Josh

"Merry Christmas, gents," Josh joked as he slumped onto an upturned bucket, immune to the cold as his still-pounding heart beat warmth out to his extremities.

All around him, the weary men sank to the ground, their grins blazing white in their soot-stained faces. Some found buckets to sit on, like Josh, or leaned against the rails of the corral. Most just slumped onto their asses in the snow. Behind Josh, the skeletal remains of stable three smoked and crackled. The north wall of stable four was scorched but sufficiently drenched with water to prevent it from catching. It had taken the better part of four hours to subdue the flames.

"Merry Christmas, boss," Paul said wryly, swiping at his wrinkled forehead with a sleeve, and the men echoed him cheerfully. Nothing brought men together better than a near catastrophe and hard physical labor. One of the men passed around a bucket of water and they all swigged it back. If they sat out here for too long, the chill would creep into their bones, but Josh was content to rest for a moment and catch his breath. As soon as he could get his legs under him he'd head back up to the house.

Once he was certain the fire was contained, he'd sent the runner back to his family with word to relax, enjoy the evening, and go to bed. No reason to stay up and wait, although he knew Amelia would be up. There were days when she accidentally fell asleep waiting for him, but she always tried. How many times had he found her snoring on the couch or propped against pillows in bed with her head crooked to the side and an open book in her lap?

The thought of her, warm and waiting in the bed, brought strength back into his legs. With a grunt, he pushed to his feet.

"Let's get the horses into four and five," he said, jerking his head at the two dozen displaced animals they'd rushed into the nearest corral. The animals were turned sullenly away from the wind, their heads lowered in obvious displeasure at being thrust out of their warm homes into the cold.

"Aw c'mon, boss," one of the men complained. "Let us have a minute."

"You can have a minute once we're done," he said firmly. "Sooner we wrap this up sooner you all can find your bunks and--"

"Boss," one of the men cut him off, and he turned a glare on the kid at the interruption. The frown froze on his face, locking his jaw tight as he followed the man's horrified expression up the hill toward the house.

Smoke.

Not the tight spirals from the chimneys. Not white wisps that smelled of pine and warmth.

The smoke was a dark cloud, blotting out the stars beyond. The hint of something acrid and evil touched his nose, and he was sprinting through the snow before the sight had fully registered in his mind. He grabbed the nearest saddled horse, heedless of its ownership, and vaulted up. He dug his heels into the animal's sides and they tore up the hill, kicking at snow that flew in dizzying waves in front of them, feathering out to the sides. He bent low over the horse's back, and when they reached the yard he flung himself from the saddle, both feet hitting the hard-packed snow at the same time.

He saw the smoke, billowing out from the second story windows, tendrils snaking out from the window of the kitchen. Even so, the front door wasn't open. Nobody waited for him on the front lawn. Dear God, they were all still inside...

The door was barred. He threw himself at it once, twice, three times. His shoulder screamed but the door hadn't budged. It was that damned bar his father had installed. Solid damned oak. Why the hell had they locked him out? 

Abandoning the door, he sprinted down the length of the porch to the window that looked in on the dining room. Balling his gloved hand into a fist, he drew back and sent it through the thick glass. The window shattered and smoke wound out, making him cough. Counting on the heavy leather of his glove and coat to shield him, he continued battering at the glass until there was a hole big enough to fit his body through. He knocked the shards away from the lower edge of the sill and clambered gracelessly through the opening.

The smoke was choking, and he dragged his shirt up in front of the face as he sprinted through the dining room.

"Ames!" he yelled, his voice muffled. He gathered a breath and lowered the shirt, shouting again. "Ames!"

No answer.

He had the presence of mind to detour by the entryway and unbolt the front door before he tackled the stairs. At the top, he ran into a wall of flesh and rebounded, barely catching himself on the rail. His eyes watered and burned, but he made out his father's bulky form.

"Where..." he got out before the smoke stole his breath. The old man had even less air, clinging to his shoulder and hacking.

