Something Borrowed

Chapter 52

Josh

Amelia was right. She'd been saying it all along, and she was right: 

He was, quite possibly, the most foolish man on God's green earth.

That was the first thought that struck him when he came to, his cheek pressed to rough carpet and the world falling to pieces around him. Well, that and the heat. It raged all around him, suffocating and loud.

He had turned back to tie off the makeshift rope when he'd heard the roof groan and realized it was coming down. He remembered diving toward the open doorway, but he must not have dove fast enough because the last thing he recalled was a sharp pain in the back of his skull. Now here he was, sprawled in the hallway next to a pile of flaming rubble, about to make his wife a widow.

The smoke choked him and he coughed, but it was remarkably easier to breathe down here on the floor. He turned his face into the crook of his arm and fought for one good lungful of air before lifting his head. He couldn't see well through the smoke and his own burning eyes, but he could make out the flames, licking up the walls of the hallway. He could hear the whole building groaning around him.

He had to get out.

He had to tell Amelia he was sorry. So, so sorry. Why had he thought he was doing her a favor? Why had he thought she would want Brent back at the cost of her husband? Because his father did? Maybe the madness was passed down with man's seed, because Josh had clearly lost his damned mind. Standing there by the porch, with the old man clinging to his hand and Amelia wavering on her knees, tears streaming down her face, he really had felt like the devil. He'd believed, for just long enough to make the worst mistake of his life, that he had brought this upon them.

Well, waking up in Hell sure had a way of setting a man straight.

Gathering his strength, and a lungful of poisoned air, he shoved himself to his feet, staggered two steps down the hall, and then collapsed to his knees, choking on the thick smoke that formed a cloud around his head. He let himself fall forward onto his belly, sucking at the relatively thin air near the floor, his forehead pressed to the runner.

Fine.

Fine, he'd just crawl out. Not the most dignified exit, but at least he could breathe.

Hand over hand, he dragged himself forward, keeping his face down, pushing with legs that didn't want to obey. He'd have passed the stairs and just crawled blindly forward to his death if his left hand hadn't landed on the drop off, fingers instinctively curling around the edge. He had half a mind to throw himself down them, but that wouldn't do any good. He'd knock himself clean out again and suffocate on the smoke ten yards from freedom.

He hesitated, and in that moment a splitting crash rose behind him, the flames flickering brighter against his eyelids. The whole damned house was going to come down on him if he didn't get it together. He fixed his family in his mind-- a mental photograph he'd taken months ago of his girls, asleep in the sun on a blanket by the river-- and sucked in a deep breath, forcing his lungs not to reject the air. Then he surged to his feet, gripping the creaking rail, and half ran, half-fell down the stairs.

He didn't realize he'd reached the bottom until he reached for the emptiness of another step and his foot met solid ground. He stumbled and crashed to the ground, his body aching with the coughs that tore at his throat. He was so close. He could practically feel the fresh air, issuing in from the open door. He could practically see Amelia waiting for him, frantic with worry. He didn't bother to stand. Just clawed his way forward, praying he was headed in the right direction.

His fingers touched something soft-- the rag rug Melissa had made for the entryway.

Thank God.