Lost and Found Family (22 page)

EPILOGUE

A
FEW
NIGHTS
after the foundation launch, Emma sat in the passenger
seat of Christian's truck. She wasn't sure she could get out. He'd parked
outside the building where the grief support group met, and Emma had already
seen Jody go inside. At least there would be one friendly face here
tonight...

“I don't know if I can do this.”

“Sure you can,” he said.

And she would. All the nights spent waiting for her mother to
come home, shivering in that cold apartment, wondering if she'd show up with yet
another strange new “uncle” in tow, feeling isolated within herself...all of
that was gone now.

She slipped down from her seat and, clutching Christian's hand,
walked into the building, where Jody spotted her immediately.

“Emma, welcome back.”

The woman who conducted the meetings was already standing in
front and sent Emma a wide smile. “Please. Join us again.”

A few people spoke before Emma. Then, finally, it was her turn.
On her way to the podium with Christian beside her, she almost turned back. But
Christian would stand like a bulwark against anyone who might try to hurt
her—like Thad. In the middle of the room, the gray-haired man gave her a
thumbs-up.

She cradled her still-flat stomach with one hand. Yesterday
Emma and Christian had moved back home. The new kitchen was finished, and Bob's
anxiety after spending so many nights in the kennel had finally disappeared.
They'd left her sleeping on the sofa on Owen's blanket.

On the way to the meeting they'd stopped at Max's shop, where
Emma had seen the carousel pony for the first time. Finished by Christian's own
hand, which made it even more special. Emma had cried but not in sorrow. The
pony was absolutely gorgeous.

“I've decided,” she'd told Christian. “I want the pony for the
playroom. It will be perfect for our new baby.”

Emma was eager to finish the room before she gave birth. New
life, she thought, and the chance to experience wonder in the world through a
child's eyes. There would be no more silence in the house.

Christian squeezed her hand before she leaned closer to the
microphone.

“Hi, everyone. If you don't remember me, I'm Emma. I'm
thirty-five years old and married—to this wonderful man.” She and Christian
exchanged glances before he nodded at her to go on. “A year ago today, we lost
our three-year-old son. His name was Owen. He had blond hair, though it probably
would have darkened over time. He had his father's eyes.” Her voice thickened.
“He loved horses and...gummy bears. He loved us and we loved him. So very
much.”

The words no longer made her heart ache. She and Christian had
talked lately far into the nights, and Emma no longer felt as sad. She could
indeed do this. She had to. “Let me tell you what happened...”

As Emma spoke her voice gained strength, and she felt the rest
of the past fall away. Her guilt would always be there, but not all-consuming,
overwhelming her, like before. They would keep the pony, as Christian would keep
the General, and she told his story now, too.

“In closing,” she said, watching the rapt faces, and seeing a
few tears, “I'm reminded of a saying the woodcarvers have. In winter, the
carousel ponies go to sleep, all winter long. But they always come back to life
in the spring. Like hope,” she murmured.

Spring would come in a few more months. Winter never lasted
long in Tennessee. By March the flowers she and Owen had planted would bloom
again. Like the love she shared with Christian.

To a round of applause, she stepped down from the podium with
him at her side and, together, they went on.

* * *

L
ATER
THAT
SAME
NIGHT
,
Emma
and Christian walked down the path away from the Coolidge Park pavilion. In the
night sky stars winked on and off to light their way.

“I'm going back to work,” Christian announced, lightly swinging
Emma's hand between them. “I can't leave Dad in the lurch like that. He's
counting on me—and he'll need my help as he gets older.” He added, “And with the
baby coming, we'll need the money.”

Emma leaned against his shoulder. “I can't say I'm sorry you
won't be driving a truck any longer, but are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” He smiled. “Chet Berglund can have my job as VP
of Sales. I've decided to join the marketing team. That's a better challenge for
me, more creative. I'll have to work my way up there but I have some ideas...and
there's something else, Em,” he went on. “I'm having a great time learning from
Max. So I've been looking into creative arts programs—like the one I bailed out
of years ago—and a couple of them really appeal. One's right here in town at
UTC. I can go part-time, even online, I think.” He took a breath. “I'm going to
apply.”

