A Moment in Time (4 page)

      
She examined the cans closely.
 
One of them was badly dented, so she set it aside, not wanting to tempt fate
that
much.
 
There were no expiration dates on the labels, so she'd have to trust her eyes and sense of smell to steer her clear of food poisoning.

      
"Oh, gee, that gives me a not-so-warm fuzzy."
 
Grimacing, she popped up the metal ring on one can and peeled back the lid.
 
When she looked inside, all she saw were vienna sausages, nothing furry.
 
She took a tentative sniff and sighed in relief.
 
Carefully, she pulled a sausage from the can and turned it over several times.
 
She could either die of food poisoning or starvation.

      
Her stomach growled angrily.

      
"All right."
 
She pulled one out and took a bite.
 
The little fat-laden thing tasted fabulous.
 
She finished one and dug for another.
 
Then another.

      
"Don't be a pig, Clarke."
 
She set down the can, knowing the contents wouldn't spoil, since room temperature rivaled any refrigerator she'd ever owned.
 
She placed a full can on top of the open one to protect its contents.

      
There, she felt stronger now.
 
Having food in her stomach made her feel warmer, too.
 
At least she wouldn't starve to death for a while.

      
She explored the rest of the ground floor, but the steps were too rickety for her taste, so she skipped a tour of the second floor.
 

      
Angry and bored, she opened the whiskey and took a tentative sip.
 
She swallowed and waved her hand in front of her mouth.
 

      
Unaccustomed to whiskey, she was surprised by the sudden warmth that surged through her cold body.
 
Saint Bernards supposedly carried brandy to freezing people.
 
Right?
 
She furrowed her brow, trying to remember whether medical science still endorsed that practice.
 

      
Looking at the bottle's amber contents and black label, she shrugged.
 
"What the hell?"
 
It made her
feel
warmer.
 
She took another drink.
 
It went down much smoother this time.
 
In fact, it wasn't half bad.
 

      
Bottle clutched in her hand, she turned to look at Lolita again.
 
"Who
were
you?"
 
She looked at the woman's bright red hair.
 
"Only your hairdresser knows for sure."
 
Jackie winked and raised the bottle toward Lolita.
 
"Here's to helping Mother Nature.
 
I'm all for it," she touched her own hair and grimaced, "as you can see."

      
She lifted the bottle to her lips again and took a mouthful, swaying to one side with the effort.

      
"Steady as she goes, Clarke."
 
She raised the bottle and admired its sparkling contents through the dim light coming through the louvered shutters.
 
Tipping the bottle again, she gulped a huge swallow, then gave a very unladylike belch.
 
"Oops.
 
Hic.
 
'Scuse me."
 
She saluted Lolita.
 

      
"I bet you knew how to pick men."
 
Jackie rolled her eyes, noticing the mirror off to one side for the first time.
 
She staggered over a few steps and stared at herself.
 

      
"Yuck, Clarke."
 
She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head back, but the image looking back at her didn't improve.
 
"You're a–hic–mess."
 
There were bags under her eyes, and the dark green T-shirt just wasn't her color.

      
Her hair looked even worse now, if that was possible.
 
Plastered to one side of her head wasn't exactly the style she would've chosen for herself.
 
She closed her eyes tightly, then reopened them to study her appropriately warped reflection.
 
Her wild, shoulder-length hair was still red.
 
Really red.

      
Lolita red.

      
Looking back at Lolita, she sighed.
 
"I need something to do.
 
I'll bet the newest Anne Stuart romance is out by now."

      
Of course, she'd thought Blade would keep her much too busy for reading.
 
And he had...for a while.

      
"Bastard."

      
She placed her fanny pack and the whiskey bottle on the bar while she searched for her compact and a less warped mirror.
 
"Aha.
 
There you are."
 

      
Blade had practically begged her to go red, but she'd resisted for a while.
 
Narrowing her eyes, she peered at herself in the small mirror.
 
She should've resisted a lot harder.
 
Furiously, she powdered her shiny nose and looked again.
 
Nothing helped.

      
Red hair and Jackie Clarke just didn't complement each other.
 
She looked back at Lolita.
 
Adrenalin rushed through her veins as she studied the portrait.
 
"Hey, my hair is pretty close to your shade.
 

      
"What do you think?
 
Of course, this is only temporary.
 
I make a foxy brunette.
 
Could even give you a run for your money."
 
She lifted one corner of her mouth and snarled.
 
"Even if you did get in line twice when they were handing out boobs."
 
She shot Lolita's feather-draped breasts a caustic look.
 
"Make that three times."

      
With her bottle of whiskey in tow, she marched out to the kitchen in search of...something.
 
She positioned her open compact on the table and shivered.
 
"I'm freezing my ass off in the middle of nowhere, drinking alone, and talking to a dead woman.
 
