Read Online A Shiloh Christmas by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor - Free Book Online Page B

down the bank, getting ready to use a portable pump to refill the engine’s tank with creek water.
    â€œOh no! Oh no!” Ma keeps whispering to herself over and over, one hand to her cheek, the other on Becky’s head. We can’t see what’s behind the fire, just one big mass of gray smoke, but we know there’s some houses in that woods. Some right nice ones too. Cars are coming to a stop now behind the fire truck, men won’t let themcross the bridge even if they got a house over there. People get out of their cars and come down to stand by us.
    â€œThe drought’s turned the whole woods to kindling,” one woman says. “Do you suppose there’s even enough water in the creek to fight this thing? Water level was already down two feet.”
    â€œIt’s all we’ve got,” a man answers. “No hydrants up here.”
    A tall tree, burning, falls to the ground on the other side, and the whole sky seems to light up for a minute or two, the flames so high, sparks going everywhere, setting more dry brush on fire.
    Becky pulls Ma’s hand away and looks up at her. “Is that hell?” she asks in a tiny voice.
    Ma swoops down and lifts her up, hugs her. “No, Becky,” she says, trying to sound calm. “This is just a terrible accident that shouldn’t have happened.”
    Dara Lynn’s crawled up a crabapple tree so she can see better. The line of cars behind the fire truck is longer, more coming all the time. Then I see this dark-green pickup come barreling up over the hill. It slows down, like all the others, then swerves over onto the shoulder, front tires in the field.
    Judd Travers jumps out and starts running toward the bridge.
    â€œI got to see Judd,” I tell Ma, and I’m running up the road to meet him.
    By the time I get there, though, Judd’s standing still, one hand to his forehead, eyes fixed on the fiery woods across the creek and the blackened land behind it. Suddenly his legs seem to give way. He squats down there in the road and buries his head on his arms.
    I stoop down beside him.
    â€œJudd, you okay?” I say.
    â€œMy dogs . . . ,” he’s saying, over and over.
    â€œI let ’em loose, Judd,” I tell him. “I don’t know where they went, but they run off.”
    He jerks around. “You got ’em out?”
    â€œYeah, I was—”
    But I don’t get a chance to say any more, ’cause he’s got one arm around my shoulder so hard I almost sit down on the ground.
    â€œThank you, Marty. Thank you,” he says.
    And then, almost as though he’d just thought of it, he says, “My trailer burned up, didn’t it?”
    â€œI suppose so,” I say, and he just nods.
    We hear another car door slam and then loud crying, and it’s one of Judd’s neighbors. One of the Donaldsons, I think.
    â€œMy house! My house!” the woman screams, and shejust goes on screaming and screaming, pounding her fists on the roof of her car as neighbors put their arms around her.
    I’m thinking what Ma once said—that if there was ever a fire or a tornado coming, the one thing she’d grab once her children were safe would be the photo album of family pictures. And I wonder what this woman’s grieving most, or if it’s just all of it together.
    I can’t tell how wide the fire burned, but after a long while I see firemen coming through the burned-out woods from the other side. Sirens are still wailing, though, more and more trucks coming, wanting to be sure every last spark is out, and I suppose some men will be on duty all night long to see it don’t flare up again. On the other side of the bridge, the black branches of burned-out trees stretch to the right and left, on and on.
    Then I see Dad walking along the edge of the road way down, mailbag over his shoulder, past the line of parked cars, everybody gathering near the bridge.