Emma snuggled against him. “But will you have enough time with
the foundation? It promises to be very busy.”

“As long as you'll help,” he said.

“I'll find the time.” Emma had already had calls from
prospective clients all over town, in part thanks to Melanie. No More Clutter
promised to be better than ever, but Emma wouldn't have to work at home or keep
looking for new space.

“I still can't believe your mother offered me that loan so I
could re-sign my lease downtown.”

“She knows you'll pay her back.”

“I will. With interest.” Emma smiled up at him. “You know what
else she said? That I'm an independent woman—she respects that—and she envies
what it took for me to start my business.”

“We'll give Mom more responsibility at the foundation. You know
how she is with her charities. She's an executive in her own right.”

“We'll work together,” Emma said. “You and me, Frankie and
Lanier, Rafe and Grace.”

“Speaking of Grace, she's eager to head up that riding program
at the barn, which gives her more time to spend with Rafe, too. When I can't
find time to exercise the General, she'll step in.”

“I've thought a lot about this, and I think Rafe was right,”
she said. “The General didn't mean to hurt Owen. Maybe I should take a few
lessons, too. They'd certainly be therapeutic.”

“Great.” He hugged her. “There's something else I want to do
right now that should get you in the spirit, and I think it's equally
important.”

She looked up. They were standing by the carousel, which was
closed for the day. Christian tugged at her hand. “Come on. Max got us special
permission,” he said, beginning to smile. “You'll have to imagine the music,
though.”

Emma didn't hesitate. She knew exactly which horse she wanted
to ride.

Christian boosted her up onto the hard wooden saddle, then
climbed onto a big dappled gray charger beside her. She picked up the leather
reins, which reminded her of being in the arena with the General, just as the
carousel started to spin, slowly, as if in a dream. But this was real. Emma was
here, not only with Christian but with Owen, riding his black-and-white
pony.

“He would have loved this,” she murmured.

“He does,” Christian said, holding Emma's gaze.

There was no calliope music playing tonight, but the stars
winked overhead, and with their hands entwined they rode round and round in the
darkness, joined by their best, and happiest, memories of their child.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
SWEET JUSTICE
by Cynthia Reese.

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Sweet Justice

by Cynthia Reese

CHAPTER ONE

B
LACKNESS
.

A solid wall of blackness.

Andrew Monroe crawled farther into the darkness, the grit of the floor biting into his knees, the heft of the fire hose under his right arm. His left hand secure on Eric Russell's turnout gear, the only way he even knew his fellow crewmember was ahead of him.

And the girl they were trying to find? Who knew where she was? Or was she even here?

Eric had called out to her, but the only noise that penetrated the darkness was the rasp of their own breathing.

Captain had said that her roommates weren't sure the girl, Katelyn, was still in the house—if you could call the tumbledown two-story much of a house. It seemed to go on forever, just room after room. It was like so many of the big old homes in this college town—taken over by students in search of cheap rent, and who cared if the place was nothing more than a firetrap?

The roommates, Cap said, weren't even sure this girl, Katelyn, had even come home the night before. No one had seen her since yesterday afternoon.

She was probably out for an early-morning run or getting coffee or had slept over at a friend's—at least, she was if she was lucky.

Whether she was in here or not, it was Eric and Andrew's job to clear the structure and make sure no one was still in the house. So they started at the bottom, intent on working toward the stairs.

Eric moved forward, and Andrew crawled behind. He heard Eric's muffled call for Katelyn again, then his waiting silence.

Only the sound of their air packs answered. Andrew's heart sank. This was a mess, and he could sense time was running out for her if she was in here. She was just a college kid.

Nobody needs to die that young.

