He was thinking she had to be crazy not to see that the place was disintegrating around her when she jerked upright and ran back toward him with a hooded white carrier.
He’d barely noted the thick mauve liner and a pair of tiny legs when he realized there was actually an infant inside it.
Dear God, he thought, realization slamming into him. She had a baby out here.
“The cellar!” she hollered, fear stark in her eyes. “By the back door!”
He didn’t ask if she minded him carrying the kid. He just grabbed the carrier from her and pushed her out ahead of him, bent on getting them moving as fast as he could. The wind tore at them like the claws of an invisible dragon, grabbing her hair, her dress, stinging his eyes with the dust that turned day into night. A wheelbarrow blew across the yard ahead of them, flipping end over end. Eyes shielded by their forearms, they raced across the grass while behind them the funnel bore down on the land with the speed and sound of a freight train.
She reached the angled, in-ground door to the cellar two steps before he did. Using both hands, she pulled back hard on the handle. The thing wouldn’t budge.
Without a word, he shoved the carrier into her arms and jerked on the door himself. The pressure of the wind crushed down on it, making the long panel feel as if it were weighted with bricks. He could feel the muscles in his arms and back bunch as he battled, but he edged the solid wood up enough to wedge his foot between it and the frame before giving a powerful pull.
The wind shifted, catching the door, ripping it from its hinges, spinning it upward, slamming it into his shoulder.
Pain, barbed and jarring, shot down his arm. Gritting his teeth, he snatched the carrier again and practically shoved the woman down the steep and narrow stairs. He was halfway down himself when she reached up and pulled the baby from the hard plastic shell. The moment he saw that she had the tiny blond bundle of pink in her arms, he dropped the carrier and pushed her to the corner of the deep, shelf-lined space. With his back to the suction created by the raging vortex, he watched her clutch the baby to her chest and wrapped his arms around them both.
Thunder boomed. The wind shrieked. He had no idea how safe they were, but he figured that even with the door gone, they were better off tucked back in the confined space beneath the house than they would be anywhere else. At least, they were as long as the wind didn’t make missiles of the hundred or so jars of fruits and vegetables gleaming on the shelves surrounding them.
“We need to get away from this glass.”
“By the potato crates. On the other side of the stairs. There’s none over there.”
He glanced behind him. Wooden boxes were stacked a dozen feet away. Neatly folded burlap bags filled a galvanized tub, apparently waiting to be filled with onions like the lone bag leaning next to it. Even with the boxes of empty canning jars lining the shelves next to where they huddled, it seemed better to stay where they were. If the shelves fell, they’d land right on those boxes and bags.
“Do you think we should move?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“I don’t see any place safer. We’ll have to ride it out here.”
He didn’t have to see her to know she was terrified. She had the baby’s tiny head tucked beneath her chin, her hand covering its downy blond hair. With his arms curved around her shoulders, her slender body angled against his left side, he could feel her trembling from neck to thigh.
A blinding flash of lightning turned the space pure white. Thunder cracked. He felt her whole body go taut as a spring an instant before she buried her head against his chest.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, hoping to heaven it would be. He cupped the back of her head the way she did her child’s, protecting it, tightening his hold. “Just hang on. These things don’t last that long, do they?”
“I don’t know, Mr.…I don’t know, “ she repeated, apparently realizing she didn’t know his name. “One’s never come this close before.”
She shifted a little, her thigh slipping along his. Given the intimacy of their positions, he found her formality a tad incongruous. “It’s Sloan. Justin,” he added, thinking she might appreciate a first name, too.
“Justin Sloan. Thank you.”
He wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for. It didn’t seem important anyway. The breath he drew brought her scent with it, something clean and fresh and far too innocent to seem so erotic.
He cleared his throat, training his focus on the wide planks above them while dust swirled and the apocalypse raged overhead. Wondering if those boards would stay put seemed wiser than wondering if that scent was in the silken hair braided and draped over his arm or if it was clinging to her skin.
He glanced back down. “And you’re…?”
“Emily Miller. My daughter is Anna,” she added, then jumped again at the crash of ripping timber.
A huge tree limb arrowed through the open doorway above them. The projectile crashed into the crates of potatoes and onions, splintering itself and the shelves and sending vegetables rolling over the packed dirt floor. Another crash reverberated above them, this one echoing with the sound of shattering glass.
With his back to the melee, his head ducked and his neck exposed, Justin held his breath. He was pretty sure the woman in his arms held hers, too. Only the baby moved. He could feel it wriggling in protest to her mother’s tight hold, but he doubted there was any power on earth, including the fury being unleashed overhead, that could make the woman ease her grasp.
“Justin Sloan?” The sound of his name was faint, muffled by their positions and the cacophony overhead. “May I ask you something?”
He thought for sure she wanted reassurance. It sounded like the end of the world up there. At the very least, it was the end of her house. But if she wanted to know if he thought they’d be all right, her guess would be as good as his.
“Sure,” he said, thinking he’d do the decent thing and lie if it would make her feel better.
“Who are Dorothy and Toto?”
“What?”
“Who are Dorothy and Toto?” she repeated. “And what did you mean when you said you had no intention of playing them?”
He had to sound as puzzled as she did. “You know. From The Wizard of Oz. The movie?” he prompted, thinking she must be trying to distract herself. “The tornado hits Kansas and the girl and her dog get sucked up?”
“Did they survive?”
He would have thought she was joking, except her concern when she looked up at him was too real, the fear in her eyes too tangible.
“Yeah. They did.”
“That’s good. I don’t know of this Oz,” she admitted, the fullness of her bottom lip drawing his glance as she spoke. Her mouth looked soft, inviting. Provocative. With her clear blue eyes locked on his, it also looked enormously tempting. “I’ve heard of Kansas, though. I’ve read that it’s very flat.”
The woman wasn’t making a lick of sense to him, but she was definitely taunting his nervous
