Fortune's Cinderella

“Nothing wrong with that. But there’s no one to help you out?”

“Not really, no. Although I’m hoping to finish up in the next year or so. And after that—way after that, most likely—I’d like to have my own business.”

“Doing what?”

“You don’t—”

“Christina. Captive audience. Go for it.”

A moment passed before she said, “I’ve got a couple of ideas, although nothing’s set in stone. But I’m good with animals, so I thought maybe a pet grooming shop. Or one of those spas where people could leave their pets for me to spoil while they go on vacation? Although that would mean owning someplace large enough to do that, so that’s definitely on the ‘someday’ list … oh, it’s silly, isn’t it?”

“Now why would you say that?”

“Because … I don’t know. My plans must seem like small potatoes to somebody like you.”

“One, you are not allowed to sell yourself short. Two, all businesses start with a seed. An idea. Feed that idea with focus and determination and it will grow.”

“And sufficient start-up capital,” she said with a sigh.

“Somebody’s done her homework. I’m impressed.”

“Homework, I can do. Finding money lying around under rocks, not so much.”

He smiled. “If the idea is good, the financing will fall into place.”

“So would you finance my start-up?”

“Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”

“So would you?”

Scott chuckled. And got a sweet whiff of what was left of her perfume or hair stuff or whatever it was. “Show me a well-thought-out business plan and we’ll talk.”

“You’re not just saying that because you’re figuring we’re gonna die here and then you’ll be off the hook?”

“We’re not going to die, Christina.”

She snuggled closer, her arm banding his ribs as she whispered, “Do you know I’ve never told another living soul about this?”

“Not even your mother?”

“Especially not my mother.” She paused. “Since she’s shot down everything I’ve ever tried. Or ever wanted to do. Not exactly a big cheerleader.”

“That’s rough.”

“Eh,” she said on a shrug, “it taught me early on to be self-reliant. ‘Course, that doesn’t make an ideal mate, either. Prob’ly why I haven’t been on a date in, oh … two years?”

Gal was definitely getting tired, Scott thought with a weary smile of his own. Inhibitions shattered and all that.

“Two years? Really?”

“Yep.” She yawned. “Got tired of the stupid games. Of meeting a guy and thinking he’s nice, only to find out he automatically expects something in return for taking me out to dinner. That he’s not even remotely interested in getting to know me as a person. Sucked.”

Bitterness, dulled and worn, veneered her words. And provoked him into defending his sex. “Not all men are like that.”

“Then maybe I’m just lousy at picking ’em,” she said, her accent getting heavier the sleepier she got. “But you know? I’m okay with being on my own. It’s kinda nice, being able to make my own decisions about what’s best for me without having to swing ’em past anybody else.” This last bit was accentuated with a sweeping arm gesture before she snuggled closer, rubbing her cheek against his chest. Damn.

“You’re awfully young to be so cynical,” he said into her dusty hair.

She shrugged, clearly unperturbed. “Better than havin’ my head in the clouds.”

She yawned again, one of those double yawns that signified that sleep couldn’t be far behind. Yet despite her soft voice, her words were clear. “I’m a realist, Scott. I know who I am. Where I came from. Maybe not exactly where I’m going, but close enough. What’s in my control and what’s not. Like … if I never get married, maybe I’ll … adopt someday.” She hmmphed tiredly. “Never told anybody that, either.”

And the longer she talked, the more her honesty seemed to wrap around his soul, nourishing something inside him he hadn’t even known was hungry. “Were you always this wise? Or has experience made you this way?”

“Hell if I know,” she said, and he laughed. “But I am a real firm believer in being true to yourself. In knowing who you are and what you want, and then doing your best to make those two things work together. Long as you understand the road between points A and Z might not always be a smooth one.”

At that, Scott held her closer, resting his cheek in her hair, as if doing so would help him absorb some of whatever it was that had so firmly grounded her. “What if … you get so entrenched in Point A you can’t even see Point Z? What if you’re not even sure what Point Z is?”

He could sense her tilting back to look at him, even though he couldn’t imagine what she’d see in the murky light. “Seems to me all you need to know is that where you are in your life? It’s not working anymore. And then have the guts to do something about it. Because way too many people get so caught up in doing things the way they’ve always done them, living the lives they’ve always lived, that they don’t even know they’re unhappy. And that, to me, feels unbearably sad.”

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—”

“Is she … is she all right?”

“She’s fine. Her ankle’s a little messed up, but you know our Em—can’t keep a good girl down—”

“And Jordana?”