"Go," Josh ground out, shoving his father toward the stairs. "Get out."

He didn't stay behind to see if the old man followed his directive or not. He had more important things to worry after.

He was spared the agony of leaving Melissa behind when he stumbled into her not two steps after leaving his father. She was still on her feet, what appeared to be a wet rag pressed to her face. She didn't even seem to notice him, shoving blindly toward the stairs. He spun around and waited two agonizing heartbeats, watching until she found the rail with her right hand. After that it was a straight shot. She'd be fine.

Turning back, he felt along the wall to his old bedroom. He could find his way in the dark, and that was good. The farther down the hallway he traveled, the thicker the smoke became. He couldn't see. Could barely breathe...

Something was wedged up against the bedroom door, resisting his attempt to shove it open. His heart leaped into his throat. Was it a body?

"Amelia!" he screamed hoarsely, struggling against the resistance. He got his head into the room, and then his chest and shoulders. Something grabbed his arm, yanking hard, and he toppled to the floor.

The air, although thick, was easier to breathe, and he coughed out a lung and blinked tears from his eyes as he struggled to his feet. Amelia was by the door, kicking something white and bulky up against the seam beneath it. A towel, it looked like. That must be why the smoke hadn't penetrated the room.

"Papa!" The shrill cry was all the warning he needed, and he turned away from Amelia just in time to drop into a crouch and catch Reb as she threw herself into his arms.

"We gotta go, Ames," he said, cradling Reb's head against his chest as she wailed.

"I know." She snatched the rumpled sheet from the bed and bit into the edge to start a tear, ripping off three large chunks. A pitcher of water sat on the table by the bed and she turned it upside down over the pile of ragged cloth. She handed two to him and took the last for herself, tying it across her face like an outlaw. Her eyes were fierce and determined and there, in her tattered nightgown and her makeshift bandanna, she was the most glorious thing he'd ever seen. Staggered, Josh sat on the bed, letting Reb settle in his lap just long enough to wrap his own cloth around his face and secure his daughter's as well. Then he stood, gathering her back into his arms.

"Let's go," he said, taking in a few last, sacred breaths of clean air. He waited until Amelia took his hand and gave him a determined nod. Then he kicked the towel away from the door, wrenched it open, and plunged out into the hallway.

His lungs immediately seized, his arm contracting around Rebecca as she squirmed, her tiny body wracked with ragged coughs and hoarse cries. He heard Amelia coughing as well, but he didn't have to pull on her to keep her with him. She stumbled along at his side, as determined as he was to see their daughter to safety. He wanted to reassure them both, but all he could do was command his legs toward the stairs and pray his lungs didn't give out before they escaped.

The acrid smoke sealed his eyes shut, and he thanked the Lord he'd grown up in this house as muscle memory commanded he turn left toward the stairs when he reached them. He braced himself for Amelia to stumble into him as they descended the first few steps, slowing until she caught her feet, then shifting back into a run.

Too fast.

He went too fast.

Even through the blood roaring in his ears and the sound of his own ragged coughing, he heard Amelia cry out. She stumbled and fell, and he threw himself back and to the side, pinning her against the wall so she couldn't tumble past him, headlong down the stairs. He waited for her to find her feet, but her body slumped further against the wall. Her coughs were growing more ragged, each inhale a hard-fought wheeze.

No.

Rebecca's little body spasmed in his arms. He needed to get her out. He needed to get them both out, dammit.

"Go!" He heard Amelia scream, the sound little more than a gasp. But he heard the command. The desperation. "Go!" She sagged against the stairs, her body giving out from lack of air.

God, no. If it was just him he'd stay right there and die with her, but it wasn't just him. He had Reb. Goddammit, no!

With a roar of raw fury that caught in his throat, he abandoned his wife's slumped form and threw himself down the last four steps, praying Melissa had left the door open behind her as he hunched his body over Reb's and ran headlong through the doorway. He didn't have time to stop and feel in front of him. His body was failing on him too, his knees giving out. If he stopped he would die. 

