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“Where?” I called out, stepping away from Avery and the set piece, adrenaline surging, lieutenant-on-a-mission mode activated. Gather information. React. Plan. Everything else would have to wait.
“Over in the mercantile!” someone yelled back. Avery and I started running in that direction, past the storefront housing the wardrobe department, past the set for the brothel, and toward the building the crew had been using as a general store. Smoke billowed out the door, and a frantic crowd gathered nearby as word of the fire spread.
“What happened?” Avery snagged a dude I recognized from the camera crew. “Bunch of people hanging out there, and then there was crackling and flickering. The ghost—”
“Ghost. Fuck.” Avery and I groaned in unison.
“Faulty wiring.” Suddenly, the ghost reports made sense. Always the oldest buildings. Often nighttime when lights and electricity would be in demand. No ghost. Just ancient wiring, and had we all been less gullible, someone would have figured it out.
Me. I should have. If I was as smart as Avery always claimed, I should have looked at the available evidence and deduced the risk. But instead, I’d laughed and scoffed, and now our collective failure felt deeply personal. The intense helplessness of every PTSD nightmare rose in my throat, bringing caustic bile and making me pinch my wrist to make sure this wasn’t a dream.
But it wasn’t. This was real, and the situation was quickly spiraling out of control, flames appearing in the window of the mercantile, people pouring out of the saloon and other buildings, people everywhere, and no one seeming to know what to do.
“Has someone called 911?” A tearful extra with a southern accent stepped in front of Avery and me.
“No fire department this far out.” Keely appeared at our side, wearing a long dress, face pale and far younger than normal. “Rural volunteer force. We’ve called, but it will take time for them to show up.”
“Is anyone injured?” Avery asked.
“Not sure.” Keely was breathing hard. “We need to do a count. Make sure everyone’s accounted for.”
“It’s spreading!” The crowd swelled, multiple people pointing at the roof where flames leaped from the mercantile to the next building.
“Oh fuck, wardrobe.” Avery scanned the crowd. “Where’s Liam? He better not try to go in there.”
“It’s heading toward the livery set.” Cole jogged toward us. A few horses had been needed for the last scene filmed, and he’d evidently stayed for the party. “My horses. Gotta get them out of here.”
“I’ll help.” The only way past my own panic and helplessness was to do something, and here was something concrete I could do. No way were we losing any of Cole’s precious livestock on my watch.
“Malik—” Avery raised his hand, but I shook my head as I ran after Cole.
“No time. Gotta help Cole round up the horses. You find Liam.”
“Be safe.” All his surliness from earlier was replaced by a terror that echoed in my gut, but the mission had to come first. Fire first. Us second. “Please. I—”
“Avery!” Keely yelled. “I need help organizing a bucket brigade.”
“I’m on it.” Whirling away from me, he headed back toward Keely.
“You be safe too,” I called after him, but he didn’t turn. Probably didn’t hear me, but I couldn’t worry about that. I needed to catch up with Cole, help him round up the horses. The smoke was thicker as we approached the holding pens.
“Horses are frantic. But we’ve got to load them up. Fire’s coming this way.”
“We’ll get them,” I promised, hoping I wasn’t lying.
Moving quickly, Cole brought his truck with a horse trailer around, and I helped him lower the ramp. The horses were so agitated that it took both of us to load the first and second.
The smoke was caustic now, thick and hot, and I didn’t dare look back to see how close it was to the holding pens or how many buildings had already been lost. All my focus was on the two remaining horses. Shouting continued in the distance, and every so often, I’d hear Keely or Avery yelling instructions. Someone had found a megaphone, which only startled the horses further.
Horse three fought us every darn step, but finally, we were down to the last one, a big stallion cowering under the shelter behind some hay. We used our combined muscles to get him out. As we got clear of the shelter, herding him toward the trailer, sirens sounded in the distance.
Thank God. Help was on the way. But I barely had time to register that thought before the big horse bucked, panicking at the sirens, which grew louder as they got closer. Then more megaphones joined the fray, multiple people trying to control the crowd, and the horse pulled hard, yanking the lead from Cole’s gloved hands.
“Hold him,” Cole yelled, struggling to get back up.
“Trying.” But I might as well try to soothe a volcano. No amount of quiet sounds or firm touches brought the horse under control. And then, feet from the trailer, my foot hit something slick. Off balance, I stumbled as the horse pulled.
