The Stormriders Read online

  "So what was I supposed to do? Wait until one of us got hold of a deadly weapon? Damn it, Meg, it was impossible with you. You know that!''

  "It was impossible with you, but I didn't walk out!''

  "Just cut it out, okay? Just stop it. We both know it wasn't my leaving that bothered you—it was the fact that you couldn't stop me! That's the only thing that really got to you, isn't it? One husband more or less, what's the difference? But let somebody get out from under your thumb, do something you can't control, that's when you sit up and take notice!"

  She wanted to shout at him that it wasn't true, to deny it at the top of her lungs, to fling back accusations that were just as hurtful, just as sharp, but she couldn't. And he knew she couldn't.

  She clenched her fists, trying to bring her anger under control. "You enjoy this, don't you? I mean, I really think fighting is some kind of recreational sport with you."

  "As opposed to you, of course, who's been a perfect little martyr from the very beginning."

  "There you go again! Always jabbing at me, a push here, a shove there. You're just not satisfied until you draw blood! Why do you do that, Red? Why can't you just leave things alone?"

  "Can you?" He shot back. And then he drew a breath, and the struggle on his face was obvious as he bit back more hasty words. He lifted his hat long enough to run his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration, then he turned back to her.

  "Do you want to know why I do it?" he demanded. "I'll tell you, Meg. Because you're like this frozen tundra you hate so much. There's something good locked under all those layers of ice, something worth having maybe, but a man has to work like hell to get at it." He took a step toward her, his face taut with a dozen conflicting emotions. "There's a woman underneath the ice, but she's buried so deep sometimes I wonder if it's worth all the work."

  His voice gentled slightly and so did his eyes as he looked at her. "There are only two times I ever get to see that woman, Meg." He lifted his hand, pulling her ponytail over her shoulder, caressing it. "When we're making love and when we're fighting. And then I think, yeah, it's all worth it, just for that moment. ..." He let his hand drop, and weariness crept into his eyes. "But in the end, it's never enough. Because just when I think I've finally found you, just when I think there's a chance I could really hold you, I dig a little deeper, and there's nothing but another layer of ice."

  No, she wanted to cry. No, that's not true. You don't understand....

  She almost said it out loud, and there was a moment—one of those rare and desperate moments when they looked into each other's eyes and almost touched the truth, needing, wanting, hoping even now, when hope was gone—it might have made a difference. But she couldn't. Because that was the problem. He had never understood, and she had never been brave enough to open herself up to him so that he could understand. She had wanted so much from him, counted on so much from him, expected him to be perfect. . . and in the end he hadn't understood. He had let her down, just as she had let him down, and it was too late now.

  She pressed her lips together. He was so close. Strong arms, broad chest, warmth and quiet strength, and even then if he had reached for her, if he had drawn her close and held her, everything might have been different. Why was it that she still wanted to turn to Red for comfort even when it was he who hurt her?

  The wind howled around the building, a bleak, secretly terrifying sound. Meg hugged her elbows against a sudden chill, even though the temperature in the building remained as efficiently constant as she had designed it to be.

  She couldn't quite meet his eyes and her voice was a little thick as she said, "Listen, I'm sorry about... before." She made a weak, absent gesture, and she did not have to explain further. "I didn't do it to punish you."

  "Yeah." His voice was heavy and he sighed. "I guess I knew that."

  Then he cupped his hand around her neck in a brief, familiar gesture of affection and forced a lightness into his tone. "Well, at least this is a new one for us, slugger. We never fought about sex before."

  She managed a weak smile. "That's what I like about you, Red. Always an adventure."

  The pressure of his hand on her neck gentled fractionally, and so did the expression in his eyes as she looked up at him. There was longing there, and tenderness, memories that flitted like clouds across the sky on a blustery day. She felt every one of them.

  She wanted him to kiss her. One kiss, and nothing more. It would be enough to live on for a lifetime. But it had to come from him this time, and he would not make the move. She didn't blame him.

  After a moment he smiled in that wry, regretful way of his and said huskily, "Hell, baby, we never had a chance."

