Page 35 of Rocky Mountain Cowboy Christmas
Making her way across the shop, Camille held the kitchen door open for Lucy to walk through. Although she knew perfectly well how to use the cat flap, Lucy preferred to have Camille hold the entire door open for her, like the reigning queen that she was.
“I bought you some treats,” Camille said, kicking off her boots before setting the bags on the table. She started sorting through her groceries, surprised that she’d actually gotten a good amount of food. Since most of her shopping had been done with her chin to her chest and her eyes on the floor, she’d half expected to bring home fifty cans of lima beans and a double bunch of parsley, but she’d managed to pick out actual meal-worthy food.
As if lured by the mention of treats, Lucy padded over and sat at Camille’s feet.
“Aren’t you the sweetest,” Camille cooed, crouching down so that she could pet the cat. “Such a pretty kit… Ah!” Lucy opened her mouth and let a baby mouse drop to land on Camille’s socked foot. Lurching back, she lost her balance and toppled onto her butt as the mouse fell to the floor. Apparently, it was not as dead as Camille had assumed, since it got to its feet and darted toward the fridge.
“Lucy!” Camille yelled, scrambling to grab the mouse before it made it underneath the appliance. Once it was under the refrigerator, she knew it would be nearly impossible to get it out, and then there’d be a mouse loose in her house—or, rather,anothermouse loose in her house. “What are you doing? You’re a cat! You don’t catch and release mice! You eat them or drop corpses at my feet or ignore their existence. I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t bring them into the kitchen and let them run free!”
The last word was more of a grunt as she lunged toward the mouse. Knowing she’d be too slow to catch it, she tried to put her body between it and the fridge. It worked somewhat, sending the mouse scuttling in a different direction.
“Oh no.” Camille grabbed for it again, but missed by several feet as the mouse darted into the space between the counter and the stove. She glared at where it had disappeared and then turned to her cat, who was sitting on the floor, cleaning her chest and looking quite proud of herself. “Lucy…” she muttered, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good to lecture her. Pushing herself to her feet, Camille allowed herself a few muttered curse words that did, in fact, make her feel better.
“At least I have food,” she consoled herself, trying not to think about how hard it would be to sleep tonight knowing that yet another mouse was sharing her home. The sight of a frozen pizza reminded her of her conversation with Steve and Maya, and that did help. By the time she started the oven—after first loudly warning the mouse to stay away from the stove—the memory of their encounter had her smiling again.
There was something about Steve Springfield. Just the thought of him made her happy.
Chapter 9
It was late, and Camille knew she should go to bed, but her mind wouldn’t turn off. One of Micah’s drawings had given her an idea for a piece—an intricate design that had the potential to be vastly difficult and very possibly heartbreaking. Past experience told her that she’d lie in bed, sleepless, until she at least got her idea sketched out on paper, so she headed for the workshop.
The shelves looked empty, since she’d finished all of the pieces for the ranch. Too excited about seeing Steve and the kids the next day to sit around, she’d packed up everything and even put the box in her car so she was ready for her trip tomorrow.
“Silly. You’re not even going there until evening,” she scolded herself as she shuffled through the notebooks stacked on the shelf beneath her workbench, trying to find one with blank paper remaining. “What’re you going to do all day tomorrow except fuss around trying on different outfits and—Oh no.” She froze in the middle of lifting a half-filled pad. What was she going to wear?
“Stop.” She said the word firmly, setting the sketchbook down with a sharp slap. “You’ll wear casual, normal clothes like you did the last two times you went to the ranch. It’s pizza at his house with his kids. You’re not going to a ball.”
Despite her lecture, she knew the only chance she had of not obsessing about which jeans made her butt look the best was to lose herself in a new project. Grabbing a pencil, she started sketching, letting the piece take its initial shape on the page. As she drew, she grew more and more excited about it, and she knew that it was going to be amazing if she managed to pull it off. She already had a feeling that this was going to be Steve’s Christmas present, rather than just another piece for the store.