Rebecca would die. 

The ground disappeared beneath him and he turned instinctively, landing hard on his back in icy slush with Rebecca secure against his chest. Gasping for air, he forced his eyes open and saw Melissa hovering over him, tugging at his arms.

"Give her to me," she was yelling, pulling at Rebecca. His daughter was still coughing. Crying. She was alive.

His wife...

Pushing Reb into his sister's arms, he sat up and launched himself forward. The porch steps he'd just dove down loomed ahead of him, and he clawed his way to his feet as he ascended them. His lungs rejected the fresh air, but he forced them to expand, dragging in a deep, agonizing breath of cold air before diving back into the inky smoke.

He tripped over Amelia as he ran up the stairs, misjudging where he'd left her. He didn't bother to jostle her or attempt to wake her. Whether she was conscious or not, she clearly couldn't walk. His hand closed on a slender wrist, his other found her waist, and he dragged her upright, hauling her arm around his neck. She sagged against him as he stood to his full height, and he couldn't linger on what that meant.

Dizzy, disoriented, he half-fell down the stairs, barely keeping his grip on Amelia as her feet dragged, tripping him as he struggled forward. This time he had the presence of mind to realize when he'd burst out onto the porch and didn't inadvertently throw them down the steps. Someone appeared at Amelia's other side, although his eyes wouldn't open to tell him who. Whoever it was bore some of her weight as he dragged her down the porch and out into the yard, struggling to blink his burning eyes.

When he drew even with Melissa, kneeling in the snow with Rebecca cradled in her arms, he stopped. His mystery helper was his Paul, but he couldn't muster a well-deserved 'thanks' for the man as he dropped to his knees, lowering Amelia onto her back in the snow.

"Ames, honey," he coughed out, brushing the hair away from her soot-streaked face. "Honey, wake up."

"Josh, take Reb." He looked up, and there was Melisa. She held out his daughter and he took her, pressing her face into his shoulder to keep her from watching. Melissa bent low, hovering her ear over Amelia's parted lips, one hand on her chest and the other pressed to the pulse point in her neck. Tears of anguish and smoke-irritation streamed down his face as he stifled coughs and prayed harder than he'd ever prayed before. "She's breathing," Melissa said finally, and his heart threatened to leap right out of his chest. "Here, move back."

He shuffled backwards on his knees and Melissa pushed Amelia onto her side just as his wife's body seized with a weak, ragged cough. She convulsed with the effort to breathe, tucking her legs up toward her chest as if to protect her burning lungs. Josh held Rebecca with one arm and reached out with the other, resting a hand on her shoulder.

"You're okay," he said hoarsely as Melissa rubbed her back and offered similar encouragements. At long last, the coughing fit eased and she slumped onto her back, swollen eyes blinking open. She had a hand pressed to her chest, and he clung to the other. When her eyes met his, flicking from his face to Rebecca cuddled in his arms, she burst into tears.

"Woah," he said, trying to hold her down as she threw herself upright. It was no use. She stubbornly shoved his hand away and wavered for a moment, still coughing every other breath. Then she flew at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sandwiching Rebecca between them.

"We're okay," he promised, rubbing her back and wishing his voice sounded stronger. "You're okay. We're okay."

And for a second, they were. He had his daughter. He had his wife. He had his sister. Everything that mattered was where it ought to be.

Except...

"No!" The anguished cry broke through his relief, and he lifted his face from Amelia's hair to see his father fighting against two ranch hands. Most of the men had come up from the complex to put out the new fire, already forming a bucket line. As he watched, his father broke loose from the two restraining him and staggered up the porch steps. He made it one step into the house before the smoke drove him back out. Stumbling off the porch, he collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

"No!" he wept, bending over and pounding his fists into the ground before sitting back on his heels and raising his face to the heavens. "I'm sorry!" he screamed. "I'm sorry. Give him back! God, no! Brent. Brent!!!"