Figuring whatever they’d given her, combined with the trauma, was playing tricks with their mother’s head, Scott said quietly, “Jordana didn’t come, remember? She stayed at the resort—”

“No, no—she called me on my cell about ten minutes before the tornado hit, said she’d changed her mind and was getting a ride to the airport with that Tanner person.” She grasped Scott’s wrist with her good hand, her eyes wide with fear. “Oh, God, Scott—if she was on the road—”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Mom,” Scott said evenly, even if his stomach didn’t agree.

“All righty, Mrs. Fortune, we need to get going,” the attendant said, adding, as another pair of EMTs wheeled Emily toward them, “Your daughter’s going to ride with you, how’s that?”

“Emily, sweetheart …!”

As the last ambulance finally pulled away with his mother and sister inside, Scott stood with his hands in his pants pockets, a light, chilly breeze ruffling his hair as he surveyed the decimated landscape—fences gone, trees uprooted or snapped in two, entire windbreaks felled like bowling pins. Oddly, the storm seemed to have inflicted far less damage to the flight school building behind him—it was still standing, at least—but Scott had overheard some of the rescuers saying that this tornado was only one of a series. That others—although not as devastating, thankfully—had also touched down in Red Rock itself, causing even more damage.

Blake came up beside him, one hand on his hip, the other cuffing the back of his neck. “Holy crap.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Think this is what’s known as one of those life-altering events.”

A lot more than you know, Scott mused, his thoughts drifting back to Christina—the heat of her hand gripping his, her trusting weight against his chest … the lingering buzz from that sweetly electric kiss. Still. Even in the clear light of day.

Crazy.

But damn if he didn’t feel as though somebody’d flipped a switch in his brain … a switch he hadn’t even known had been in the “off” position.

He looked back over Blake’s shoulder to see their cousin picking through the debris, wobbling on her high-heeled boots like a tipsy mountain goat. “What on earth is Victoria doing?”

“Looking for her luggage, she said. I suppose it’s giving her something to focus on so she won’t freak out.” Blake met Scott’s gaze. “She keeps talking about some dude in a cowboy hat pulling her out of the rubble then disappearing. Got any clue who she’s talking about?”

“None,” Scott said, thinking he had far more pressing things on his mind than Victoria’s mystery cowboy in shining armor. Like the woman who, in one night, had twisted him far more inside out than a tornado ever could. Not knowing how badly she was hurt …

Pulling the rental’s keys from his pocket, Scott called to his cousin. “Vicki! We need to get to the hospital.”

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. The wind caught in her hair, whipping it around her smudged face. “But … my things …”

“Now, Victoria,” Scott said sharply, walking to the SUV, his brother and muttering cousin following suit.

“Sorry,” she mumbled after she got into the back. “I’m just hungry. And exhausted. And …” She let out a muffled sob. “And when I think—”

“It’s okay, honey,” Scott said as they slowly pulled away, the car’s shocks working overtime as they drove over the chewed up ground. “We’ve all had a rough time.”

And yet, he mused as they reached the highway, where it became much smoother going except for the occasional jagged branch or chunk of somebody’s shed, not once during their ordeal had Christina complained. Even though she had to have been in pain. And frightened out of her wits.

If anything happened to her …

He stepped on the gas.

Not surprisingly, the E.R. was borderline chaos, all the exam rooms filled, a pair of obviously harried nurses doing triage on the dozens of walking wounded flooding the waiting room.

“Scott! Over here!”

Emily was in a far corner, between a resigned-looking older man pressing a bloodstained towel to a gash in his head and a mother with worried eyes holding a sleeping toddler. His sister’s foot, wrapped in an ice pack, was elevated on a pillow on the glass table in front of her. Blake scanned the crowd. “Wow. Did San Antonio get hit, too?”

Emily shook her head, her pinched brow the only clue she’d been through hell. “No, just Red Rock. This is overflow from the Medical Center. Look,” she said, nodding toward the TV mounted high on the opposite wall, where a camera panned parts of the town, showing the damage. Considering what might have been, though, things could have been much worse.

For all of them.

He turned back to his sister. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“In treatment rooms. Mike’s been toggling between the two of them. I’d bug the desk for more information, except, one, I can’t exactly move and, two, I’m afraid of that nurse. Yeah, that one, in the pink scrubs. Don’t let the teddy bears fool you—she’s fierce.” The man with the bleeding head was called to see the doctor. With a heavy sigh, Victoria plopped into his vacated seat, laid her head on Emily’s shoulder. She smiled for her cousin, then said, “Eventually I’ll get into the inner sanctum and find out what’s going on, but …”

She glanced across the room, then whispered, “It’s Javier I’m most worried about, if the look on Miguel’s face is anything to go by.”

