck your truck. You were thrown out, and by the time I got to you the storm hit.”
So he’d thrown himself over her to protect her. She hadn’t been dreaming, after all. And he was still holding her, his big, powerful body still warming hers, from her hurting head down to her shaking toes. Needing to distance herself from the memory of her strange dream, she tried to wiggle away. “I’ve got to find my brother.”
The man rolled to sit up, then helped her to her feet, holding her against the remnants of the wind. “I’ll go with you.”
Shocked, Dana stepped back. “No, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine, really. I just need to find my brother.”
The man looked around at the flat countryside, then back to Dana. “We’re wasting time. I’ll not let you go up to the house alone. You might not like what you find.”
Never in her life had anyone said that to Dana. He didn’t want her to go there alone. He wanted to be there with her if she found the worst. Well, she’d been through the worst. And in spite of the whole town’s support and warm, loving concern, she’d always had to face the nightmares when she was alone at night in her bed…wishing…wishing.
She looked up at the intriguing man standing before her and told herself to run, run as fast as she could. He could be a serial killer; he could be a bank robber on the run; he could be a million horrible things. But she knew instinctively that he wasn’t. She didn’t know how she knew. She just knew.
Dana said a silent prayer. Lord, I haven’t talked to You for a very long time, and You know the reasons. But I’m asking You now to protect my brother. And while You’re at it, could You give me a hint as to why this handsome, mysterious stranger is reaching out to help me?
When she turned to see the house, or what was left of the house, she understood why this man had offered to stay with her. Her home, the only home she’d ever known, was in shambles. Half the roof was gone, exposing her own bedroom to the wind and the rain. Shingles lay across the expanse of the field, and twisted ribbons of tin hung from jagged, split tree limbs all around the house. She saw her pink nightgown flying in the wind, unfurling itself like a pretty spring flag from the tip of what was left of a giant cottonwood tree.
Swallowing, she turned back to the stranger, thankful for the hand he offered her. “I’d appreciate it if you would go with me to the house, mister.”
“Call me Bren,” he said as he gently guided her up the dirt lane toward the broken house. Giving her an encouraging smile, he said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, unsettled by someone else taking charge for a change. Then, “I could have faced it by myself, you know.”
“I do know,” he said, his smile making his harsh features turn handsome. “It’s no bother.” Looking toward the sky, he added, “Looks like more’s coming.”
Dana nodded, casting him a quick look. “Yep, these storms like to play tag with us sometimes.”
“My first tornado,” he admitted, his blue-black eyes scanning the horizon. “But at least I got to spend it with a beautiful woman.”
Dana looked down at her muddy boots, embarrassed by the flirtatious compliment. “Thanks for what you did.”
He gave her another direct, black stare. “You’re quite welcome.”
The small talk was almost surreal, set against the ghastly scene before them, but the meaningless chatter kept Dana on an even keel. She couldn’t take the silence.
When she did grow quiet, the man spoke softly to her. “Your brother…I wager he’s going to be just fine.”
As they approached the house, she said a little half prayer, half plea. “Oh, Lord, make it so.”
Bren, still holding her hand, helped her around to the back of the house, guiding her through the rubble that minutes before had been her home. A few feet from the white, wooden-framed house, a framed picture of her parents lay shattered and torn in the mud. Dana reached down to pick it up, a small sob catching in her throat.
The man named Bren gently took the damaged picture from her hand. “Careful, you’ll cut yourself on the glass.”
Dana wanted to laugh. If only he knew. Her cuts went much deeper than any made by a shard of glass. Nodding, she stepped over the pile of kindling that had been their breakfast table, then made her way to the closed cellar door.
“Stephen?” she shouted, afraid of what she’d hear in answer. Afraid of the silence. “Stephen Joshua Barlow, are you in there?”
Pulling away torn shingles and little bits of splintered wood, she banged on the weathered trapdoor. “Stephen Joshua Barlow, are you in there?
“Stephen, you answer me,” she called again, her voice cracking in spite of the tight rein she was trying to hold on her fear, on her pain, on her rage. Finally, falling down on her knees, she whispered, “Stephen, please, please.”
In the next instance, the door banged back on its hinges and Stephen pushed his bushy golden head up into the wind. Grinning, he didn’t even look at her as he said, “Hey, sis, where’s my Ruby Runners?”
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