Page 57 of Burnin' For You

He butterflied his eyes open and found her peering down at him.

“First aid kit. Good thinking,” he said, his eyes longing to close again. Except her face crumpled, and she looked away, shaking her head.

“Sorry. I won’t cry. I just… won’t.” She closed her eyes, made a noise, as if holding back a wail, then took a deep breath.

“Okay. You’re going to be okay.” She leaned over him, and he was vaguely aware now that his head had landed in her lap, cradled there. She pulled the cotton away and examined his wound.

“It’s deep and long—the bullet grazed your head. Your ear is cut, and I can see your scalp.”

“In other words, it’s just a flesh wound. I’ve had worse.”

She frowned at him, and he agreed it might be the wrong time to pull out his Monty Python quotes.

Instead, he groaned again as she replaced the cotton pad.

And the room started to darken around the edges.

That’s when he smelled it—something rancid, like a skunk had broken loose in the cabin, sprayed the air.

“What’s that smell?”

Gilly seemed bewildered, but looked around, catching on fast. “The bullet hit the wall, destroyed a lamp—”

“It’s propane. It’s flooding the room with gas—and with the lamps lit, the room could ignite. We have to stop the leak.”

“I’ll do it.” But as she got up, he saw her stiffen, her breath catching.

And only then did he see the flicker of flame in the window.

“It’s too late. The front porch is on fire,” she said in a voice he didn’t quite recognize.

That’s where Brownie went. Setting them up, locking them in, and burning them alive. Like his grandson.

“Brownie is our arsonist.”

“And Patrick rigged the plane,” Gilly said, crouching beside him. “He might have even been the one who crashed and stole the drones—he would have certainly known how to refit them for his use. But it doesn’t matter because right now, we have to get out of here.”

He agreed. Only problem was, his legs didn’t want to move. His entire body turned to slush as the room tilted, spun, and made him want to hug the floor.

She tried the door. “It’s locked.”

“Try the back bedroom, see if there’s an escape.”

He lay there like a drunk as she left him. She returned in moments, dropping to her knees, shaking her head.

“No good. The front door is the only one.” She got up then and started for the window, working the latch to open it. “If we can open the window, the gas might evaporate—”

Glass shattered as a shot decimated the window. Gilly screamed, jerked back, grabbed her hand. Blood dripped from it.

“He shot me!”

Reuben pushed himself up, felt like he might vomit on the spot, but grabbed her, pulled her down.

Another shot chipped at the wall in the kitchen.

“They’re not going to let us leave!” Gilly said.

He said nothing, just took her hand, found the glass embedded there. “You’re not shot—just cut.” He eased out the glass then reached for the roll of cotton gauze in the pack. But his hands shook, so she took it and wrapped it around her hand.

---