Page 51 of Burnin' For You

“Get in. I have a radio at the cabin.”

Reuben started toward the door, but a tug on his hand stopped him. He shot a look at Gilly. She was frowning, her lips tight.

“What—”

“I don’t...maybe we should just hike to the tower.”

He touched her shoulders, leaned down to meet her eyes. “What’s the matter? We’re running out of time, Brownie has a radio, and your knee is about to give out.”

She swallowed, glanced at Brownie. Back to Reuben. “I…” Then she sighed. “You’re probably right. I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her. Still, their options were fading with the sunlight. “Gilly—everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

She offered a smile, but it felt fake, everything about it forced.

What—?

“Now or never, kids,” Brownie said. “But I’ll be glad to call it in for you if you decide to stay.”

“No, we’re coming,” Gilly said and let go of Reuben’s hand.

But as she got into the backseat and shut the door, he felt that same niggle in his gut, the one he’d had when he’d seen Jock run back into the flames. When he’d followed Pete to the black.

They should be running the other direction.

Run.

Gilly slid into the backseat, refusing to acknowledge the word booming in the back of her brain. But something about the car, everything from the color, an orange-red, to the interior—aged with layers of dirt, fishing tackle, and the scent of dead animal—all conspired to weave through her, constrict her heart, her throat.

She knew this car. Or at least something similar to it. The memory raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

“Are you okay?” This from Reuben, who’d climbed into the front seat then turned around to look at her.

She looked away. Nodded.

She didn’t know why she couldn’t look at him. Why a second ago she’d been holding his hand—yes, for nearly dear life. A reflex she couldn’t explain—and the next she felt like he’d sold her into slavery.

Her heart thundered in her throat, her palms dappled with sweat, she couldn’t breathe.

Yeah, she wasjustfine.

“Okay,” Reuben said, frowning. He turned back around to look at Brownie. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I’m going up to the cabin to do some fly fishing,” Brownie said as they headed north up the road.

Away from the lookout tower. But if Brownie had a radio, then they wouldn’t need the tower.

Gilly curled her arms around her waist, fought the tremor that snaked up her spine. Her knee ached—she desperately needed ice—and her head throbbed from the crash. She put her hand to her forehead. It was hot. Maybe she had a concussion—that could attribute for the pitching of her stomach.

But not the way the smells of the backseat racked up the shudder or the quiet, building urge to throw herself from the car.

Thiscouldn’tbe the same car.

She shook her head, tried to pay attention to what Reuben was saying, his explanation of the plane crash.

“So she put us down in this creek bed, but it was a harder landing than we’d expected, and a few of us are pretty hurt.”

She noticed how he avoided putting the blame on her, but, well—