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Authors: Jennifer Zane
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garage was now a bunch of pieces all over the yard, the driveway and out into the street. Only the far right side remained intact, although most of the windows were blown out. Furniture and other household items littered the yard. A blender was three feet in front of us on the grass.
“Your truck,” I said, pointing to what was left of it. Somehow, the old fridge we’d seen in the garage had been hurled through the air in the explosion. And landed dead center on top of Ty’s truck.
Chapter Five
Ty looked over his shoulder at the new addition to his truck. The avocado green side-by-side fridge was lodged in the front windshield and roof at a forty-five degree angle. One door was wide open and frozen foods spilled out. He shook his head and swore. I only heard a few cuss words as he’d done it so quietly and the neighbor’s car alarm was going off. It could have been the ringing in my ears. It was hard to tell the difference.
A small fire sent black smoke up into the air where the back of the garage had been, but was minor enough not to set the whole house ablaze. The smell of cooked house blew on the breeze. As I couldn’t smell gas anymore, I had to assume it was all used up in the explosion when it launched the fridge through the air twenty feet.
Ty’s body was rigid, strung tight like a bow, but he didn’t shout or rant his anger. Like I would have if my car had been smooshed. When he turned to face me, he’d bottled it up tightly.
“Are you hurt?” He took my shoulders and looked me up and down, probably checking for any broken bones, bowel evisceration or hangnails. His voice had rough edges, his grip strong. I’d never seen such intensity in his eyes before. This must’ve been the look he had in battle in the Middle East. No doubt he’d seen worse in war.
My sunglasses were no longer on my face. I’d scraped my knees and hands where I’d skidded in the dirt. It stung, but I felt lucky with just that. He pulled a weed from my hair. Dirt covered my shirt and there was a small rip at the shoulder.
I shook my head. Stunned. “The house just blew up.” Duh.
Ty pulled me into his arms in a fierce hug, my face pressed against his chest. His rock hard chest. He smelled like soap, dirt and fire. I could feel his heartbeat pound against his ribs. At least the explosion affected him on a cardiovascular level.
One of the black shutters fell from the second floor and landed in a juniper.
“I know you’ve seen lots of crazy things with the fire department and stuff I can’t even imagine with the army. But in my little world houses don’t just blow up.”
“In everybody’s world houses don’t just blow up. Not from a propane tank. This house had help.”
***
An hour later I sat in a vintage lawn chair—the kind with the colored woven plastic from 1974—supplied by the elderly couple who lived across the street. I positioned myself in their driveway, a mug of coffee in hand (I told you Montanan’s are friendly), and watched the action across the street. The sun was warm and my shirt stuck to my body, damp with perspiration. The scalding hot coffee wasn’t very refreshing, but no one could see my hands still shaking while I held the cup. Mr. and Mrs. Huffman sat on either side of me, running a constant chatter about their suspicions.
“Those propane tanks are such a danger. I lay in bed thinking we’ll be blown up any minute,” Mrs. Huffman said. She had long white hair pulled up into a bun at the back of her head in a style reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie . She had a sweet disposition and was a Nervous Nelly.
Mr. Huffman was the complete opposite. Short and round, he’d be a great Santa Claus at the mall. Except for his carrot red hair and lack of beard. Even somewhere in his seventies, his hair was still red. “For Pete’s sake, Helen. You snore through this ridiculous worry of yours every night. Propane tanks don’t just blow up. There has to be some kind of
“Your truck,” I said, pointing to what was left of it. Somehow, the old fridge we’d seen in the garage had been hurled through the air in the explosion. And landed dead center on top of Ty’s truck.
Chapter Five
Ty looked over his shoulder at the new addition to his truck. The avocado green side-by-side fridge was lodged in the front windshield and roof at a forty-five degree angle. One door was wide open and frozen foods spilled out. He shook his head and swore. I only heard a few cuss words as he’d done it so quietly and the neighbor’s car alarm was going off. It could have been the ringing in my ears. It was hard to tell the difference.
A small fire sent black smoke up into the air where the back of the garage had been, but was minor enough not to set the whole house ablaze. The smell of cooked house blew on the breeze. As I couldn’t smell gas anymore, I had to assume it was all used up in the explosion when it launched the fridge through the air twenty feet.
Ty’s body was rigid, strung tight like a bow, but he didn’t shout or rant his anger. Like I would have if my car had been smooshed. When he turned to face me, he’d bottled it up tightly.
“Are you hurt?” He took my shoulders and looked me up and down, probably checking for any broken bones, bowel evisceration or hangnails. His voice had rough edges, his grip strong. I’d never seen such intensity in his eyes before. This must’ve been the look he had in battle in the Middle East. No doubt he’d seen worse in war.
My sunglasses were no longer on my face. I’d scraped my knees and hands where I’d skidded in the dirt. It stung, but I felt lucky with just that. He pulled a weed from my hair. Dirt covered my shirt and there was a small rip at the shoulder.
I shook my head. Stunned. “The house just blew up.” Duh.
Ty pulled me into his arms in a fierce hug, my face pressed against his chest. His rock hard chest. He smelled like soap, dirt and fire. I could feel his heartbeat pound against his ribs. At least the explosion affected him on a cardiovascular level.
One of the black shutters fell from the second floor and landed in a juniper.
“I know you’ve seen lots of crazy things with the fire department and stuff I can’t even imagine with the army. But in my little world houses don’t just blow up.”
“In everybody’s world houses don’t just blow up. Not from a propane tank. This house had help.”
***
An hour later I sat in a vintage lawn chair—the kind with the colored woven plastic from 1974—supplied by the elderly couple who lived across the street. I positioned myself in their driveway, a mug of coffee in hand (I told you Montanan’s are friendly), and watched the action across the street. The sun was warm and my shirt stuck to my body, damp with perspiration. The scalding hot coffee wasn’t very refreshing, but no one could see my hands still shaking while I held the cup. Mr. and Mrs. Huffman sat on either side of me, running a constant chatter about their suspicions.
“Those propane tanks are such a danger. I lay in bed thinking we’ll be blown up any minute,” Mrs. Huffman said. She had long white hair pulled up into a bun at the back of her head in a style reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie . She had a sweet disposition and was a Nervous Nelly.
Mr. Huffman was the complete opposite. Short and round, he’d be a great Santa Claus at the mall. Except for his carrot red hair and lack of beard. Even somewhere in his seventies, his hair was still red. “For Pete’s sake, Helen. You snore through this ridiculous worry of yours every night. Propane tanks don’t just blow up. There has to be some kind of
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