Secrets Rising. Suzanne Mcminn
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who knew how much weight there was in wreckage blocking them from climbing back up into the kitchen. “We’re trapped,” she whispered in horror.
“We’ll be all right. We’ll get out of here.”
He sounded so sure of himself, she almost believed him for a minute.
She swallowed hard. “How?”
“Rescue workers will be coming—”
“Do you know how long it will take them to get here, this far out of town?” If they even could. They’d have to wait to even try if the low water bridge was flooded. What was happening in the town? What about her store? What about her house? It was gone, clearly gone. And yet she still found that impossible to grasp. She loved her house in all its faded glory, from its American gothic farmhouse architecture to its walls teeming with family history. “Gemini” tea roses were her grandmother’s favorite, that’s why she was planting more of that specific variety. She was supposed to be planting roses right now. A normal day, planting roses, waiting for her truck to be done at the shop. She’d have fixed herself a sandwich for dinner, maybe a bowl of soup, and watched the news, followed by the latest season of her favorite amateur singing competition, and the new medical drama. She’d have gone to bed in her antique spool feather bed covered by a hand-sewn block quilt and read a magazine till she went to sleep.
Her life was boring, maybe, but she liked it. It was quiet and sensible.
Nothing made sense right now, especially how much she didn’t want this stranger to let go of her. She clutched blindly at his shirt as she felt him turn.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you cut yourself on anything?”
She felt his hands moving down her shoulders, her arms, as if checking. “No. I mean, yes. I’m all right. What happened? What could do this to my house?” She could barely stretch her mind around the horrifying reality of it. “Oh, God. That was—”
“An earthquake.”
We don’t have earthquakes in West Virginia. She hadn’t realized she’d said that out loud till he answered her.
“Not very often. But if we weren’t just at the epicenter of that one, I don’t know what it was.”
Her mind stumbled from the realization. That first time she’d felt the house shake and the cookie jar had fallen off the shelf had just been a precursor of what was coming.
There had been no tree hitting the roof at all.
“My house—”
One hundred years old, and it was in pieces over her head. Everything that had been in her family for generations—Her parents, Howard and Roxie Bennett, preferred their spacious home with all the modern conveniences and close to town. Her older sister and two brothers already had their own homes, too, by the time Granny Opal had died. Keely and Ray had needed a place, and so the farmhouse had gone to Keely, who had gladly accepted it. But now…What was she going to do without a house?
Another thought struck her. “What was that red light? Did you see it? Oh, my God. Was that fire?” No, it couldn’t have been fire. They’d know if the house was on fire above them. So what—
“I don’t know. Probably electricity snapping, who knows. Forget your house.” A beat stretched, taut. “I’m sorry,” he added, gentler. The unexpected kindness in his touch and voice sent her into a panic. She’d been hesitant to so much as ask him for a favor not too many minutes ago. Now she wanted to climb up his powerful, hard body and beg him not to leave her for a second in this pitch-black nightmare. He was the only other human being in her world, her touchstone to reality.
“You’re okay, and that’s all that matters,” he continued. “Come on. You can worry about your house later.”
As if he sensed she was an inch away from royally flipping out, he stroked his hands up and down her arms again. His touch was warm and strong and she didn’t want him to stop. Probably, he didn’t want to deal with a hysterical woman. He hadn’t seemed this kind and patient earlier.
She was on fear overload, and she hated that. She was used to taking care of herself by now. She didn’t need anyone, especially not a man. Get it together.
“I’m okay,” she repeated back to him. The aching of her bones hit her, surfacing through the adrenaline. She was lucky she hadn’t broken anything in the fall, even as short as it had been. Lucky he hadn’t broken anything, either.
“You’re okay, too, right?” she asked, to be sure.
“I’m fine. Tell me what’s in here. Do you keep a flashlight somewhere?” He sounded steady, composed, organized.
“No such luck. But matches—maybe.” She worked to catalog the cellar in her mind, recall what was where. She had to be strong now. Not fall apart.
One wall of the cellar had been lined with glass canning jars. Some empty now, others still packed with the fruits of last summer’s gardening. Some old wooden stools. Boxes and antique trunks filled with forgotten items that had worked their way out of the farmhouse at one time or another. Tools that hadn’t been used in ages. A couple of old tables. Basically, junk. The cellar was full of junk. The wall on the other side was storage. There were some candles somewhere, stashed on one of those over-packed shelves….
Vanilla-scented. They’d been a gift from a Christmas exchange party at church last year. She hated vanilla candles and she’d stuck them in the cellar, not able to bring herself to just throw them out. If they were still here…
She’d absolutely love, adore and worship the scent of vanilla right now.
Hadn’t she left an old box of matches here somewhere? And a can of gasoline. She’d used the matches and gas to burn the brush pile last summer.
“This way.” She moved along the wall to the right of the door. Away from the center of the cellar, there was less debris from above, but there was shattered glass everywhere. She walked carefully, but stumbled anyway when something creaked overhead.
Jake caught her as she made a strangled cry and she found herself dragged up against that hard, powerful body of his.
“Whoa.” He held her for a long beat.
She couldn’t see him, not even his eyes and they had to be only inches away. He smelled good. She hadn’t noticed before, but she did now. He smelled really good. Woodsy and male. She was ready to cling on to him like he was some kind of life preserver. He definitely exuded some kind of raw masculine energy that was messing with her mind, which was hardly stable as it was. Her head was all over the place, reeling.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“I’m trying.” She’d better try harder.
The air in the cellar was suddenly thick with an odd tension. They were practically buried alive down here. He could be the last human being on earth she’d ever know. She was scared, terrified really, of dying before they were rescued. She’d lost her house, maybe her business for all she knew. But in the face of losing her life, suddenly it didn’t amount to much.
Her family and friends—She had no idea what had happened to them. All she could do was desperately hope and pray. Images of her parents, her friends, flashed like photos in a slideshow in her mind.
A sob choked her throat and she swallowed it down. She couldn’t do anything for anyone now but herself and this stranger beside her. She didn’t realize she was crying till she felt something wet and cold trickle down her cheek.
“Hey. Come on. Let’s find those matches.”
She nodded, then tried to find her voice.
“Okay.” She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to stop the tears.
A hand touched her face. Jake Malloy’s hand.
“Aww, now,” he said, softer now, brushing at the tear.
Instinctively,