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When he stops and his shoulders heave with shaky breaths, I am finally brave enough to go to him. I know this is about his crew. I know this is about the firefighter who died last fall in the Creston Ridge fire. I also know Xan and his drive to protect everything and everyone around him.
But who protects Xan? My heart aches for him, like it always has. The boy with no one.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, touching his shoulder. His face is still pressed into the pillow. The moment my fingers press into his warm shoulder they begin to shake. I’ve seen Xan cry before, but I’ve never seen him this torn up about anything. “I’m so sorry.” I repeat and without looking at me he crawls across the bed and wraps his arms around my waist, and I fold myself over top of him to hold him until he stops shaking.
It only takes a few minutes for him to settle and gather himself.
I want to say something to make him feel better, but words don’t come. Instead I take a full breath in and something odd tickles my nose. I see the smoke before I place the smell and I gasp.
“Xan,” I yank him up and he’d bewildered at the light coil of smoke billowing out from under the bench seat. In an instant his entire being changes. His shoulders square, his eyes are glassy but alert, a calmness washes over his body while I begin to slowly descend into panic. My motorhome is on fire.
Xan hurries and puts his pants on, throwing my shirt at me.
“Get dressed, Briggs. We need to get out. Where’s the extinguisher?”
I flicker my gaze to the fridge. It’s beside the fridge but I don’t say that. I don’t have to. He follows my gaze reaches around and grabs it.
I see the flames outside the window now, smoke is getting thicker and I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen with my shirt in my hand and a cough sitting on my lungs.
Xan flings the door open and strides to the bed yanking me to the edge and easily lifting me to my feet. He leads me outside where the night air blasts immediate shivers along my skin. I hurry to put the rest of my clothes on.
The back of the motorhome is licked with flame and I wrap my arms around my middle to keep out the cold. Xan is focused and clear and sends short bursts at the base of the flame with the extinguisher.
“We might need more. Briggs go to the house. Grab another extinguisher.”
I react quicker this time, sprinting up the steps and slamming through the door. I flip on lights as I go to the kitchen. I know there’s one in there. I yank it off the wall in the pantry and run back out. Xan has made quick work of the small fire and we switch cans.
The lights flicker on from the spare room and I see my dad glance out the window.
The smoking charred side of my motorhome hits me square in the gut.
“What happened?” I ask as Xan inspects the fire damage. He suddenly straightens up and spins around slowly.
“This wasn’t an accident, Briggs. Someone started this fire. It smells like gas.” He crouches down to a patch of burnt grass and touches it lightly.
My bones turn to ice.
“What’s going on?” My dad hollers from the porch and suddenly they’re both looking at me. Both sets of eyes trained on me as if I already know exactly what’s going on here.
Which I do.
Someone is trying to kill me.
And it’s time to say something.
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