Page 71 of In Honor’s Defense

“Quincy says we gotta plow a break.” Randall set the wagon brake, then hopped down and lowered the tailgate. Buck dismounted to assist in unloading an ancient-looking plow from the back of the wagon. “It’s more efficient than digging. If it’s wide enough, it’ll keep the fire from jumping. Then we can set a backfire to steal its fuel.”

They unhitched one of the wagon horses and hooked him to the plow. There wasn’t time to plow a complete perimeter around all the buildings, so Randall turned earth from the creek westward until a long line stood between the house and the fire. The rest of them spread out across the two hundred yards of burning prairie a quarter mile out from the plow line and focused their attention on keeping the blaze contained until they could risk setting the backfire.

Heat blistered Luke’s skin. Smoke stung his eyes and choked his lungs. His arms felt like dead weight hanging from his shoulders, but he kept shoveling. For Damaris. For Nate. For justice.

Because only one cause for this fire made any sense.

Arson.

When framing Nate failed to force the Baxters to sell, Harbinger must’ve decided to take away their reason for staying. A house fire would have been too suspicious, but a grass fire could be attributed to natural causes, stalling any investigation. They’d set it when Luke and Nate had been away, probably hoping it would rage out of control before anyone noticed. But they hadn’t counted on Damaris catching it early and riding for help. Her quick thinking had given them a chance. Now it was up to him to right the wrong.

He dug his shovel into the ground and threw another scoop of dirt onto the sputtering flames in front of him. How many shovelfuls had he spread? Two hundred? Three? Even through his work gloves, he could feel blisters forming on his palms. He glanced up from where he worked and spotted a new area of flames to his left. Too big for the shovel. He’d need a blanket. One heavy with water. His shoulders ached at the thought of swinging the weighted fabric, but he ignored the pain and stomped over to where the Triple G wagon waited.

“You need a break, Davenport.” Grimes, his face a sooty mess, met Luke partway and handed him a canteen.

Thankful for the moisture, Luke drank deep, the warm liquid soothing his scorched throat. He longed to dump the contents over his head, but water was too precious. They couldn’t afford to waste a drop.

He handed the canteen back to Grimes and kept moving toward the wagon. “I’ll rest when the fire’s out.”

“As to that—Randall finished plowing the break. We’re ready to set the backfire. He and Buck are using the last of the collected water to wet down the grass south of the plow line. As soon as they’re done, we’ll retreat behind the line and set the second fire. With any luck, that’ll slow this beast down, and we’ll finally be able to kill it.”

We need more than luck, Lord. We need you.

Luke reached over the side of the wagon and grabbed a blanket from the top of a pile, his brain so tired that it took him a moment to recognize the blanket he’d been sleeping under for the past couple of weeks. One of the hands must’ve gone through the Baxter barn and retrieved anything that could be of use.

“There’s a new flare-up on the west. I’m gonna beat that down.” He moved to the tailgate and dunked the blanket into a washtub that still held a few inches of water. “Once everyone has retreated behind the line, come fetch me. I’ll work until then.”

Grimes scowled at him. “Pace yourself, Horseman. We still got a long ways to go.”

“I know my limits.” And he knew his God—the source of all strength. He’d keep going until the Lord stopped him.

Ignoring Grimes, Luke tossed the wet blanket over his shoulder and marched back into battle.

Half an hour later, Buck came to fetch him. “We’re ready to light the backfire.”

Luke slapped the flames in front of him two more times before straightening. He rubbed the sweat from his brow with a grimy sleeve, knowing he was only spreading the soot around, but he had to protect his eyes. The smoke wreaked enough havoc without his own perspiration blinding him.

It grated against his spirit to walk away from an enemy not yet defeated, but this wasn’t a war he could win with blankets and shovels and his own waning strength. He needed to fight fire with fire. Which meant he needed to step away from the front line and temporarily retreat.

“Here,” Buck said as Luke came abreast of him. He held out a thick carrot. The top was still on and a bit of dirt clung to the skin, but it made Luke’s mouth water. “It ain’t much, but it’ll help keep yer strength up.”

“Thanks.” Luke took it and bit off a large hunk.

“Miss Baxter has a whole basketful of food back at her wagon. Carrots, peaches, blackberries, some strange-lookin’ bread. I think she grabbed any portable food she could find during her last water run.”

Luke stopped chewing and grabbed Buck’s arm. “Damaris is here?” In the path of the fire? His gut knotted in an instant.

His weariness forgotten, he took off running.

“She’s been behind the break the whole time,” Buck called after him. “She’s not in any danger.”

Maybe not at this moment. But what if the wind shifted? Grass fires jumped over breaks all the time. Even creek beds and streams. There was no guarantee she’d be safe.

The hissing sound of dying fire mixed with the crackling of living flames drove Luke to run faster. An urgency he couldn’t explain spurred him on. Blackened earth gave way to grass not yet consumed. And still he ran. Nearing the plowed firebreak, he spotted Randall wrangling Titan and the other horses. Grimes stood north of the break, matches in hand.

“What’s yer hurry?” the rancher called as Luke sped by.

Luke didn’t stop to answer. He spied the Baxter wagon to the right and veered in that direction. His heart pumped faster when he caught a glimpse of a second fire to the west. It must’ve started from a stray spark carried on the wind, for it had sprung to life well inside the break. Where no one was looking as they prepped for setting the backfire. The flames were contained to a small area, but they flickered unnaturally high and only a few yards from Damaris’s wagon. A wagon with no driver.