Fortune's Cinderella

She molded herself to him once more, as though she belonged there. “I don’t want to die with regrets, wondering why I didn’t try to go after my dreams. And I have to say, if I did kick the bucket right now? Sure, I’d be pissed that I didn’t get there, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I was on my way.”

Scott’s heart constricted as he fought the urge to tell her that she’d made him think more, feel more, in the past few hours than he probably had in ten years. If ever. That, suddenly and inexplicably, the thought of never seeing her again bothered him far more than the possibility of not making it out alive.

But he didn’t dare say that.

Not in words, at least.

“Christina?” he whispered, waiting for her face to lift to his before cupping her cheek. “This is nuts, but I want—” He swallowed.

“Go for it, Bucko,” she whispered, then softly laughed, low in her throat. “Not like anybody’s gonna know but us.”

Or at least that’s what he thought she said over his pounding heart as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Chapter Three

“Holy hell! Found ’em—!”

“They okay—?”

“Think so, although the gal looks like she’s stuck. Frank! Hernando! Get your butts over here, now!”

Jerked awake, Scott batted at the bright light searing his eyes … until it registered that was the sun shining in his face.

“Hey, buddy—how’re you doing?”

Scott shook the last remnants of sleep and disbelief from his brain as Christina stirred in his arms, then let out a little cry. Although whether from relief, surprise or pain, Scott couldn’t tell.

“I’m fine, but she’s—”

“Yeah, we can see that,” the rescuer said, his voice graveled with both age and what had undoubtedly been a very long night. “It’s okay, sweetheart, we’re gonna get you outta there in two shakes.” Then, to Scott, “You did good, keeping her warm like that. Can you walk?”

“Yes. At least,” he said as he tried to stretch out his cold, stiff muscles, “I could before I fell asleep—”

“Good,” the rescuer said as three or four other people appeared, bustling around Christina, “’Cause I need you outta the way so the paramedics can do their thing—”

“But—”

“Go check on your family,” Christina said, her voice rough, “they must be worried sick.” When he still hesitated, she shut her eyes and commanded, “Go.”

“I’ll be back. I swear,” he said, although he doubted she’d heard him.

Stooped over, he crawled through the tunnel the rescuers had made in the destruction, releasing a nauseous gasp when he emerged into what looked like the set from a disaster movie.

Momentarily paralyzed, Scott struggled to absorb the scene as dozens of rescuers, some in National Guard uniforms, swarmed around him—the odd wall, still inexplicably standing; the sunlight dancing across the glass-littered ground, glancing off twisted pieces of what Scott realized in horror was a small plane; rows of seats, the leather furniture from the lounge upended, mutilated, half-buried underneath what had been the second floor. And above it all, framing the destruction, the blue, cloudless sky, serene and still and contrite, as though denying the fury it had unleashed only hours before.

“Scott! Thank God!”

He wheeled around to see Blake and Mike striding toward him, dusty and muddy and scratched up, but otherwise okay, and his head snapped back to the present. Then his cousin, Victoria, her dark curls a tangled, filthy mess, appeared, squealing as she threw her arms around each one’s neck in turn, all of them talking at once.

“—ceiling caved in so we couldn’t get out—”

“—Javier’s in bad shape, they’ve already taken him to the hospital, Miguel’s with him—”

“—Dad’s in an ambulance, something about chest pains—”

“—Mom’s got a broken wrist—”

“—but they had to give her something to calm her down,” Victoria put in, tears brimming in her eyes. “Because, that flight attendant? She … she didn’t make it.” Scott swore as Mike laid a hand on Scott’s arm, the uncharacteristic gesture raising the hairs on the back of Scott’s neck. “They haven’t found Emily yet, either.”

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t, for the first time in his life, make a decision. Try to find his sister or go back for Christina? Honor a promise he’d only made a few minutes ago, or his duty to family?

Frowning, Scott glanced back over his shoulder, then sighed. Meeting his brothers’ gazes, he asked, “Where was Em when the storm hit?”

“Over there, talking to Aunt Virginia,” Victoria said, pointing to where the lounge had been, then shuddering. “But then, so was I, and I ended up way the heck over there.” Her arms folded across her ribs, she nodded toward the other side of the building, then started to cry. “Oh, God—what if Em’s …”

She burst into sobs as Blake wrapped one arm around her shoulders, a moment before a shout went up from about twenty feet away.

“We got her!”

Scott and the others picked their way through the wreckage as fast as they could, getting to Emily right as the rescuers pulled her free. Like the rest of them, she was dirty and debris-ravaged, but, other than a wonky ankle, she seemed none the worse for wear.

Physically, at least. Because Scott wondered what sort of psychological toll the last fifteen, sixteen hours would have on all of them, none of whom had ever been through anything even remotely life-threatening before. Certainly he would never be the same, he thought as he made his way back to where he and Christina had spent that long, cold, miserable night, only to find that she, too, was already gone.

“Where?” he asked a state trooper on the scene.

“Same place they took everybody else. San Antonio Memorial.” The trooper looked over at his brothers and cousin. “Y’all need a ride?”

“I … I don’t know.” Forking a hand through his hair, Scott scanned the surreal landscape. “The cars—”

“All totaled,” the trooper said gently. “Except for that Escalade over there. Some dings and scrapes, but otherwise intact. Probably drives okay. Strange, how these things happen. I’ve seen entire blocks wiped out, except for one house left standing, untouched.” Away from the mangled building by now, the officer nodded toward the SUV, which did indeed look virtually unscathed. “A rental, I’m guessing from the license plate.”

Scott nodded, his throat constricting. Around them, lights flashed, radios squawked from assorted emergency vehicles. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mike climbing into one of the ambulances, its siren bloop-blooping as it started away. “Yeah. Ours,” he finally got out as he took in the crushed Explorer lying on its side.

“Then you’ll be wanting these,” the trooper said, digging in his pocket and handing over the keys. “They were in the ignition, so I figured I’d better take ’em. Not that I expect anybody to come out here looking for trouble, but you never know.”

Scott nodded his thanks, then said, “My brothers, they said …” His stomach turned. “Javier Mendoza? Do you have any idea where he is?”

The grave, compassionate expression in the man’s gray eyes said far more than Scott wanted to hear. “That must be the guy they got to first, lying right past the doorway. He’s probably already at the hospital by now, they can tell you more when you get there.” The man rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “You okay, son? That bruise on the side of your head bothering you any—?”

“I’m fine. Or will be, soon enough. Thank you.”

The trooper’s radio crackled; with a wave he walked away, the same moment a reedy, but surprisingly strong, voice called out.

“Oh, Scotty—thank God you’re all right!”

Forcing a smile for his mother, Scott made his way through the angled vehicles toward her, the warm sun again giving the lie to the wicked, bizarre weather from the day before. Wrapped in a silver Mylar blanket and propped up on a gurney, her arm strapped to her chest, his mother accepted his kiss, then asked, with anxious eyes, if they’d found Emily.

“Yes. A few minutes ago—”