Not in Her Wildest Dreams(46)

Pausing in collecting her bathroom items, she dropped her toothbrush  back into the cup. Should she have a check couriered to Evelyn? No, in  this town, that would force Evelyn to make explanations. Not that Paige  cared, but she wasn't going to alienate the woman if there was a chance  that handling this discreetly could net her family the proceeds from her  father's share in the factory after all. She'd have to deliver the  check herself, discuss it with Evelyn. Make sure they understood each  other.

Which meant staying another night.

Paige sat down on the edge of the bathtub. That wasn't as troubling a  thought as it usually was. She wasn't up to a long drive. Besides, if  she left now, she'd have to take her father's car because hers was still  on blocks in the garage. If she stayed one more night, she could call a  mechanic to put her car back together tomorrow and drive it home in the  afternoon.

She blew her nose. Of course there was the problem that her savings  weren't going to cover paying back Evelyn so how would she raise the  money?





Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Sterling!"

He woke to the sound of her screaming his name.

Nice dream, Roy. Probably a cat-fight.

He lay quietly a moment, wondering if sleep would come again or if he  would be tossing and turning now, throbbing with the knowledge of her  absence.

Paige. God, he missed her. He could admit that to himself now that it  was too late, when she didn't want a damned thing to do with him.

Maybe he could track her down in Seattle in the morning, talk to her. Maybe he'd get up and do it now, since it was morning.

He blinked, aware he'd slept longer than he'd realized. It was growing  light out. The sun was bouncing sunrise colors off the neighbor's  window, onto his ceiling.

Yet the sun had never come in through the window like that before and the clock was reading 2 a.m.

Fire.

Fuck.

He leapt out of bed, dragged on his jeans, and ran down the hall.

The plastic covering his kitchen window was a blur of orange. He picked  up the landline, dialed 911, and left it dangling as he ran out of his  house toward Grady's engulfed one.

"Paige!" He bellowed. Her name clawed his throat. She was in there. He had heard her scream.

The house was pouring dirty smoke into the sky, the fire roaring and so  hot his face felt like it blistered as he ran between Lyle's cars-cars  that could explode.

"Paige!"

He crossed between a pick-up and a sedan, tripped over something into  the darkness between the two, landing on his elbows in the long wet  grass, his legs tangled in ones that kicked back.

"I'm right here," she said, coughing. The fire's glow glinted off the lenses of her glasses.

He scrambled to grab her up to his chest, crushed her, felt tears of  relief sting his eyes, his lips, as he buried his face in her hair.

"I thought you were in there." He pushed her away. "Lyle-?"

"Only me. I-" She coughed again. "-jumped off the deck."

"Can you walk? Help me wake the neighbors."

~ * ~

By the time morning light was up, the fire was doused.

The house was a total loss. The blackened remains sent a cloud of yellowed steam into an otherwise perfect sky.

Paige stood at the fence-line between his place and hers, her T-shirt  and jeans filthy, her eyes bruised behind her glasses, her shoulders  slumped with exhaustion.

Sterling had had firefighting training on an oilrig once. He hadn't  suited up, but he'd stood shoulder to shoulder with the firemen dragging  hose. Paige had been a trooper, too. She had helped push cars as far  into his yard as they could, tearing out the last of the fence as they  went. She had calmed a hysterical neighbor whose house was not being  destroyed. She had hosed down his grandmother's house as her own had  been incinerated.

And she was limping. One of the firemen had wrapped the ankle she'd hurt  jumping from the deck. He'd said it looked like a minor sprain, but she  wasn't putting any weight on it. Sterling was going to take her for an  x-ray as soon as they caught their breath.

It was hard to look at her so he went to her, would have drawn her into  his arms, but her glazed, tragic eyes stopped him. "I used your phone to  make some calls. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not."         

     



 

"The fire chief is talking arson."

Arson? He took a moment to absorb that, but of course it was arson. How else could a house be leveled in three and a half hours?

"Who?" His lips felt numb and dry. He licked them, tried again. "Who  would do that?" With Paige inside. His blood stopped in his veins.  "Where's Lyle?"

