Chapter 5 - The Flash of Fire
The impact was brutal. James slammed his chest against the scorched stone rim of the pit with a force that knocked the wind from his lungs, but he didn't stop. His momentum carried him forward, his bare forearms plunging directly into the blazing logs that Helen had lit earlier to warm the evening air.
There was a sickening crack of timber and a shower of orange sparks as he scooped his hands under the bundle, his skin meeting the searing heat of burning wood. Pain flared up his arms in white-hot waves, but his grip didn't falter for a fraction of a second. With a guttural grunt born of pure adrenaline and desperate love, he yanked Lily up against his shoulder just as the bottom edge of the pink blanket grazed the licking flames.
He didn't try to land gracefully. The weight of his body and the uneven ground sent him tumbling backward, rolling heavily onto the emerald-green grass, shielding her wrapped body with his own back as he hit the turf.
The silence that broke across the yard was deafening.
For one long, frozen heartbeat, nobody moved. The birds overhead seemed to stop singing. Then, the dam broke. Guests screamed, lawn chairs flipped backward into the grass with clattering thuds, and crystal glasses shattered into glittering shards on the patio stones.
Margaret shoved past Rebecca so hard that her sister stumbled backward into the dirt, losing her footing entirely. Margaret fell to her knees beside her father, her hands shaking violently as she reached for the bundle.
Lily was crying—a sharp, shrill, furious sound that was the sweetest music Margaret had ever heard. She was breathing. The bottom edge of her pink blanket was singed black at the fringe and reeked heavily of woodsmoke, but the fire hadn't touched her skin.
James pushed himself up onto his elbows, breathing heavily. His face was pale, glistening with a cold sweat of shock and pain. His arms, bare from the rolled-up sleeves of his cotton shirt, were blistered and violently red, angry patches of raw flesh swelling across his forearms, while his right sleeve was charred black to the wrist.
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He didn't look at his arms. He didn't utter a word of complaint about the agonizing pain burning through his nerves. Instead, he looked up at Margaret, his eyes bright with unshed tears, and gently pushed Lily into her waiting arms.
"Take her, Margaret," he rasped, his voice trembling violently. "Take your daughter."
