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But I have that picture.
The fire department has already made their rounds. Some of the neighbors have opted to stay and stand their ground just as I have, but others have voluntarily evacuated. The fire is still higher up in the canyon, and even though it would have to jump a freeway to get to us, we are under heavy watch. Fires are unpredictable, and the winds could change things at any moment, sending hot embers to blow across the concrete road and land in a dry bush.
That’s all it would take.
One ember.
One dry bush.
And my whole world will go up in flames.
Cash stands at the end of the barn near the opening. The world is dark. A haze in the sky prevents the sun from getting through, mimicking dusk when it’s still afternoon. It looks like the set of a dystopian film. His wet shirt clings to his chest, and droplets of water drip down his face from his hair. He shakes his head and water droplets fly around him.
He’s beautiful.
Beautiful in a quiet way that is hidden behind the wall he has erected. Brick by brick, they move like an intricate puzzle exposing the real man underneath. I want to find a way to smash through those bricks, keep them from falling back into place, locking him away from me once again.
I grab one of the horse blankets and a bottle of water and hand it to him. He takes them without a word and uses the blanket to wipe his face and dry his hair. After downing the water, he sinks onto a bale of hay and props his elbows on his thighs, placing his face in the palms of his hands like a silent prayer.
“I hope it’s good enough to save the house.” He tilts his head in my direction, sympathy and worry evident in his eyes. This isn’t his home and these aren’t his horses, and yet he is here trying to save them, for me.
Who knows if it will help, but at least we’ve done something. I know if the fire gets too close the fire department will make me leave, and I hope it doesn’t come to that.
Iprayit does not come to that.
“I can’t leave them,” I say for the hundredth time today, but those words have taken up permanent residence in my throat. My hand shakes as I wipe away a stray tear from my cheek. I know I look weak and not at all like the strong woman Grandpa John raised me to be, but I’m at my breaking point.
Cash offers his hand to me, and I take it selfishly. Kneeling between his legs, I rest my cheek against his wet shirt as he tightens his arms around me. Even after all the help he has already given, he offers what little strength he has left to me.
“I know,” he whispers into my hair.
The palm of his hand rubs circles on my back that threaten to burn a hole right through me. I thought I was stronger than this. I thought I could handle it, but I’m a mess. Wildfires have always been a threat, but none have ever come this close before. A few years ago, to the north of us, a wildfire accidentally set by some campers burned almost a million acres, but never came this close to our house.
We are in the danger zone, and I can feel it prick along my skin, the same sense of urgency the horses feel, and it makes me shiver.
“I’m sorry.” I pull away, wiping my eyes.
“Sorry for what?” Cash touches my face, and even though his fingers should be cold, all I can feel is heat seeping into my skin.
“You spent hours hosing down the house and the barn. You’re exhausted, and here I am taking more from you,” I say, embarrassed, proving his point that I’m just a little girl underneath.
Cash sighs, dropping his eyes to my mouth. “Take whatever you need.”
Heat spreads over my skin like the impending fire spreads over the nearby hills. What I want to take he’s not so willing to give, and I won’t push him anymore, even though it kills me.
The way his eyes peer into me is as if he can already see what I want. It’s as if lust has become something physical and coats my skin, leaving a film that only he can see. “Sasha.” His voice is weak, but my name on his lips is like a wave washing over me.
I wonder if he knows what saying my name in that way does to me. There is a lot left unsaid between us. The constant push and pull is slowly giving way, like the unzipping of a dress until there is no barrier between us.
“I’m just a simple man who owns a record store,” he says with hooded eyes.
It saddens me that he doesn’t see himself the way I do, because he is the most complex man I have ever met.
“Cash Morgan, you are anything but simple.”
23
PIECE OF ART