Eric pulled up short, and Andrew almost crashed into him. He stayed still, listening. Yeah—there it was again, ahead and above them...on the stairs?

A girl screaming. Even through his mask and the rest of his gear, Andrew could hear the panic in her voice.

Why do they always go
up
?

Was she coming down the stairs? In this smoke? She'd be dead—better for her to stay where she was until they could get a ladder setup outside, pull her from one of the upstairs windows.

He felt more than heard her as she dashed back and forth across the landing above their heads.

Hasn't anyone taught you to get on your knees in a fire? Sheesh. You're like a jackrabbit up there. Slow down, otherwise you run out of air. Get to a window.

Had Eric heard? Andrew signaled to Eric, who was in charge of their two-man sweep team. They needed to radio the captain. As the guy in charge, that was Eric's call to make.

Once the girl was safe, Captain could assess whether it was worth the risk to save this heap of junk.

Eric and Andrew's history of teamwork paid off. Andrew sensed that his buddy had either heard the girl himself or realized that Andrew had.

Eric moved—for his radio? To tell Andrew to make the call?

Andrew didn't have the time to figure it out, because in the next breath, the floor next to Eric gave way. Hot air belched upward, along with a cloud of blackness tinged with an unearthly glow from the flames beneath them.

His buddy would have dropped into that glow if Andrew hadn't had a hold of him. Even so, Eric slipped, his hands scrabbling for purchase, his feet digging into part of the floor that still held. Andrew tightened his grip on him, praying that the floor wouldn't give way beneath them.

C'mon, c'mon, hold still!

For a heart-stopping moment, Andrew was sure they were going to tumble into the yawning pit of darkness below, the heat billowing up...

At least I'm not married. I won't leave a wife like Dad left Ma.

Something in Andrew fought back at that and doggedly held on. They were too young to die in a death trap like this, Andrew was twenty-five to Eric's twenty-eight. Fire couldn't have them today.

Not today. Maybe someday, but not on my watch.

The big firefighter swung sideways and Eric's head rammed into something thick and heavy. The sickening thud reverberated through Andrew's fingers and arm.

Andrew seized the safety strap on Eric's gear and began to drag him away slowly, every muscle protesting at Eric's weight plus the added burden of air packs and boots and turnout gear. The intense heat from the fire and the strain left Andrew gasping.

One more tug. One more pull. And another. And another. Andrew's arms felt as though they would be yanked out of their sockets if he didn't get Eric to a safer spot.

But at least he's breathing.

The blackness got even blacker and Andrew knew what that meant.

The fire's spread.

As Andrew reached for his radio, he felt a shudder in the floor beneath him. He had to get them out before the whole place went. He scooped Eric under the arms again and began dragging him backward, along the line, to the door.

Above him, a girl was screaming, “Don't leave me! Don't let me die!”

Or was it his imagination? Was the fire playing tricks on him?

The front door and help felt an ocean away...and the girl, Katelyn? She might as well be on the moon.

He stopped for a breath. How much air had he used from his tanks to pull Eric this far? How much air did he have left? Unclipping his radio, he managed to wheeze, “Mayday! Mayday!”

Instantly his captain responded, wanting a size-up. Andrew got it out, all of it, Eric, the girl, everything, then returned to the task of dragging Eric closer to the door, inch by inch. Drag. Stop and breathe. Drag. Stop and breathe. Drag—

Hands closed over him—the RIT team Captain had sent in. They scooped up Eric as though he weighed no more than a feather, hauled him away from Andrew.

Above him, another scream.

Or was it only in his head?

Another hand gripped him, pulling him. Andrew's muscles quivered with exhaustion, but even so a part of him wanted to go back for the girl.

He knew leaving her was the right thing to do. Other firefighters would put the ladder against the upstairs window, go in, find her.

He was done. For now he was done.

Outside, blinking under the glare through the gray October clouds, Andrew drew in deep gulps of cold air. Across the yard, EMTs swarmed over Eric. Head injury, laceration to his leg, maybe a punctured lung from a broken rib.

