The smoke seared my lungs with each breath, making me cough violently. My eyes streamed tears that evaporated almost instantly in the heat. I couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. But I had to find Pa.
I staggered forward, disoriented by the shifting shadows and dancing flames. Something crashed behind me—another piece of the hayloft falling, or maybe part of the roof. The barn was coming down around me, just as Collins had promised.
Then, through a momentary parting of the smoke, I saw him. Pa was slumped against the far wall, near the stall where we kept old Blue, his favorite gelding.
He wasn't moving.
"PA!" I shouted, relief and fresh fear tangling in my chest as I lurched toward him. The distance seemed impossible, the air getting thicker with each step, but I pushed forward.
When I reached him, my heart nearly stopped. Pa's face was streaked with soot, his eyes closed, and a gash on his forehead leaked blood down his temple. He looked smaller somehow, this man who'd always seemed larger than life to me.
"Pa," I said, dropping to my knees beside him, my voice breaking on the single syllable. I pressed my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse, praying harder than I ever had before. There—faint but steady, a rhythmic throb beneath my fingertips.
He was alive.
"I'm getting you out of here," I told him, though I knew he couldn't hear me. Smoke billowed around us, the heat intensifying as more of the barn caught fire. We didn't have much time.
With careful movements that belied my size, I positioned Pa across my shoulders in a fireman's carry, the way Knox had shown all of us after coming home from the Marines. Pa's weight settled across my shoulders—substantial, but manageable forme. His unconscious form hung limp, head lolling against my arm as I secured him in place.
"Hang on, Pa," I murmured, rising to my feet with my precious cargo. "We're going home."
The barn groaned ominously above us, a sound like the earth itself was in pain. I turned back the way I'd come, only to see that the path was now blocked by fallen, burning beams. We were trapped, surrounded by fire with our escape cut off.
But McKenzies don't give up. Not ever. Not when family is on the line.
Adjusting Pa's weight on my shoulders, I turned toward the back of the barn, where there might still be a way out. If we couldn't go back, we'd just have to go forward.
I couldn't leave the horses. Even with Pa's weight on my shoulders and the roof threatening to come down any minute, I couldn't just abandon them to burn. Pa would never forgive me if I saved him but left his beloved animals to die.
I staggered toward the nearest stall where a chestnut mare kicked frantically against the half-burned door. With my free hand, I wrestled the bolt open and swung the door wide.
"Go!" I shouted, slapping her flank as she hesitated, wild-eyed with terror. "GO!"
The mare bolted past me, her shoulder bumping mine hard enough that I had to brace myself to keep from dropping Pa. The heat was becoming unbearable, the air so thick with smoke I could barely make out the next stall. But I could hear the frantic movement inside, the terrified whinnies of trapped animals.
One by one, I forced my way down the row of stalls, throwing open doors and freeing the panicking horses. Some bolted immediately toward the light and fresh air they could sense at the far end of the barn. Others needed coaxing, frozen in terror until I managed to slap their flanks or shout them into movement.
Old Blue was the last, Pa's favorite gelding who'd been with us since I was a teenager. The old horse was pressed against the back of his stall, sides heaving with panic, but he didn't bolt when I opened the door. His eyes, rolling with fear, fixed on Pa's unconscious form across my shoulders.
"It's okay, boy," I rasped, my voice nearly gone from the smoke and shouting. "He's okay. But we gotta go now."
I reached out my hand, palm flat the way Pa had taught me, and the old horse hesitated only a moment before pressing his muzzle against it. Then he was moving, not in the panicked rush of the others but with deliberate steps, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. He followed close behind me as I turned toward the back of the barn.
A thunderous crack from above sent a shower of burning debris raining down just feet away. The horses still in the center aisle scattered, bolting toward either end of the barn in blind panic. Old Blue startled but stayed with me, his breath hot against my neck.
"This way," I urged, more for my own benefit than the horse's. The smoke was so thick now I was moving purely on memory and instinct, placing each foot with careful deliberation. Pa's weight seemed to grow heavier with each step, my muscles burning from the strain and the heat.
I knew we wouldn't make it back the way I'd come in. The side door would be fully engulfed by now, and the main entrance had been impassable from the start. Our only hope was the hay door at the back of the barn—the large opening in the upper section where we loaded hay into the loft, which opened onto the sloping field behind the barn.
The flames were less intense toward the back, but the smoke was thicker, filling the space from floor to ceiling with a choking gray cloud. Each breath was torture, a struggle to extract what little oxygen remained from the superheated air. My eyesstreamed tears that did nothing to clear my vision, and each blink felt like sandpaper against my corneas.
Old Blue snorted beside me, staying close as if he understood we were in this together. The loyalty of the old horse, following me through this hell despite his instinct to flee, brought a lump to my throat that had nothing to do with the smoke.
The barn's structure groaned above us, the sound like a living thing in pain. We were running out of time. The heat pressed against my exposed skin like a physical weight, sweat pouring off me only to evaporate instantly in the inferno.
"Almost there," I gasped, though I wasn't sure if I was talking to Pa, to Old Blue, or to myself. My legs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort. Pa's dead weight across my shoulders sent shooting pains down my spine, but I'd have sooner died than put him down.
Through the smoke, I finally made out the outline of the hay door—a rectangle of lesser darkness against the black. It was closed, as it always was except during haying season, but it represented our only chance at survival.