She flinched, hugged herself into a tight column. "He's the first person  I tried to call, but the clinic wouldn't confirm if he was registered."

"What clinic?"

"Zack said he was going into rehab."

"Paige!" The male shout, so jagged, lifted the hairs on the back of Sterling's neck.

"I'm here," she called, stepping around Sterling, meeting Lyle as he raced across the backyards to reach her.

Lyle pulled her into a crushing hug. The terror, relief, and open grief  reflected in his expression made Sterling feel ashamed for what he had  begun to think.

Tilting back his head, Sterling tried to cleanse his lungs with the  smell of the damp cedar boughs above him, tried not to feel petty  jealousy toward a man who thought his sister might have been killed and  needed to hold her as badly as he, Sterling, did.

After a moment, Lyle swore, wiped his face with his forearm and let  Paige go, but he kept his hand on her shoulder. For a second he glanced  at Sterling, then angled his body away, hiding tears.

"Were you at the clinic?" she asked.

"Fucking bastards weren't going to tell me. Said the stress was liable  to set back my recovery. Like coming home after two weeks to a fucking  barbeque wouldn't be a reason to drink yourself blind. How did it  happen?" Lyle's voice was clipped with anger, sober anger, as he stared  at the damage.

"They're talking arson." Paige curved her arm around him.

Lyle sent a questioning look back to Sterling as his arm settled more protectively around Paige.

"I don't know any more than that," Sterling said. He wasn't disappointed  that Lyle hadn't started the fire. He never could have protected Paige  from someone she loved. She was absolutely blind where her family was  concerned, but he had wanted this to be easy. Now he'd have to start  thinking about someone else hating Paige enough-

Someone Else. Shit.

"I have to run out for a few minutes. Take her into my place and make  her some coffee or breakfast or something," Sterling said to Lyle. "I'll  be back to take you for an x-ray," he promised her.

They both hesitated, looking at each other as the reality of their loss  sank in. They had nowhere to make their own coffee or breakfast or  anything.

Paige's lip trembled. She looked so small. She had to be cold without a  jacket, had to be as exhausted as Sterling felt. She had every reason to  climb into Lyle's truck and disappear to Seattle or wherever the hell  she wanted to go.

Sterling was petrified she would.

"The police'll want to talk to you, Paige. You might as well get some  sleep, too. We've been up half the night," he added to Lyle, hoping the  man would see sense and put her to bed.

Lyle glanced once more at the devastation, visibly shaken, then looked  down his nose at his sister. "That how the fire started, Pigeon? You two  were burning up the sheets?"

"God, you're an asshole." Her indignant laugh turned into a cough, then  tears. Lyle hugged her to his chest as she buried her face. Her  shoulders began to shake.

Sterling wanted to take her in his own arms then, but Lyle jerked his  head. Go on. Lyle's eyes were wet. His face was tight and Sterling  realized Lyle needed to release some emotion too.

So he left. To question his mother.

~ * ~

Sterling glimpsed her through the window in the back door and entered without knocking.

She wore yesterday's clothes with an apron, no make-up, and her hair  wasn't brushed. She was setting strips of bacon to fry in the non-stick  pan.

Distantly he was aware of disappointment, realizing only then how badly  he had wanted her not to be here. He wanted her to have chased his  father out to the lake house, proving she was marginally sane.

He let the door slam behind him.

"Sterling! You'll wake the entire neighborhood. Why are you so filthy? Not another fight?"

"No, Mom. And the police sirens are going to wake the neighbors. You set a fucking fire?"

She was already at the cupboard, reaching for a coffee mug. She halted, turned a frown his way. "Mind your language."

"You set a fucking fire," he repeated, softer now. "You could have killed her, Mom. Me! What if I'd been sleeping with her?"

His father appeared in the doorway, tucking and buttoning, his hair wet  and combed to the side, as if he were going into work, even though it  was Sunday. His frown of confusion matched his wife's. "What's this  about a fire?"