Scott twisted around to see Javier’s and Marcos’s brother, who’d come from New York for the wedding, sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, his head in his hands.

“Go on, talk to him,” Blake said. “I’ll check on Mom and Dad.”

Looking far more bedraggled than the rest of them, Miguel shakily stood at Scott’s approach. A small, tight smile strained his mouth. “Your family—is everybody okay?”

“More or less. Miguel—for God’s sake, sit, you look like you’re about to keel over. How is he?”

“It’s bad, man,” Miguel said, sinking onto the seat, strangling his still wet ball cap in his hands. “Real bad.” Terrified brown eyes lifted to Scott’s. “He’s … he’s unconscious, they don’t even know yet what needs fixing. His head, his legs …” The young man swallowed hard, obviously fighting for control.

“Damn …” Scott felt as though someone had put a stake through his chest. “You need me to make any calls—?”

“No, I already talked to Marcos. He’ll get in touch with everybody else.” He looked at Scott, obviously fighting tears. “I found him, right after the twister hit. I could tell he was in bad shape, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do—couldn’t call 911 because the cell service was down, couldn’t go get help because the roads were trashed. Best I could do was keep the worst of the rain off him, but …” Shaking his head, he looked away, a tear tracking down his filthy, stubbled cheek.

“Hey …” Scott laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. He made it through the night. That’s got to count for something—”

“I can’t stop thinking,” Miguel went on, his left leg bouncing, clearly not hearing any voices except the nasty ones in his own head, “what if he didn’t get help in time—?”

“And you’re only going to make yourself crazy, worrying like that,” Scott said, even though his own voices, making him worry and wonder about Christina, weren’t doing him any favors, either. When he spotted Blake, he waved him over. “I need to go check on my folks, but Blake will stay with you until your family arrives. And listen,” he added as he stood, “you know we’ll help in any way we can. Whatever Javier needs, it’s his. Got that?”

Miguel looked up, hope and terror fighting for purchase in red-rimmed eyes. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Despite Emily’s warning, Scott had no choice but to confront the obviously frazzled nurse at the desk. “Yes?” she snapped, not looking at him.

“I’d like to see my parents. Virginia Alice and John Michael Fortune?”

“Rooms 1B and 1A,” she said, jabbing a pen over her shoulder, “right on the other side of the door—”

“And you have another patient who came in by ambulance around the same time, Christina Hastings? Can you tell me which room she’s in?”

“She a relative, too?”

“No, but—”

“Only family’s allowed to see the patients, sorry.”

“You’re not serious?”

She frowned up at him. “Do I look like I’m in the mood to kid around?”

Frankly, Scott guessed that was a mood she was never in. “Then can you at least tell me her condition?”

“No.”

Scott leaned over the counter, close enough to make the woman back up. “If it hadn’t been for my family,” he said in a low voice, “it’s highly unlikely Miss Hastings would even need to be here right now. So if you don’t mind—”

“Do you see all these people, Mr. Fortune? Do you also see how many more of them there are than us? Now, please, go see your parents and let us get on with what we’re supposed to be doing. Which includes taking care of Miss Hastings.”

When the woman turned her back on him to answer another staff member’s question, Scott realized he’d lost that round. Which did not sit well. But, he thought as he strode toward the exam rooms, damned if he’d lose the next one.

He heard Mike’s agitated voice before he entered their father’s cubicle. Sitting with his ankle crossed over his other knee, his brother was on his phone, conducting business as though his Gucci suit wasn’t filthy and ripped, his thousand-dollar loafers caked in mud. More than that, however, as though their father wasn’t dozing in a hospital bed six feet away, hooked up to an army of machines and looking more vulnerable—more human—than Scott had ever seen him.

Tearing his eyes from his father, he said to Mike, “Somebody’s gonna be all over your ass about that cell phone. If I were you I’d switch to text.”

Behind him John Michael snorted. “Took you long enough.”

Okay, strike the vulnerable part of that description.

“Been a little busy, Dad.” Scott glanced at his brother, getting to his feet and walking out of the cubicle, presumably to continue his conversation without interference. “And Mike’s been with you.”

Their father grunted, his eyes drifting back closed. “True,” he said, his breathing slightly labored. “I can always count on Mike.”

And some things never change, Scott thought, although frankly he was too worn out—and this was neither the time nor the place—to take umbrage. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better. But it’s nothing a good night’s sleep and some decent food won’t cure.”

“So the pain in your chest—?”

His eyes opened again. “Gone. For the most part. It’s nothing, don’t know why everybody’s making such a fuss. They want to keep me overnight. Can you imagine?”