  His fingers caressed her neck one last time, like a goodbye, and he turned away.

  The wind was almost a metaphor for the awful, sweeping bleakness that went through Meg as it howled against the building again. Suddenly it gusted and slammed with the force of an explosion, filling the room with icy air, and Meg knew that was not her imagination.

  She looked quickly to Red, who turned in alarm toward the common room. And then a hoarse voice shouted, "Miz Worthington! Red! God, somebody come quick!"

  Six

  They both rushed for the door, but Red was closer and his legs were longer, and by the time Meg stumbled into the common room Red was already struggling to close the front door against the gale-force winds and the blur of snow that was pouring through. Lewis was slumped against the wall, frosted with snow even to his eyelashes, his teeth chattering between blue-tinged lips.

  "I was crossing the street," he choked out. "Saw it. Water tower... blew right down... the Blue Jay... people... tried to go back, help..."

  Red had already cranked open the shutter and was peering out into the snow. His exclamation was inarticulate with shock. "Looks like it went right through the roof," he said tightly, spinning around. "Injured?" he demanded of Lewis sharply.

  Lewis, shaking convulsively, could only nod.

  Almost before Red had finished speaking Meg was running for the control room, where she turned off the switch that supplied power to the Blue Jay. Despite the abundance of cheap electricity supplied to her by Carstone, Maudie insisted upon cooking with propane, but electrocution could be the least of their problems if one of the tanks ruptured. On her way back Meg flung open the door of the storeroom, dragging out flashlights, a coil of rope, the emergency first-aid kit. By the time she returned Red had donned his polar jacket, ski mask and gloves, and was stuffing blankets and another first-aid kit into his emptied duffel bag. Lewis pushed himself weakly away from the wall to help.

  "You stay here," Meg commanded sharply, tossing him a blanket from the pile Red had left in the middle of the floor. "Get out of your wet things and check for frostbite. Then get on the radio and see if you can get us some help.''

  She pulled on her coat and stocking cap, buttoning the hood up over her mouth, then hurried to help Red with the supplies.

  "I'll take the point, babe," he said as she helped him to slip the strap of the duffel bag over his head and across his shoulder, securing it against the wind. "You ready?"

  She nodded as she pulled on her gloves and handed him a flashlight. Without another word he opened the door and they plunged into the storm.

  Almost immediately Red, who was only a few steps in front of her, became little more than a shadow, lost in the blur of driven snow. Her feet felt the cold first, and graduated in a matter of seconds from icy pain to numbness. Then it was her lungs the first time she tried to take a breath through her nostrils. She buried her face deeper inside the fur-lined hood and breathed shallowly through her mouth. The wind was steady and painful, but it was the gusts—like the one that had overturned the water tower—that were dangerous. The first time Meg met one her feet went out from under her and she almost lost her grip on the lifeline. From that moment on she forgot about following Red's shadow and concentrated on holding on, pulling herself along. And she thought about the men and wome
n trapped in the accident. If any of them had been caught outside, there was no chance. They would succumb to exposure before she and Red could even reach them.

  She wanted to close her eyes against the sting of the wind but didn't dare for fear her eyelids would freeze shut. Nonetheless, her vision was so obstructed by the wind and the snow that she didn't even know Red had stopped until she bumped into him.

  He was struggling to shift a piece of metal that had blocked the door. Meg edged around him to lend her weight to the effort. For endless moments they battled the wind and the snow, lungs bursting, muscles burning, until finally were able to move the blockage enough to form a narrow opening. Red ducked through and forced open the door. Meg followed on his heels.

  The first thing she noticed was the overwhelming physical relief at the absence of the wind. And almost at the same instant was the shock of what she saw. The only light was dim and it came from the windows and from a gaping hole in the roof through which wind and snow poured, rapidly dropping the temperature inside to match that of outside. The room was foggy with smoke and she could see the lick of flames from a small fire in the kitchen area. Tables, chairs and stools had been overturned, girders hung drunkenly from the ceiling. Red's flashlight beam picked up shadows moving dazedly through the fog, but more forms were on the floor, trapped beneath tables and pieces of collapsed wall. When Meg's ears were able to filter out the roar of the wind she could hear the murmur of stunned voices and low moans of pain.

