Rain of Fire by Linda Jacobs

were questions she couldn’t bring herself to answer.
    “Helen’s boyfriend is an Associate Professor at the University of Washington.”
    “Any chance of her leaving you?”
    “Lord, I hope not. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
    He turned his attention to the dinghy. “Give me a hand with this.”
    Together, they lowered the small boat. Once free of the cruiser, it looked like a plump toy bobbing. Nonetheless, Kyle handed down the seismograph and a pair of lifejackets and joined Wyatt aboard. As they headed toward shore, she told herself the lake seemed rougher because she was in a small vessel.
    Yet, by the time they were near the island, she was certain something was amiss. Though the wind was not any stronger, the lake churned with whitecaps that had definitely not been there before.
    A nasty wave slapped the side of the boat, sending her equilibrium haywire.
    She reached to grab the gunwale and missed. It reminded her of when she was a kid and misjudged a leap from one tree limb to another. Almost in slow motion, she fell forward.
    Though Wyatt caught a handful of her parka, he couldn’t stop her. Her hand plunged into cold water and her sunglasses splashed into the lake. Then she crashed into the boat’s side, taking the impact on her chest beneath her right arm.
    Pain exploded.
    “You okay?” He still had hold of her coat.
    “Damn.” She squinted against broken diamonds of light and wished her glasses hadn’t sunk.
    Though the first sharpness of hurt began to dull, an experimental breath sent a stab through her chest. “I hope I haven’t broken a rib,” she managed. In a moment, she’d try and sit upright.
    Another wave smacked the engine, causing it to shift and turn the boat broadside.
    Wyatt let Kyle go and scrambled for the tiller. The engine sputtered and died, the dinghy tilted at a sickening angle, lake and sky seemed to spin.
    A bigger wave broke, leaving Kyle and Wyatt thigh-deep in the overturning boat as their personal flotation gear washed into the lake. If she’d thought the water frosty when she stuck her hand in, she’d severely underestimated.
    Wyatt abandoned ship. His angular face set in concentration as he fought to stand in the surf and drag the boat the remaining two yards to the sand. Trying to ignore her pain, Kyle scrambled out chest-deep and floundered toward the bow. Another comber washed in and she found herself swimming in waterlogged clothing.
    Over the slap and crash of waves, she heard Wyatt shout for her to try and grab the boat. The next deluge broke on top her shoulders and shoved her down like a huge hand.
    Kyle kept her eyes open to dispel the suffocating darkness, but the clear lake had turned turbid. She windmilled, imagining darker and dirtier waters.
    Another wave crashed, rolling her over. Her boot brushed gravel and she staggered to stand. Wyatt’s hand stretched toward her.
    Before she could reach it, the next swell lifted her to the foundering dinghy. The one after helped her and Wyatt push the boat onto the beach.
    As if a pack of hounds pursued her, she clambered out. Her parka must weigh a hundred pounds, water pouring out of its pockets and folds onto the gray pumice sand.
    “What in hell?” Wyatt said, just as she realized she was still off kilter, like riding an elevator that traveled in small jerks.
    “Earthquake,” she gasped.

    The first thing Wyatt heard when the ground stopped shaking was Kyle’s laughter.
    Not a merry sound, but the raucous guffaw that had seized him and his buddies in the old Bozeman neighborhood when Jules Feinstein fell off his bike. The kind of laugh you didn’t intend, yet, it was out there with an edge that bordered hysteria.
    “You okay?” he asked. He’d never thought of Kyle as anything but tough.
    It took her a few moments, but she finally swallowed her laughter with a gulp that sounded like a hiccup. “Fine.”
    She didn’t look fine. The rap on her side explained a lot, but there seemed to