Aunt Pearl'd have a cow.
 
What do you think?"

      
The mirror didn't answer.

      
"So, tell me, Jackie," she said solemnly.
 
"What is it with you and men?"
 
Rolling her eyes, she shook her head.
 
"Gee, I wish I knew."

      
Oh, maybe she did know, just a little. She wanted to love and be loved.
 
She wanted a family like the one she would have if she hadn't miscarried.
 
Of course, that marriage was doomed from the start, as Aunt Pearl had claimed.

      
Knock it off, Clarke.

      
Enough reminiscing–she was freezing.
 
There had to be a way to start a fire.
 
Surely there'd been a few smokers on the movie crew.
 
What better place to keep matches than in the kitchen for cooking?

      
Several discarded boxes littered the room.
 
She kicked them over with the toe of her boot, fearing she might disturb a hibernating rat or something.
 
One of the boxes clattered as it fell over, making her leap back and stop breathing.

      
After a moment, she inched forward and nudged the box around with her toe until she could see inside.
 
"Oh, my God," she whispered.
 

      
In the middle of several layers of crumpled newspaper was a kerosene lamp, a box of matches, and a bottle of kerosene.
 
Let there be light.
 
Her luck was definitely improving.
 

      
She retrieved the contents of the box and placed the objects on the table.
 
Carefully, she removed the top of the lamp and filled the reservoir with oil.
 
After replacing the top, she turned up the wick and fished a match out of the box.

      
Then she remembered how much warmer it was in the other room.
 
She went back, placed her newfound treasures on the bar in front of Lolita, and lit the lamp.
 

      
After a moment, a nice golden glow surrounded her.
 
Now all she needed was some heat and a miracle.
 
There was enough broken furniture in here to make a nice fire.

      
She gulped.
 
What if she burned the place down?
 
"Oh, hell, Clarke."
 
Chewing her lower lip, she gathered a few of the smaller pieces of wood and stuffed them into the stove.
 
Then she tore the last few pages out of the script and crumpled them, placing the paper beneath the wood.

      
Muttering a prayer, she struck a match and tossed it in, watching eagerly as the greedy flames devoured the paper, then went after the dry wood.
 
She studied the stovepipe.
 
So far, so good.

 
      
She shot Lolita a questioning glance.
 
"Well, what do you think?
 
I could've been an Eagle Scout.
 
So, now what am I supposed to do with myself?"

      
It was getting dark outside.
 
Hoping the darkness simply meant dusk instead of more snow, Jackie went to the shutters and peered outside.
 
The snow had stopped and patches of sky showed through the clouds, but she wouldn't be going anywhere in the dark.
 
The sun slowly disappeared behind the highest mountain peak, bathing the small valley in shadow.

      
A dark shape ran by, contrasting against the snow.
 
Was it a deer?
 
She wiped the glass and looked, but whatever it was had disappeared around the side of the building.

      
It grew darker by the second and Jackie shivered from more than merely cold.
 
She was alone in the mountains, stranded.
 

      
"Thank goodness I found the lamp."
 
She turned around and noticed the script she'd left on the bar.
 
With a shrug, she dragged a battered chair to the stove and wiped some of the dust from the seat.
 
"Please, don't let it be a horror story."
 
Her imagination was fertile enough without feeding it any Stephen King-like fodder.
 

      
It promised to be a long, cold night.
 
After placing a few more splintered pieces of furniture on the fire, she settled into the chair with the script in her lap, scooting the lamp closer.

      
"Cast of characters," she read.
 
"Lolita Belle?
 
Hmm.
 
So somebody wrote the bimbo's life story."
 
Relishing the fire's radiant heat, she allowed herself to be sucked into the story.
 
It was an old-fashioned romantic adventure, but when she reached the end she groaned.
 

      
She'd used the last few pages to light the fire.
 
Now she would never learn what happened to Lolita Belle.
 
"Shoot."
 

      
An odd, crackling sound came from overhead.
 
Frowning, Jackie looked up at the ceiling, bewildered at first by the bright orange fingers spreading across the cracked surface.

      
Reality finally registered and she dropped the script, jumping to her feet so fast the chair crashed to the floor.
 
The building was on fire.
 
She had to get out fast.
 
The crackling became a roar as the greedy flames lapped up the old structure.
 
She was surrounded.

      
Jackie dropped to her knees–the heat became unbearable.
 
Coughing, she crawled toward the bar, remembering a window along that wall.
 
Her skin stung from the intense heat and her throat burned.
 
Tears streamed down her face as the same prayer played through her head again and again.

      
God, help me.
 
Please help me.
 
All she'd wanted was some heat and a miracle.
 

      
Behind the bar, the air was somewhat cooler and the smoke less suffocating.
 
She drew several deep breaths before she rose.