followed the little animal to an open door on the right. “Mrs. Engle?”
Another explosion burst through the night. The windows rattled at the far side of the bedroom. The blast of light illuminated a frail-looking figure on the carpeted floor on the other side of the bed.
“Could you help me?” came a shaky voice. “I think I’ve broken my hip.”
Willow switched on the overhead light and rushed to the woman’s side. “Mrs. Engle, there’s a fire on the property. We need to get you out of here.” There would be no time to call 9-1-1 and expect a timely response, not in this place, so far from help.
“Honey, you’re not going to be able to lift me,” Mrs. Engle said. “Where’s Preston?”
Willow peered outside. She’d been wondering that, herself. She unlatched the window and shoved it open. “I need some help in Four A,” she called to the growing crowd that now huddled in the gazebo.
The people were too far away. No one heard her over the roar of the fire.
“Hello!” she shouted. “Can anyone—”
Another explosion shook the floor as a flash brightened the sky to day. Someone screamed, and the light illuminated a group of men running up from the direction of the boat dock. The roar of the boats blended with the roar of the fire and with another sound—the reassuring whine of a siren in the distance. Help was apparently on its way.
Willow went to the phone at the bedside stand and dialed 9-1-1. The dispatcher could immediately call the arriving firemen to help her with Mrs. Engle.
Living this far out in the sticks, emergency personnel were seldom just a phone call away. That was something Willow had seriously considered before deciding to come here, and she now questioned her sanity for her decision. She had hoped to find peace and safety here.
After giving her information to the dispatcher, she returned to the injured woman and knelt at her side. “Mrs. Engle, I don’t want to move you if I can avoid it.” As a former ICU nurse, Willow knew the damage that could be done if she tried to lift an injured patient.
She pulled a thick comforter from the bed and settled it beside Mrs. Engle. If the situation became desperate, she could wrap the comforter around the lady and pull her as gently as possible to safety. For now, however, that could wait.
The shriek of the siren drew closer.
Sharp tongues of fire stabbed the night sky, reflecting its fury across the surface of the lake as Graham rushed up the hillside from the boat dock. Emergency lights flashed red in the treetops in concert with the flames. A siren accompanied the crackle and hiss of the burning building.
The first fire truck pulled into the lot, and its crew rushed to connect to the hydrant. Unfortunately, it seemed Preston was correct about the firefighting personnel and equipment being spread thin tonight.
Graham glanced at the sky out of old habit from his E.R. days. Superstition or not, it had always been his experience that more chaos reigned on nights with a full moon. Tonight, however, the moon formed a crescent against the blackness of the western horizon. He’d have to blame something else for the tragedies taking place in the Ozarks this early April Fool’s morning.
He cut across the lawn at the far corner of the complex and caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to catch sight of a tall, slender woman with black hair stepping from the entryway of Four A, Esther Engle’s place.
The last time he’d seen that silhouette, the woman had been holding a camera, flashing pictures of a crime scene at a local music theater. Jolene Tucker called herself a photojournalist, and she passed up no opportunity to see her byline in a local paper. She had her finger on every pulse of gossip in the Branson community, but how had she managed to beat the fire engines here?
Though Graham had seen her only from a distance, he’d heard horror stories about the trouble she caused her hapless victims in her weekly gossip column.
Graham switched directions and marched toward her. She had no right to be here. Her presence endangered not only her, but any others who might feel called upon to remove her from harm’s way. What was she doing inside his building?
To his amazement, when the woman caught sight of him through the darkness she gave him a frantic wave and started toward him across the yard. “Sir, are you with the fire department? I could use some help with—”
“Where’s your camera?” he snapped.
She slid to a stop on the grass and stared at him through the smoky murk. “What are you talking about? Why aren’t there more emergency personnel here? There’s no time to—”
“Ms. Tucker, you’ve got some gall coming into a situation like this,” he said without breaking his stride. He reached for her arm. “You’re on private property. My property, and I want you off within the next ten seconds or I’ll give the police a call.”
She took a step backward, evading his grasp. “But you don’t understand. There’s a—”
“I don’t want to hear it. If you want to complain, just write it up in one of your columns.” He led her from the yard. “This place is dangerous, and you need to leave. It’s an insurance risk.”
She jerked away from him. “Insurance? That’s all you’re worried about?” She scrambled back across the dark lawn toward Esther Engle’s front door. “There are still people who need help. Mrs. Engle’s fallen in her apartment and we need a stretcher—”
“I’ll take care of Mrs. Engle,” he said, rushing after her. “You hightail it on home for once. Your nose for news doesn’t belong here.” He thrust his thumb in the direction of the parking lot. “Out!”
She gave a long-suffering sigh and did as he told her this time. “You’ll get Mrs. Engle?”
“That’s where I’m headed right now.” He saw Blaze and Dane, Taylor and Nathan running up the hill and commandeered Taylor’s help—Taylor Jackson was a tough Ranger with the heart of a paramedic. Often it seemed necessary to utilize the full range of Taylor’s skills on the field when responding to accidents.
The fire seemed to have limited itself to Preston’s cabin, though it could easily spread to the utility building east of the lodge. Graham prayed it would go no farther. When he’d refurbished the lodge, he’d made sure the building was above code. Now he would see if the additional efforts paid off.
Baffled and incensed by the behavior of the manhandling owner, who seemed to be confusing her with someone he knew, Willow waited until he and another man entered Mrs. Engle’s front door. She stepped gingerly from the gravel to the grass to protect her feet, and rushed toward the small crowd of people who had left the shelter of the gazebo to watch the firemen spraying the flames. Another siren wailed through the trees. An orange-and-white ambulance arrived on the scene, pulling to a stop at the edge of the lot.
Willow waved at the driver and directed the crew toward Mrs. Engle’s apartment when they stepped from the vehicle. Finally more help had arrived.
“Has anyone here seen Preston?” she asked Carl Mackey, who lived in the apartment below Sandi Jameson’s.
The older man pointed toward the shed. “I thought I saw him headed in that direction just before the fire truck arrived. Figured he wanted to move the gasoline tank before it blew with the rest of the building.”
“He didn’t come back out?”
Carl shrugged. “Nope, and we called for him.”
She heard the shouts of the firemen above the snap and pop of the flames and the sizzle of water from the fire hoses. No way would her brother go into that mess. He was brave and strong, but he wasn’t foolish, and he didn’t have a death wish.
Carl stepped to Willow’s side. He wore bright orange flannel pajamas, and his hair stuck up in all directions. “Young lady, you’ve got a nasty wound.”