Page 168 of The Fire Line

“You are.”

“Harris—”

“You almost went down ten minutes ago.”

“And you have one functioning hand and possibly broken ribs.”

“I can walk.”

“That remains an extremely low standard.”

The argument ended when a cough bent Jay forward. Harris waited while he braced both hands against his knees and fought his way through it, and by the time Jay straightened again his face had gone pale beneath the soot.

“You’re riding Rain.”

Jay looked toward the mare. “We don’t have a bridle.”

“Don’t need one. She’ll stay with me.”

Rain had already drifted back to Harris’s shoulder, as if interested in demonstrating the point herself. Jay looked between them and managed a tired, “Of course she will.”

Harris helped him mount from Rain’s left side, doing most of the lifting with his unburned arm and regretting it immediately when the movement pulled at his ribs. Jay got one leg over and settled bareback, both hands disappearing into Rain’s mane while he found his balance.

“You staying on?”

“Probably.”

“Good enough.”

Harris started east, and Rain simply came with him.

There was no rope between them and no need for one. She stayed near his shoulder as they worked their way across the burned ground, occasionally moving ahead when deadfall forced them into single file and then slowing until Harris caught up. Jay sat forward over her neck, conserving whatever energy he had left, while Red followed several yards behind. His injured leg made his stride stiff and uneven, but he continued bearing enough weight to move without being driven.

Their pace was slow, though Harris had stopped caring much about speed. Rain found routes around smoking roots and damaged timber before he did, and Harris let her choose whenever her judgment looked better than his own. He checked Red’s gait often and Jay’s condition even more often, trying unsuccessfully to keep the latter from becoming obvious.

Eventually Jay looked down at him. “Still here.”

“I know.”

Harris faced forward again and kept walking. He didn’t need the words to carry anything larger than what they meant. Jay was awake, breathing, and sitting on Rain beside him. After the night they had survived, that was enough information.

They reached the Forest Service road shortly before eleven. Fresh tire tracks crossed the ash, and Harris stopped long enough to try the radio. This time a fragment of speech surfaced beneath the static—something about units searching north—before disappearing again.

Jay lifted his head. “They’re looking for us?”

“Could be.”

Harris keyed the radio. “Harris Shaw. North Ridge, upper Forest Service road east of the old lookout. Two people, two horses. Anybody copy?”

Static swallowed the response. He tried once more before clipping the radio back to his belt and starting south again.

The road made the footing easier, but by noon every step was pulling harder at Harris’s ribs and his burned hand had swollen enough inside the dressing that he had stopped trying to flex it. Jay looked worse. His shoulders sagged with Rain’s movement, and whenever her gait stayed steady for too long, his eyes began to close.

“Jay.”

His eyes opened.

Several minutes later Harris had to say his name again, and this time Jay looked down at him with faint irritation. “This is getting repetitive.”