He didn't even get to say goodbye before they had Eric on the bus and down the street.

His captain strode up beside him, radio halfway to his mouth. “Monroe! Where was that girl? They can't find her. They've done a sweep, but no dice. I pulled them out—the smoke's so bad, and they used up their air in nothing flat. That whole place is about to go.”

“You've got to go after her!” Andrew insisted. “Sounded as if she was on the landing above us—as though maybe she was trying to come down.”

The captain swore. “The way that floor caved, you can bet the stairs aren't far behind.”

“I heard her,” Andrew repeated. “I'll go. Send me. I just need a new air pack. I know where she is—at least where she was when I was pulling Eric out.”

The captain's radio squawked, seizing his attention. He turned back, a look of indecision on his face for a moment, then he gave Andrew a quick nod.

Andrew didn't hesitate. He grabbed a new air pack and shot up the ladder, nozzle in hand, with another firefighter, Jackson, behind him.

This time, he didn't hear Katelyn. He climbed inside the window and pushed along the bedroom wall, pawing through what felt like a drycleaner's worth of clothes on the floor. Around a heavy dresser. Over a squeaky toy.

Out the door. Down another hall, this one bare floor, no carpet. Heat seemed to radiate upward through the cracks in the floorboards, and he pushed back thoughts of Eric almost tumbling down into the blackness.

The floor would hold.

They would find Katelyn.

“Fire!” Jackson hollered out. “Stairs!”

Andrew pointed the nozzle and blanketed the area with water.

The smoke, amazingly, seemed to clear, and that was when he saw her—just the shape of her, just a suggestion of a form on the floor. It was a miracle he'd seen her—a second earlier, and he, like the earlier crew, would have missed her entirely.

Andrew crawled forward. Laid his hand on her.

Small. Scarcely bigger than Taylor or Marissa—and his nieces were only twelve.

Still, her deadweight slowed him down as he tried to drag her one-handed back the way they'd come. He was too tired—too exhausted from pulling Eric. He needed to use both hands.

It was almost as if Jackson could read his mind. He clapped Andrew on the back and grabbed the nozzle. Now Andrew set to work, dragging her along the line, back toward the bedroom, over the squeaky toy, through the clothes that would go like fat-lighter kindling once the fire reached this far.

And it would. The glow was getting bigger, marching up the stairs, toward the bedroom door. Jackson was hurrying him now, but he didn't need to, because Andrew knew the score.

They had to get out, out before that fire ate through the staircase and took away the second floor's main load-bearing wall.

Now for the window—daylight, even if it was only a rectangle of gray the color of galvanized steel. The hand-off to Tommy, who was waiting on the ladder—

And that was when Andrew saw how bad Katelyn really was. The disintegrated yoga pants from mid-shin down, the misshapen and blackened bedroom slippers, with their hot pink fur matted and melted. The soot-covered face slack and unresponsive.

I should have called it in when I heard her on the stairs. She was okay then. She was fine. And now... Is she even alive?

Andrew watched as Tommy made his way down the ladder. He watched for any hint that Katelyn was more than a corpse.

Too late. I was too late.

He clambered out onto the ladder and headed down, his heart somewhere in his boots.

Too late.
The words echoed in his head with every step on every rung.

On the ground, more EMTs were waiting to take her from Tommy. Quick as a flash they had her on a backboard, a C-collar on—and Tommy was giving him a thumbs-up. His wide grin told Andrew there were some signs of life.

Elation flooded him, and he nearly collapsed on the ground by the ladder as relief pulsed through him.

She's alive!

A win. This was a win. The house could go—and it probably would in a matter of minutes, whether he gave it permission or not.

He looked back over his shoulder to see Jackson on the ground and flames punching through the upstairs windows.

Yeah. Fire could have the house. But it couldn't have Eric, and it couldn't have Katelyn—at least not today.

Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia R. Reese