I shook my head. “No.” My fingers twitched against the sheets. “What happened, what caused them to crash?”
He placed a hand on my wrist, a buzzing shot through my arm, warming my blood and stilling my fingers. Sighing, he sank into the chair. “The road had a sharp corner, they went off and over a bank . . . the storm maybe . . . I don’t know, Matt is still investigating.”
I knew then that I really liked Ethan—perhaps not the Ethan who sat in the bar playing Eeny Meeny. But the real Ethan, the one who lived below the surface, the one I saw when we went to Katrina’s, and whose soul showed itself now. That was the Ethan I was fond of.
His thumb swept abstractly over my knuckles. He stared at the floor, a deep pain in his eyes. I just wanted to hold him, to pull him to my chest and ease his hurt. I took his hand in mine.
“I’m so sorry, Ethan.”
“They were good people.”
“The Torontos and Millers. Did they get out?” I asked, my stomach in knots.
He shook his head, as if to say no. “We don’t know. The rain put out the bulk of the fire, and they have fire crews and search teams looking for them. But their homes were destroyed.”
Cindy and Luke had been out, they would have needed a babysitter, I didn’t notice any cars as we drove past, maybe their children stayed somewhere else? “Were the kids home?”
Ethan flinched. “As far as we know . . .” He trailed off.
The lake was close to their homes; if they got out, they should have made it . . .
“How far did the fire spread?” I croaked.
“Not too far, so there’s a chance.” He paused, swallowing. “We were lucky the rain came when it did.”
“Time’s up, she needs rest,” a nurse said, peering up from under her lashes at Ethan.
Ethan stood, staring at me tenderly for a long beat. “Get better, Amy.”
Reluctantly, I released his hand. My fingers felt oddly vacant without his in it. I watched as he sauntered out the door, the nurse gazing, smitten, after him.
Chapter 29
Home
Istayed in the hospital for two more days. I had a decent-sized burn on the back of my left leg, and another on the underside of three of my fingers on my left hand. But my little finger and thumb had been spared. Burns dotted my body, but most only left a red mark, which had already started to fade. I’d been lucky; it could’ve been worse. Much worse.
Like the Millers and the Torontos.
Karson had broken the unsurprising and awful news that they were presumed dead. But they hadn’t found bodies, so it wasn’t officially declared yet. The intensity of the fire, largely due to the dry conditions and strong winds, left little to find. The official cause of the blaze was listed as a lightning strike. It’d started somewhere behind our cabins, and the wind had whipped it into a frenzy in minutes. As luck—if you could call it that—would have it, the wind swung back and the subsequent rains put most of it out, but around five hundred hectares were lost in total.
Luke’s comment at the ball,“Over my dead body,”reverberated through my head like struck cymbals.
There was no evidence to suggest foul play. Still . . .
Karson had also found somewhere for me to stay. The owner had offered free accommodation for as long as I liked. When I asked who the owner was, he said they wanted to remain anonymous. But he said I’d love the house and its location.
I had a stream of visitors; practically everyone I’d ever spoken to called in at some stage. Bunches of flowers adorned the room.
Jodie and Georgie had brought me lots of new clothes. I’d lost everything. The local bank had allowed a withdrawal of cash, and I sent them with a strict list of what I needed. They’d done well, obviously considering my tastes, only sneaking in a few short skirts and a couple sexy tops. Now I had more clothes than the measly collection I had before the fire.
I was sitting on the bed, waiting for Karson to collect me. I double-checked my ring was in the pocket of the black Versace handbag Jodie had given me, and insisted I keep, despite my protests.
“I’ve had it for two years and never used it. I want you to have it. Besides, it looks way better with your brown hair than my blond.”
A blatant lie. I was no fashion queen, but I was fairly certain blonds could wear black as well as brunettes. I’d almost cried—not because of the cost of the gift, but at her thoughtfulness. The feeling of being cared for overwhelmed me. She’d hugged me tight, and I’d lost the battle.
The nurse, Angela, a pretty, petite girl, opened the door and announced she needed to take my vitals for the last time before I left. She took my temperature, checked my pulse and oxygen levels. Then she grabbed my left arm and wrapped a cuff around it, pressed a button on the machine, and it began to tighten. I sat in silence as she studied the screen.