  And then it hit her. Dancer, Joe, Gilly, Maudie, Shark... They were all here, everyone she knew was here, and any one of them, or all of them, might be lying somewhere in the dark and smoke, bleeding to death or... And then she thought of Red. A few moments one way or the other and he would have been here— "Hey!" somebody shouted. It sounded like Gilly. "Give me a hand!"

  Red pulled off his ski mask and shrugged out of the duffel bag, and Meg, galvanized out of the paralysis of dread and horror that had seized her, reached for the bag. "I'll get the first-aid kit," she said. "Go on!"

  She dropped to her knees as Red's flashlight beam picked its way across the cluttered room, and she began to drag out the contents of the duffel bag. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough for all these people. Coats, she thought suddenly. None of them would have been wearing their coats and the temperature was already so low her breath frosted on the air.

  She got to her feet, turning toward the vestibule where the coats were stored, shouting, "Red! You okay?"

  "It's Joe!" he called back. "He's trapped under the bar. Hey! Anybody who's on his feet, we need some help over here!"

  And somebody else called, "Man, we've got a fire in the kitchen!"

  And somebody else, "Please help me! I can't move my legs!"

  For a moment the wave of paralysis hit her again, horror and helplessness and an awful, intense urge to just cover her head with her arms and squeeze her eyes closed and make it all go away. But the feeling lasted only an instant. Meg's ordered, precise mind took over as it was trained to do in times of crisis, arranging priorities, reviewing disaster procedures, making her feet move even though she couldn't feel them touch the floor. Evaluate the injured. Contain the damage. Provide shelter and warmth. Get medical aid.

  And when she tripped over something, her heart lodged in her throat and she could barely choke back a scream, because she knew it was a body.

  She sank to her knees, her wavering flashlight beam traveling over the slim, familiar form. No... God, please no...

  Rubble was scattered across the girl's shoulders, and her blond hair was matted with blood. Holding her breath, Meg carefully turned her over.

  "Dancer," she whispered brokenly.

  "Damn fool girl." Maudie stood over her, and when Meg looked up, she noticed the glisten of tears in the cracks of the big woman's face. "Never did have sense enough to get herself in out of the rain. Damn fool..."

  And then Dancer moaned.

  Meg's breath dried up in her throat as she quickly bent over the girl. "Dancer!" She stroked her cheek, then rugged off a glove with her teeth, searching for the pulse in Dancer's neck. It was strong. "Dancer, you're okay. Open your eyes, look at me..."

  Dancer's eyes fluttered open. Her gaze seemed weak and unfocused, and it was a long time before she murmured, "Oh, hi, Meg." She rolled her eyes around, wincing as she did so. "What a mess, huh?"

  Maudie dropped to her knees and drew Dancer's head into her lap while Meg scrambled for blankets and the first-aid kit. She managed to wipe away the worst of the blood and get a gauze bandage on Dancer's head wound, but someone else was calling for help nearby. She squeezed Dancer's hand. "I've got to go. I'm sorry..."

  "Go. I'm fine." Dancer winced as she touched her head. "Just got a killer hangover."

  Meg glanced at Maudie. "Stay with her. Keep her still."

  Maudie nodded, and Meg knew that her friend couldn't have been in better hands.

  Reese, the day-shift control engineer, was trapped beneath the overturned jukebox. He was barely conscious, moaning weakly, and Meg did not have to examine him very closely to know that he had several broken ribs at least. On a foolish impulse born of panic she tried to lift the jukebox, but it wouldn't budge. When she started to move away, Reese grabbed weakly for her leg. "Can't... breathe," he whispered hoarsely.

  "I know, hold on," she replied, and thought distractedly that she couldn't remember his last name. She had worked with these men for two years, she signed their paychecks every week, she should be able to remember their full names. "I'll be back, I've just got to find some way to get you out. Just.. .hold on."

