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The wind was tricky as well, shifting one way, then another. A stiff gust could send sparks over the sprouting hay fields or, far worse, blow them in the direction of the ranch.
The only other person who seemed concerned was Tess. He was uneasy about her, as well. He shouldn’t have let her go beyond the house alone, with nothing but a garden hose to control the fire. But when he’d offered, she’d made it clear enough that she didn’t want him along.
The countdown had begun. Lexie touched the flame of a cigarette lighter to a rolled-up length of newspaper and used it to reach down and ignite the straw. The flame flickered, then blazed. Within seconds the fire was racing along the straw path toward the house.
Brock swore silently. He wouldn’t relax until the house was gone and the fire was out.
* * *
Tess heard the cheers. The breeze carried the stench of burning oil. Somebody, probably Val, had turned on some music. Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” blasted through the darkness.
This was crazy. Why hadn’t she put her foot down and stopped it? At least, she might have talked sense into a couple of the men. Now it was too late.
From where she stood, on a grassy slope that rose behind the waiting house, she couldn’t see the flaming straw. But the flickering light against the darkness and the raw burn of smoky air in her throat told her that the fire was getting close. She backed uphill a few more yards and waited, gripping the hose and holding her breath until her lungs ached. The bare area around the house looked too small now. They should have cleared away more of the dry grass and weeds.
With a whoosh of air and a roar of igniting flame, the gasoline-splashed outer wall caught fire. From there the cheap wooden structure went up like a torch.
A pack rat darted out of a hole under the foundation and scurried into the night. An owl, nesting in the attic, shot out ahead of the flames, barely escaping a fiery death. Tess looked for more fleeing animals, saving themselves from the fire. She saw none.
As she watched the flames consume the house that had held so much hate and evil, a memory of Aaron Frye surfaced in her mind.
Over the years, the man had become like family, freely dropping by the ranch house to share a meal or sit on the porch and visit. Aaron and Bert Champion, Tess’s father, had both been gun fanciers. More than once, she recalled hearing them talk about reloading ammunition by filling used casings with gunpowder and replacing the lead tips. Reloading saved money and also allowed the bullets to be customized.
Aaron had mentioned setting up a reloading bench in his house. If it was still there—and he’d never been known to get rid of anything—there would almost certainly be gunpowder.
Her pulse lurched. If there was gunpowder stored anywhere inside that house, when the fire reached it, the gunpowder would explode. The force of the blast would depend on the amount of powder and what it contained, but it was bound to be dangerous, even deadly. She reached for the walkie-talkie she carried to warn the others to get back.
But there was no more time. With an ear-shattering boom, the house became a giant fireball. The roof rose and disintegrated in flame. Fragments of burning shingles shot in all directions, sending out showers of sparks. They fell around her, singeing her skin and igniting tufts of dry grass that blossomed like glowing flowers as the fire touched them.
The breeze had freshened, driving flames and smoke toward the hayfields. Tess still had the hose, but the faucet to turn it on was too close to the burning house to be of any use. She dropped it and began to run uphill away from the fire, which was spreading fast, climbing the slope behind her.
The Kubota was where she’d left it. Tess was headed that way when she realized that if the fire reached it, the vehicle’s gas tank would explode. She couldn’t take the risk of riding it. As the flames climbed higher, she did the only thing she could do. She kept running, across the slope, into the shifting wind, with the flames moving behind her.
* * *
As soon as the roof blew off, Brock knew that Tess was in trouble. The fire was spreading fast. In the direction she’d gone, there was nothing but smoke.
Running wouldn’t get him there fast enough. He would take his truck and do his best to stay clear of the fire. As he sprinted to the vehicle, the rest of the ranch family was moving back, readying the hoses in case the wind changed.
As he vaulted into the driver’s seat and switched on the headlights, he heard someone shouting to get Tess. Then he was gunning the engine, shooting up the dirt road toward the burning house.
The explosion had blown the house apart and scattered debris in all directions. With little left to burn, the fire was ebbing there, but the flaming pieces had ignited grass fires that were spreading fast. With luck, if the wind held, they’d burn themselves out where the rocks crowned the ridge or scour the sprouting hayfields and die on the edge of the gully at the far end. Worse, if the wind strengthened and changed direction, the people behind him could be fighting to save their ranch and their animals, or even their lives.
But meanwhile, there was Tess. He had to find her.
As he strained to see through the billowing smoke, a stray thought flickered in his mind. If Tess was the one who’d killed his bull and made his life a hell of uncertainty, the fire could be doing him a favor. But what was he thinking? This was Tess, she was in danger, and he had to get to her. He could figure out her guilt or innocence after she was safe.
Before reaching the fire, he swung the wheel to the left and took a diagonal course up along the grassy slope. The engine roared; the oversize tires dug into the earth. Peering through the smoke, he could see the Kubota engulfed in flames. His pulse jerked. If Tess had been driving it—
But no—his headlights found her now, not far above him. She was coughing and stumbling through the smoke, barely keeping ahead of the flames. Unable to get the truck any closer, Brock pulled the handbrake, flung himself out of the door, and pounded up the slope toward her.
When he shouted her name, she turned to look at him, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes bloodshot. In the next instant he’d scooped her into his arms and was striding back toward the vehicle.
She pressed her face into his shirt. Her body was trembling. Brock had never seen her act scared, not even after she’d fallen off her horse, landed face-to-face with a rattlesnake, and been stalked by a herd of bulls. But she was scared now.
He stopped on the protected side of the truck and opened the passenger door with one hand, sheltering them from the wind and smoke. Her feet slid to the ground, but she continued to cling to him, shaking and pressing against his shoulder. Her breath came in gasps. Through his shirt, he felt the dampness of tears.
Holding her released a wellspring of desire inside him. His arms tightened around her. “It’s all right, Tess,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
