Cider Brook. Carla Neggers

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СКАЧАТЬ and downright unnerving, but Samantha rode it out inside the dusty, empty cider mill. With the rain stopped and the thunder clearly off to the east, she had her grandfather’s flask out of her jacket pocket and was debating whether to imbibe now or wait until after dark.

      Then she smelled smoke.

      Smoke? She groaned in disbelief. Wouldn’t that just top off her day?

      She tucked the flask back in her pocket and breathed in deeply, hoping the smell of smoke had been a trick of her imagination. The mill consisted of a single room with rough-wood walls, wide-board flooring and a pitched ceiling with open rafters. It would go up in flames in no time if it caught fire.

      The smell didn’t dissipate, and it wasn’t her imagination. It was definitely smoke.

      Could the wind have carried smoke from a chimney in a nearby farmhouse?

      What nearby farmhouse?

      She could taste smoke now, feel it burn in her eyes.

      She reached into the open compartment of the backpack at her feet, grabbed her four-by-nine-inch documents pouch and slipped it into an outer jacket pocket, opposite the one with the flask.

      A strange hissing noise seemed to come from beneath the floor by a half-dozen old wooden cider barrels pushed up against the wall. In another moment, smoke, visible now, curled through cracks in the floorboards and floated up to the rafters as if it were a living thing. Samantha stared at it, transfixed. She couldn’t delude herself. She was in a fire.

      She didn’t have a minute to waste. She clicked into action.

      She knew she had to leave everything—tent, sleeping bag, food, water, toiletries, bug spray, first-aid kit, flannel pajamas and her merino wool wrap, a gift from her mother. So much for watching the stars come out, envisioning life here in the early eighteenth century.

      More smoke poured through the floorboards.

      Samantha dropped low, remembering that was what someone was supposed to do in a fire, with rising smoke. She pulled her jacket collar over her mouth and nose and launched herself toward the door.

      She swore she could hear flames under her in the mill’s cellar.

      Her eyes were blurry and watery with smoke, but she could see an orange, fiery glow by the north wall. She felt the heat of the fire now. Sudden, intense.

      How long did she have before the old, dry wood exploded into flames?

      Stifling a surge of panic, she crouched even lower, coughing as smoke filled the enclosed space. She kept moving. She had to get out of here before she collapsed due to smoke inhalation.

      Flames burst through the floorboards by the barrels and crawled up the wall, bright and terrifying in the gray light. Fire and smoke seemed to join, forming a monster ready to consume everything in its path.

      She got onto her knees, gasping for air. Her hand fell from her jacket, exposing her to more smoke. She covered her mouth and nose with the crook of her arm and decided she would crawl on her belly if she had to...but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. There was no pirate rogue to save her. She had to save herself. She had to stay conscious, get moving, steer clear of the flames.

      The front door banged open, startling her.

      “Is anyone in here?”

      A man’s voice. Soothing, firm, maybe a little annoyed. Or was it her imagination, or a passage from the pages she’d discovered in her grandfather’s office?

      Samantha tried to stagger to her feet. “Captain Farraday?”

      “Easy. Are you hurt?”

      She shook her head and blinked, but she couldn’t focus—couldn’t see the man through the smoke and her own burning tears.

      Strong arms reached around her. “Stay low,” her rescuer said. “We need to move fast.”

      He had her up off her feet before she realized he had lifted her. In a few long strides, he had her out the door and down the stone-slab step, then flung onto the bank of the small millpond. She landed in cold, wet grass, rolled onto her stomach, coughing, spitting, sucking in the clear air.

      “Do you have medical issues?”

      The man again. Samantha sat up, her eyes and throat burning, aching. She tasted smoke and grime and felt her heart thumping in her chest. She blinked rapidly, peering up at the man standing between her and the mill. He was tall, looming over her. She made out dark short-cropped hair, deep blue eyes, a firm mouth, a square jaw, broad shoulders. He wore a black canvas shirt over a black T-shirt, jeans, scuffed leather boots.

      Hauling her out of the mill had obviously not taxed him to any degree, but he didn’t seem happy about it. She had no idea who he was. A hiker? A local man? Did he own the cider mill? She hadn’t considered she might have to contend with an owner, or that it might be a tough, humorless man not much older than she was.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “What did you ask me?”

      He sucked in a quick breath. “Do you have asthma, allergies, a heart condition, anything—”

      “No. Nothing. No medical issues.” Her voice was raspy, tense. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

      He showed no sign of lowering his guard. “Fire department’s on the way. I have to get to work. You sit tight.”

      “What can I do to help?”

      “Stay out of the way.”

      He hadn’t hesitated even half a beat before firing off his answer. He didn’t wait for a response and set off toward the mill. Thick smoke billowed from the open door into the cool, clear air. Flames glowed orange behind the dirty plastic and cracked glass in the windows.

      Samantha watched as her rescuer stopped at a dusty-gray pickup truck, parked with its hood facing out the pitted dirt driveway. In seconds, he had donned fire gear—hat, mask, jacket.

      A firefighter?

      He grabbed an ax and headed for the mill.

      The fire seemed to have sucked the door shut. He kicked it open and went inside.

      Whoever he was, her rescuer was strong and utterly fearless.

      She shivered in the cooler air. She hadn’t called him Captain Farraday, had she? Not out loud. It just wasn’t possible.

      She heard sirens and realized a road was closer than she’d thought. In another thirty seconds, fire trucks and a lone police car descended. Samantha moved to a small boulder by the brook. With the downpour from the storm, the water was high, rushing over rocks, moss and mud.

      As she watched firefighters set to work, she could feel the padlock in her jacket pocket.

      If no one asked about it, she saw no reason to mention it.

      Three

      Her rescuer’s name was Justin Sloan.

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