  She searched frantically through the rubble until she found a sturdy board—one of the legs of the pool table, she thought—and positioned it underneath the comer of the jukebox, using the leverage to pry the corner of the jukebox up so that she could get a grip on it. Her arms were trembling with the effort, and she had only been able to lift the heavy machine a few inches. "Reese," she gasped. "Can you..."

  And then someone was beside her, and the weight was a little easier. "I got it, babe," Red said, grunting a little as he lifted it higher. "See if you can pull him out."

  Meg dropped to the floor and caught hold of Reese's shoulders, pulling him as quickly and as gently as she could to safety. Red let the jukebox drop amidst a shower of sparks.

  "Whoever started that story about terrified mothers lifting cars off their trapped babies was full of bull,'' he gasped, kneeling beside Reese.''Being scared has got nothing to do with it. How're you doing, bud?"

  "Better now," Reese managed, guarding his mid-section carefully as Meg and Red helped him sit up against the wall. His face was white and shiny and contracted with pain.

  "Here, this ought to take the edge off." Red produced a small flat bottle from his coat pocket and twisted off the lid. "One of the advantages of being trapped in a bar."

  ''You don't have to ask me twice," Reese said, and took the bottle from him with a shaking hand.

  "It's all we can do for pain now," Red explained to Meg quietly. "You better keep one on hand, too."

  She nodded. "How's Joe?"

  His face was sober. "His leg's busted up pretty bad. Gilly's trying to splint it. The fire in the kitchen's out.''

  "Maudie's okay. Dancer... I think she may have a concussion, but she's conscious."

  Red turned to Reese and took the bottle. "Don't be greedy, friend, I've got other patients." And he clapped him gently on the shoulder.' 'Take it easy. You need anything, yell. We've got to get moving."

  “Sure, Red. Thanks."

  Meg looked at Reese, torn with helplessness and concern. "Red..."

  Red got to his feet, and when she hesitated, he extended his hand to help her up. After a moment, she took it.

  "Honey," he said quietly, "there must've been thirty-five people in this bar. We've got two first-aid kits and maybe five men on their feet, most of them hurting. We do what we can and we do it fast, because if the temperature gets much lower in here we
're going to have exposure to deal with on top of everything else. Okay?"

  She knew he was right; of course he was right. It was just that, for the moment, the enormity of it all overwhelmed her and she thought about Dancer and Joe, and Reese who might be bleeding internally or have a punctured lung, and she remembered there wasn't a doctor in the whole town and the nearest medical center was almost a hundred miles away, and she didn't see how they could deal with this, she just didn't see how they could...

  "Hey," Red said sharply, gripping her arm.

  "I sent them here," she said in a small, trembling voice. "Even Dancer, she didn't want to go but I—"

  Red's grip tightened painfully and she could see his jaw harden. "Stop it. It was my idea, remember?" he said quietly. "So just stop it. Can you do this? Are you going to be okay?"

  She sucked in a breath, shook away the fog and with an enormous effort managed to pull herself together.

  She looked at him. "Yeah," she said. "Okay." And, because he still looked worried, she forced a smile. "Hell of a party."

  He smiled back. "That's my little soldier."

  He squeezed her arm briefly, then he was gone.

  Meg started moving then, and she did not know how long it was before she stopped. She distributed coats and blankets, she helped the injured away from unstable areas, she broke boards into splints and bandaged what she could and measured out carefully rationed portions of brandy to the worst cases. She knew that, at some point, she would have to stop and tell herself how much worse it could have been, how lucky they all were. But with blood staining her coat and strong men, who only hours ago had been laughing at her and making her furious, now weeping with pain and white-faced with shock, she did not feel very lucky. And neither, she thought, did they.

  She stopped counting the injured. She stopped worrying about head wounds and internal injuries. Once she pulled a six-inch piece of splintered wood out of a man's arm without even flinching, and afterward she just stood there, shaking and trying not to be sick. But no one had been killed, and they easily might have. No broken necks or spines, no lacerated arteries. It could have been so much worse.