By the time her eyes started blurring from exhaustion, she had ten pages of sketches, with lists to the side of metal parts and pieces of scrap she had on hand that she might be able to use. Tapping the screen of her tablet, she woke it up and started scrolling through old photos. “Two horses or three?” she muttered, flipping back and forth between the pictures. She was leaning toward three, liking the wild, almost out-of-control feel that the galloping horses had when they were three abreast.
Yawning, she pushed the tablet and sketchbook to the back of her workbench and laid her head on her folded arms.I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute, and then I’ll drag my tired butt up to bed.Despite the rough surface under her arms and the hard seat of the stool, she felt her eyelids sinking shut.
* * *
A shriek startled her awake.
Her eyes popped open, but what she saw didn’t make sense to her sleep-clouded mind, as if a thick haze covered the familiar landscape. The shrill blast came again, cutting through her mental fog, screaming at her that something was very wrong. She straightened so abruptly that she almost fell backward as her brain fumbled to figure out where she was. It was hot, and there was a strange red cast to the light. The repetitive high-pitched squeal and a roaring, crackling sound drowned out the music.
She’d fallen asleep in her workshop. But the once-familiar space was blurred now, alien. Nothing around her seemed to make sense. It was loud and smoky, and the light was all wrong, too bright one second and too dark the next. Stumbling to her feet, her disorientation cleared in a snap.
Her workshop was on fire.
As soon as the realization struck, her lungs felt as if they were being squeezed in a clamp. Her gaze darted around, taking in the flames licking at the walls and ceiling, their bright light muted by the thick fog of black smoke filling the air. The acrid smell burned her nose and throat, scraping its way into her lungs. Her eyes watered, and she started coughing. The force of the hacking made her bend double, and suddenly the smoke was thinner, allowing her to gasp in a few breaths. It reminded her that air was clearer closer to the floor, and she dropped to her hands and knees.
Get out!her mind screamed, and she started crawling toward where she knew the door to be. Even down so low, the smoke still stung her eyes. As she tried to blink them clear, one of her shelves collapsed in a line of flame, crashing to the floor. Burning shrapnel flew in all directions, and she curled forward instinctively, trying to protect her face and front.
Embers stung her arms where they landed, quickly burning small holes through her clothing to sear bare skin. She smacked at the spots where pieces had landed as she tried to suck air into lungs that wouldn’t stop coughing. Another floating fleck of debris hit her cheek, and she quickly batted it away. It reminded her of the sparks her welding torch gave off when she used it on metal, and she scooted back to the bench. Reaching up, she fumbled along her workbench until her fingers touched her welding helmet. Grabbing it, she yanked it on and then felt for her gloves. She knocked a pad of paper to the side before she stood briefly so she could see the top of the workbench.
Even that short time spent standing made her lungs seize up, and she hurried to grab her gloves and return to the floor. After covering her hands, she shuffled forward, trying very hard not to look at the flames surrounding her. The shrieks of the fire alarm made it hard to think, but she clung to the only important thought right now: she needed to get out.
The smoke had thickened. Even with the mask protecting her eyes, it was hard to see. The leaping flames seemed to surround her, and she didn’t know if she was crawling in the right direction. It almost felt as if the room was spinning around her, an exit-less trap of fire and smoke. Only the concrete floor beneath her palms and knees was safe, and even that was growing dangerously warm.
The alarm suddenly went silent. The sudden cessation of high-pitched shrieks made Camille freeze in place. Tipping up her chin, she stared at the flames blanketing the ceiling. The fire roared unabated, but the alarm had quit, and she knew that was a bad sign. Although the absence of the piercing squeals was a relief, it also terrified her. The fire had won over the alarm, and she was next if she didn’t manage to get to the door.
The helmet’s mask limited her peripheral vision, and she tried to ignore the roaring of the flames and the walls of heat on all sides, focusing just on crawling forward. The stacked pile of barn wood blocked her way, and she felt a pang of sadness that this lumber had lasted over a hundred years, only to be incinerated in her workshop.
She moved to go around it, but a loud cracking sound made her freeze. With awhooshof displaced hot air fanning her arm, a large, flaming chunk of the ceiling hit the floor next to her with a crash. Jumping at the close impact, she shoved away from the fiery wreckage, rolling in the only direction that was left to her.
