Page 6 of Fear of Flames
“And you are?” she asked for the third or fourth time.
He appeared to consider his answer before replying, “Fletch.”
The name bounced through her thoughts, vaguely familiar. “Fletch, why did you help me—are you helping me?”
He lifted his chin. “First, let me see your feet.”
Raising the blanket, Michelle slowly pushed her feet from the warm covering. As she did, Fletch lifted his cellphone and hit the flashlight app. The bright illumination put her feet in the spotlight as he tenderly lifted her heel and inspected her reddened skin.
“First-degree frostbite, I’d say.”
“Are you a doctor?”
His dark eyes sparkled as he met her stare. “No, I’m not a doctor. I’ve seen my share of injuries, some man-made, others unintended. You couldn’t grab shoes?”
“No,” she answered matter-of-factly. When Fletch didn’t respond, she went on. “There was the gunshot, and I went downstairs, I saw Dad…” New tears clogged her throat. “The fire was already running up the walls. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to go upstairs and make it down again.”
Fletch nodded. “Good decision. I’m not sure what accelerant was used. The house went up fast. I suppose a little frostnip is worth the payoff of saving your life.”
Michelle reached for Fletch’s hand. Unlike in the snow and wind, there were no longer gloves separating them. For a moment, her gaze lingered on the place they touched. She felt the tingle of energy coming from him. He had the hands of a working man, strong and calloused. Slowly, she looked up, wondering if he was feeling the same electricity.
She cleared her throat. “You saved me. I would have frozen out there.”
“If you were lucky.” He retrieved his hand. “I was more concerned about what would happen if Ralph found you.”
Ralph.
Ralph Perkins.
The sheriff.
“I think he’s the one who killed Dad.” She shook her head at the gravity and implausibility of her statement. Her gaze met Fletch’s. “I didn’t see it happen. It’s a feeling. He was there so quick.” She let out a sigh. “I don’t understand. Why did he kill Dad? What does he want with me?”
Fletch handed Michelle his large gloves. “Put these over your toes. Don’t rub them. That can cause more damage if the frostbite is severer than I assessed.” He exhaled. “The goal is for the skin to warm but not too quickly.”
Taking the gloves, she slid her feet inside. While they only covered up to her mid foot, the fur within was still warm from Fletch’s hands. Next, she covered her feet again with the blanket. When she looked up, he was lighting the small hotplate.
Another flame.
Closing her eyes, she saw the fire consuming her father’s house. With the speed at which the flames climbed the interior walls, incinerating the curtains and furniture, she barely had time to check for her father’s pulse. There was none.
Oh God, she hoped there wasn’t.
What if she missed it?
It wasn’t that she wanted him dead.
She didn’t want him to die by fire.
What a horrible death.
A single bullet would be better.
Fletch removed a large cooler hidden under the bench where Michelle was seated. Within were gallon jugs of water. For a moment, she considered asking why they couldn’t use snow or ice, but the idea that a cooler kept the water from freezing was enough to fill her scrambled mind.
“Is this fishing hut yours?”
He shook his head.
