Chase Me If You Can(59)
Apprehension tightens my throat. “If it’s not safe for me, then—”
“Sloane. Please. I know you’re capable, but I can’t handle you being in here with me, all right?”
The strangeness in his voice clicks into place. Fear. Wes is afraid for me—and we don’t have time to argue about it. I nod, take a step back, and wait the longest two minutes of my life for him to come back out with an elderly man’s arm slung over his shoulders. A black lab follows so closely that Wes nearly trips on his way past the door barely hanging on to one hinge.
“Damn dresser tipped over,” the man says as we help him out to his driveway where, by some miracle, his car sits undamaged. “Couldn’t get out of the closet.”
We linger long enough to make sure he’s able to sit down, hand him a bottle of water, and then we’re on to the next house.
Before long, the town is swarming with first responders. We help where we can and get out of the way where we can’t. Someone hands Wes a chainsaw, and he goes to work taking apart tree limbs blocking access to roads while carefully avoiding the downed power lines strewn everywhere.
I lose track of time, squinting against the low angle of the sun as I work, heat and humidity rebuilding rapidly in the wake of the storm. It’s one of the cruelest things—not twenty minutes after ruining lives, the sky is painted with one of the most stunning sunsets I’ve ever seen. I swear it’s hotter now than it was before the storm, sweat dripping from every inch of me as I hand out water bottles next to one of the EMTs.
Night creeps in a little at a time and then all at once, the darkness broken by an army of flashing blue and red lights, the endless buzz of chainsaws filling the air.
I meet the eyes of strangers over and over, offering what little comfort I can. My thoughts stagger between guilt and grief. This would have happened whether we were here or not, but it’s hard not to feel like the worst kind of vulture. This town will bear the scar of today for years to come. I’m going to climb into a clean, dry vehicle and drive away from the carnage. It’s hard to reconcile that something I love, the season I look forward to all year as an escape, can quickly turn into someone else’s private hell.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a hand lands on my shoulder. “Sloane,” Wes rasps, sawdust and dirt streaked across his face. His shirt is soaked in sweat, dotted with mud and what looks like blood. I hope it’s not his. “You’re bleeding,” he says, holding my wrist with exquisite gentleness so he can study the long scratch on my forearm that I didn’t notice.
I think one of the tree branches got me when I helped Wes pull someone out through what used to be their living room window, but it’s impossible to know. “I’ll clean it later.”
The EMT next to us glances at my arm, seemingly noticing the long scrape for the first time. “Not much left for y’all to do,” she says, not unkindly. “We appreciate the help, but might as well get on out of here.”
My first impulse is to argue, but she’s right. There’s a fine line between helping and getting in the way. The last thing we need to do is tip over into the latter. Wes slings his arm around my shoulders, and despite the sweat and dirt and exhaustion, I press into his side just to feel how very alive he is against me.
We catch up to Tracy and Matt on our way back to the car. Their expressions match ours, mud-streaked, weary, and just a little haunted. Tracy’s attention drifts toward Wes’s arm around me. “You know where you’re staying tonight?”
His fingers flex on my shoulder, his grip tightening and relaxing so quickly I suspect it’s unintentional.
“Not yet.” He glances down at me. “Should probably figure that out, though. Anything around here is going to be full with families and first responders. Might need to drive for a bit.”
“We found a place just over the Nebraska border that had rooms. I’ll text you a link.” Matt’s jaw cracks open with a wide yawn. He barely stops himself from wiping at his eyes, grimacing at the grime covering his hands. “We can all do the drive together. Everyone is tired. Roads are going to be dark.”
“Thanks.” I slip out of Wes’s hold to throw my arms around Tracy. It’s not the first time we’ve witnessed this kind of destruction, and it’s unlikely to be the last, but it doesn’t get much easier. Her arms tighten, holding on just a fraction longer than she usually would, before she starts yawning too, and we all agree it’s best to get on the road before anyone falls asleep.
“I’ll drive,” I tell Wes, nudging him toward the passenger seat. “You did the heavy lifting.”
The fact that he doesn’t argue tells me just how exhausted he is. Wes drops into his seat with a groan, then fishes around in the back seat for a bottle of water. “Let me see your arm before we go anywhere.”
“I’ll deal with it at the hotel.”
“You’ll deal with it now.” It’s gently said, but he isn’t backing down. I sigh and give him my arm after he slathers sanitizer over his hands, trying not to wince as he dabs at the crusted blood with some napkins from the glove box. Antibiotic ointment goes on next, followed by a large bandage from the bottom of his bag.
As soon as he’s done fussing over me, I pull out behind Tracy and Matt. “Does that place Matt booked still have rooms?”