Page 52 of Burnin' For You
If CJ and Jed died, she’d know exactly whom to blame.
Then Reuben flashed another look at her, a half smile that fell into concern again when she couldn’t return it. Then, suddenly, he draped his hand over the seat, touching her good knee, as if hoping to reassure her.
Oddly, the gesture soothed the roil in her stomach, settled it. She reached out for his big hand and slid hers into it. Squeezed, just for a second. His hand enveloped hers, warm, scarred, a little roughened, but strong.
Yes, she was with Reuben. She’d be fine—they’d all be fine.
Hadn’t he caught her from crashing into the river?
She let his hand go as a new heat started in her stomach, worked its way out to her body, into her heart.You about knocked me over in that dress.
That silly, too-girly dress that had her feeling half naked all over again.
They hadn’t driven very far when they pulled off the main road, turning east, cutting through a hunting path in the woods, the wagon slowing to bump over roots and under low-hanging branches. Brownie had flicked on his lights, and they cast a pale swath through the lurking purple and green shadows of the woolly forest.
“If we can raise our team on the radio, we can get a chopper to our location.”
“I can drive you folks back to town, if that helps,” Brownie said. “Or Patrick can. He should be back from fishing by now.”
Her ears perked up. “Patrick is here?”
“Our annual trip at the end of every summer for Tom’s birthday.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “It’s a hard day, and Patrick needed some time alone, so…”
Gilly looked out the window, rubbing her arms against the strangest rush of chill.
They emerged to the dark cabin, nestled in a small clearing. She guessed it couldn’t be more than two rooms, tiny as it was. It sat under a ruff of towering cottonwood, tucked into the embrace of a stand of white pine. A small porch led up to the front door.
Brownie parked. “Looks like Patrick isn’t back yet. Go on in. I’ll turn on the gas to the cabin, and we’ll stir together some grub while we wait for him.”
“We just need to use the radio,” Reuben said, getting out and grabbing his pack. Gilly followed him, climbing up the steps into the tiny cabin.
Brownie disappeared for a bit, then came around the side of the cabin, where he’d probably turned on the gas, and unlocked the door, flicking on a flashlight to illuminate the interior. The light skidded across a linoleum table and metal chairs circa 1950 in a tiny kitchen area with dishes drying in a rack over the sink. A separate propane tank powered the stove and refrigerator from the same era.
“I think there are some eggs in the refrigerator, Gilly,” Brownie said. “Reuben, I’ll power up the ham.”
She glanced at Reuben, who was suppressing a smile at Brownie’s immediate assignment of her to the kitchen.
Brownie lit a lamp on the table, the wick saturated in oil, and a warm glow puddled around the cabin. It illuminated the small room, a doorway to what Gilly guessed was a bedroom. A ratty tweed sofa lined one wall, anchored by an old desk. A chipped coffee table that showed boot scuff marks sat in front of the sofa.
On the desk sat a small square silver box, a large dial in the middle surrounded by smaller dials. A speaker sat beside the radio, an old silver microphone connected with a wire to the assembly.
“My parents had one of these on the ranch,” Reuben said, picking up the microphone. “An old HR0-500 ham.”
Brownie lit the gas lamp over the desk. “We use it for making calls back to the ranch in Ember. Patrick must have taken the mobile device.”
Reuben pulled out a chair. “Hopefully I can pick up someone—I remember Conner’s frequency, but he might not be listening.”
“Better to use the emergency frequency,” Brownie said.
Gilly went to the fridge, opened it. No light, but a cool breath cascaded over her, and her stomach immediately emitted a growl.
Inside, a carton of eggs, a piece of salami, and a shelf of beer suggested a fishing weekend rife with hope. She pulled out the eggs. Set the gear pack on the counter while she found the cast-iron pan.
A layer of bacon grease coated the bottom.
Maybe she wasn’t so hungry.
She glanced at Reuben, watched as he worked the radio.