And they give you this. I also got one before, but as I was head down, bum up, the thing I said I’d do with it went out the window – defenestrated for the sake of continuation of the project …
And what day is this? Oh, yes, SIX, so back I go, it’s not over yet, and – Oh, you’d like a snippet?
Here’s a short scene (not telling you which one but Cella is his daughter and Hella is the new woman in town):
The insistent buzz rattled Cam’s teeth until he shoved the pillow off his head and opened his eyes. Buzz? Phone. Right, phone.
He let it go. Nothing much happened in this town, and if this was Sunday, it would be … It wasn’t Sunday. It was Saturday. It wouldn’t be the usual nuisance call about the singing from the church.
He grabbed the phone, entered his pin, dropped his jaw to the floor.
Who reported it? His fingers slid the screen down and down while he struggled to get his pants on. Seven calls. One from the house Reese lived in.
An explosion. Spring Lane, they were saying — was that the same as Spring Road? Where Cella spent last night? That little prick better not have anything to do with it. Cam had no compunction about beating the crap out of that idiot. Look what he’d done to the town, and all because he couldn’t stop gambling.
And that new woman. What did she have or know that made people want to blow her up?
He knew that woman was trouble. Knew it from the moment he saw her! Damn! Why didn’t he do more checking yesterday? Why did he let Cella go there?
The boots wouldn’t slide on. He stamped his foot, forced it over the thick socks until it slid on; ripped the socks up — wrinkles out! Tucked the ends of his pants into the gaiters, didn’t smooth it out. Stood up to finish up. The buttons were hard, his hands shook, his head kept up the movement — shake, shake, shake. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to believe it. It was a fact, and he had to deal with it, but if Cella was hurt … oh, God, please don’t let my girl get hurt. Hat on. Belt buckled.
Go, go, go!
When he got to the vehicle, he had to turn around and run back in for the keys, and his weapon, and the phone.
The constant swearing kept time with his manic momentum. How to be unprofessional? Have kids in danger. That was all. They did it all the time, drove parents to distraction with antics that grown men would swoon at. Never, in all the time he’d had Cella, did he expect this. Never.
And it was his fault. He’d sent her there. For his own purposes.
The radio blasted into life when the motor turned over. His hand spun the dial automatically, tapped the scanner — a bit too heavy, just a light touch will do — got the readout. Yep. There it was.
Spring Road. Brimpaen. A blast. Some lines had bomb or questions about mining, but none had the full address. Were there any other houses on Spring Road?
Cam shuddered. He didn’t recall anything but a cattle race under some big trees, and an almost-empty hay-shed. A long empty road with one house? Or were there other things? Apart from a woman talking to a horse. He’d been distracted.
Another episode of unprofessional conduct. Was there anything else on that road?
Now was not the time to check the maps — he needed to get there, just get there, find out, find Cella. His breath caught half-way down his throat.
Siren — on. Foot down. He cut through Horsham like a blue-and-red lightning sprite.
It took too long to get to the turn-off for Spring Road, and the smoke led him all the way. A huge pall of black and grey smoke. Was it the house? The sheds?
The high staccato blooms of darkness indicated more than one explosion. Did the house have gas-bottles? One hand rubbed his head to try to recall what he’d seen the day before. He didn’t recall seeing any gas bottles. What else could blow up like that?
Fuel? He hadn’t gone to the sheds, but with a machinery shed that big, there had to be fuel barrels. Every farm had ‘em.
He’d been trying to impress the woman, get info out of her, and hadn’t done his job as well as he needed to.
Was she alive? His heart didn’t have any sense of rhythm. It crashed against his ribs like a meteor, blew pain and fear in all directions.
Let it be the shed. Let it be fuel. Let it be anything but his girl.
The wheels spun on the gravel drive when he turned in without reducing speed. His hands spun the wheel like an auto-pilot. His eyes didn’t move from the sight at the end of the gravel.
Someone stood in the driveway. With the house behind them. A tall person.
No, it was the woman. And she was alone.
Oh, and I’ve taken this story off WattPad until it’s finished, at which time, I’ll put up the first ten chapters or so …