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A dark curse blasts from Charlie’s mouth.
My entire body trembles as I race after Charlie. Smoke coats my nostrils and floods the dusky sky.
The horses. Please let them be okay.
Horrified, we all skid to a stop in front of the barn. The fire’s small, the light rain dousing most of the flames, but it creeps with a low blaze, spreading slowly. Flame licks up the wood and over the front door.
My hands fly to my mouth. “No, oh no.”
Some of the horses have already smashed through, kicking down the stall doors to escape the flame and smoke. Wild eyes, nostrils flaring, they race across the pasture. Ford and Davis swing the axes in their hands, smashing holes in the wall to evacuate the rest of the trapped horses.
Terror floods my body.
Charlie grabs my arms, pushing me back, away from the blaze. “Stay here,” he shouts, fear on his face.
I fight against him. “No. I can help. They’re our horses. This is our ranch, Charlie.”
He kisses me hard. His eyes molten, frantic. “Use the rope. Lead ‘em to the pasture. Tie ‘em up so they don’t run back into the barn.” Chest heaving, he levels a big finger at me. “That’s your fucking job, Ruby. Nothing else.”
And then he and Wyatt rush off to help their brothers.
I snap into action.
Heart thumping in my chest, I grab a length of lead rope from the pasture fence. I work fast like Charlie showed me, looping the rope around the necks of the free horses and walking them calmly to a fence post where I tie them up. I round up Arrow and Pepita and Eephus. I don’t see Winslow or the demon horse that Wyatt broke over the summer.
I count seven horses, which means there are eight still trapped.
The tight knot in my stomach turns into a gaping hole. My hands shake. I feel so helpless. Everything’s commotion as the crackle of fire snaps in the evening air. Davis, Ford, and Wyatt work together, smashing wood, tearing down the front of the barn.
I do a fast sweep of the ranch, looking for Charlie. I don’t find him. Ice freezes my bloodstream.
Oh god. Where is he? I squeeze my eyes shut, praying he didn’t run into the barn.
That’s when I hear a familiar, terrified whinny.
My head whips around.
Winslow.
He’s trying to kick his way through the back of the barn, a section of hallway not yet engulfed in flames.
Rage has me running.
I can help. I can do something.
Spying one of the small axes used during the campfire dinner stuck in the woodpile, I grab it up. I edge closer to the burning barn. The flames sear, and I hiss out a breath. But I steel my shoulders and hammer away at a small hole Winslow’s already kicked in the side.
The small hole becomes bigger.
Biggest.
My muscles burn, and I cough, choking as the smoke engulfs my lungs, nostrils, and eyes.
I drop the axe.
This time, I use my hands, tearing at the already broken sections of barn wood. My pulse pounds in my ears and my vision pinpricks. I ignore the pain in my fingertips. My chest.
My body tells me to stop. My heart tells me to keep going.
