“But the horses—”
“Olivia Marie Moore.”
She stops.
My voice breaks on her name. I hate it. I hate the fear in her eyes. I hate the smoke pressing black against the windows behind me.
“You stay in this house,” I say. “I mean it. No matter what you hear. No matter what you see. You stay here.”
Her chin trembles.
“Mama.”
“I love you. Stay.”
Then I’m out the door.
Chilled night air hits my face, but the heat from the barn is already too strong. Smoke rolls across the yard. The horses scream again, wild with terror.
Rory’s gone. I sent him and the rest of the staff and volunteers home hours ago.
It’s just me.
“Please,” I whisper, running harder. “Please, please, please.”
The barn door burns along one edge, but the latch still holds. I grab the metal and scream as it sears my palm. Pain flashes up my arm.
No time.
I use my sleeve, yank hard, and stumble back as the door swings open.
Smoke pours out.
I cough, bending low, eyes watering instantly.
“Easy!” I shout, though nothing about this is easy. “Easy, babies. I’m here.”
The first horse slams against his stall door hard enough to make the wood crack.
“Hey!” I cough. “Hey, look at me.”
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
He’s trapped. Terrified. Half-mad with instinct.
I fumble with the latch, fingers clumsy, burned palm screaming. The moment the door opens, he surges out. His shoulder clips mine, knocking me into the wall.
Pain bursts through my ribs, but I stay on my feet.
Barely.
“Go!” I shout, smacking his rump as he bolts toward the open barn door. “Go, go, go!”
One down.
Too many left.
