“I don’t know, Gramps. I just found out about it. I need time to think.”
“I won’t tell you to hang on to something you don’t think is right. What I will tell you is that if you think you’ve got a shot at happiness, you owe it to yourself and to all those men you fought alongside who didn’t make it back. They didn’t fight so you could mope around your house and deny yourself life’s pleasures. This is the land of the free, remember? They fought and died for your freedom, and that affords you the opportunity to love the person you see fit to love. Denying yourself would be a fool’s move.”
I’m stunned. “Gramps, I…”
He waves me off. “Don’t say anything, Wes. Just think about what’s best for you. If you could have everything you wanted, what would that look like?”
Gramps gets up. He tells me goodnight and walks into the house. After a few minutes, I follow him in and deposit the cans in the recycling bin. I check my phone. Still nothing from Dakota, but an idea pops into my head and it makes a grin spread on my face from ear to ear.
I type out a quick message to my friend who I had look into Dakota. My embarrassment at jumping to conclusions at that celebration dinner hasn’t faded.
Lucky for me, he’s still at work and writes me back.
All set, he says.
I slip my phone in my pocket and head toward the back door. Excitement flurries through me, making me take my steps at double-speed. I need to grab my truck keys from my cabin and get into town. I need to see Dakota, need to tell her that I just—
Warner bursts in through the door as I’m reaching for the handle. Panic makes his eyes wide and wild, his movements shaky. “The barn is on fire.” His voice is just above a whisper, as if he can’t believe the words are coming from him.
“Call the fire department,” I instruct Warner, taking off for the shed behind the house where we keep the fire extinguishers. Behind me Warner yells, “I called them as soon as I saw it.”
Still, it will take them twenty minutes or so to get out here. I throw open the shed and grab two extinguishers. Warner does the same, and together we take off at a run.
I smell it a few seconds before I see it. Once, at the Merc, I saw Burning Wood as the scent of a candle, and I thought that made sense because I love the smell of a campfire.
But not right now. This smell of burning wood breaks my heart.
The barn is a cavernous square with two off-shoots on either side. Fire licks up the sides, about halfway up, but all the way around. My brain registers that as odd, but I don’t have time to analyze.
Warner and I run around the perimeter, spraying, and soon the cowboys run over.
“The shed,” I shout. “More extinguishers!” Rivulets of sweat snake down my body. It’s hot as hell, and it doesn’t feel like we’re making much progress. The equipment we have just isn’t enough. The pond is less than a hundred yards away, but we need the firefighters’ pump.
And then it hits me.The animals.Mom’s goats are inside. I sprint to the front and throw open the door. Smoke billows out, burning my eyes and throat. I cover my mouth and nose with my forearm and run inside. I can’t see more than a few feet in front of my face, but I know my mom keeps stacks of wool blankets on a shelf to my right. I stumble over, my free hand stuck out in front of me, feeling for the fabric. When I locate it, I grab one of the blankets and wrap it around me, using one hand to hold it cinched above my head.
I do my best, stumbling along, feeling for the latches on the gates my mom uses to keep the goats separated. Their bleating is nearly as loud as the splintering wood, and they sound desperate, as if on some level they know they are in danger. I do my best to open as many latches as I can, but I know I can’t keep going. The smoke is too much and I’m starting to feel sick. I run for the exit, and there are goats running every which way. A few feet in front of me, I spot a limping goat. It’s going so slow, it will never make it. I scoop it up on my way past. Behind me is a loud crack, and I sprint out of the barn holding the goat.
The relieved shouts of my name are the first thing I hear, but it’s drowned out by screaming sirens. A fire truck followed by an ambulance. Suddenly my mom’s in my face, running her hands over my cheeks, wide eyes checking me for signs of obvious injury.
I cough. “I’m fine, Mom.”
She gives me a long, heavy look, then takes the goat from my arms. “That was stupid, Wes,” she scolds, but her lips quiver.
Maybe it was stupid, but it was also innate. Inside me is a drive to serve, to protect, to save. It’s a biological instinct. I’ve always felt it, and then when it came time for me to choose a job in the military, the bomb squad seemed an obvious choice.
The firefighters jump into action, depositing one end of their pump into the pond and snaking the firehose to the barn. They yell to one another, and soon the pump is drafting the water.
I look around at who’s here now. When I’d run into the barn, it had only been me, Warner, and a handful of cowboys. My mom and dad, Gramps, and the remaining cowboys stand here now. Every single person who lives on this ranch, with the exception of Warner’s kids, and Wyatt and Jessie.
The amount of water the firefighters are using to handle the fire makes our use of fire extinguishers laughable. The first thing I’ll do when the ranch is mine is fill in the inadequacies in fire response.
My mom counts the goats. Tears fill her eyes and she floats into my dad’s waiting arms. “We’re missing six,” she tells him.
Dammit.My poor mom.
It’s not too long before the fire is out. One of the men approaches my dad, and when he removes his helmet, I see it’s Derrick, my friend from high school.
“Derrick? Hey, man.” I offer a hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”
