The distance back to the house seemed endless, each step requiring conscious effort. My vision swam with smoke andtears, my bare chest heaving as I gulped down air that still tasted of ash.
Emergency vehicles crowded the driveway now—sheriff's department cruisers, an approaching fire truck, the distant wail of ambulances drawing closer.
Through the chaos, I searched for Dan, fear clawing at my throat when I couldn't immediately spot him. Had Collins's men taken him? Had his wound been worse than I thought?
Then I saw them—Ma kneeling in the gravel beside Dan's prone form, her hands pressing what looked like proper gauze against his wound. Newt hovered nearby, passing items from an open first aid kit. Once Collins had been distracted by my dash to the barn, they must have gotten free.
"Dan," I called, the name emerging as little more than a croak.
His head turned at the sound, his eyes finding mine across the distance. Even through pain and blood loss, his face lit with relief at the sight of me, and something in my chest unlocked.
I staggered the remaining distance, dropping to my knees beside him with far less grace than I'd intended. Ma's eyes widened as she took in my appearance—soot-covered, bare-chested, with burns I couldn't see, but could certainly feel across my back.
"Harlow McKenzie," she began, that familiar tone of concern and reprimand starting to form, but Dan interrupted her.
"You're hurt," he said immediately, his gaze intense despite the pain etched in the lines around his eyes. One hand reached toward me, trembling slightly but determined.
"You're shot," I countered, reaching to take his outstretched hand in mine, careful not to jostle the wound Ma was tending.
A weak smile tugged at Dan's lips. "Guess we're quite a pair."
Those simple words, spoken through pain in a voice rough with smoke and exertion, hit me harder than I expected. Wewere a pair. Despite everything—Collins's attempt to destroy us, the burning barn, the wounds we both bore—we were still together. Still alive.
"Pa?" Dan asked, his eyes searching mine.
"Out and hurt, but breathing," I assured him. "Knox and Ransom are with him."
Ma's hands were steady as she continued to apply pressure to Dan's wound, her movements efficient and practiced from years of patching up farm injuries. The gauze beneath her fingers was stained bright red, but the bleeding seemed slower now, more controlled.
"The bullet went through," she said, not looking up from her work. "Clean exit wound. He was lucky."
Lucky wasn't the word I'd have chosen for any part of this night, but I nodded anyway, relief making me light-headed. Or maybe that was the smoke inhalation and pain catching up to me.
Sirens grew louder, and flashing lights painted the scene in surreal pulses of red and blue. The first ambulance pulled up beside us, paramedics jumping out with practiced urgency. They'd be taking Dan soon, rushing him to the hospital in Eugene where they could treat his wound properly.
Dan's fingers tightened around mine, surprisingly strong given his condition. "Harlow," he said, his voice low but clear as the paramedics approached. "You saved your father. You're the bravest man I've ever known, Harlow McKenzie."
The raw honesty in his voice made my throat tighten painfully. No one had ever looked at me the way Dan was looking at me now—like I was something remarkable, something precious. Not the gentle giant who needed protecting. Not the slow McKenzie boy with the head injury. Just Harlow. Brave. Capable. Worthy.
I wanted to tell him that he was wrong—that running into a burning building wasn't brave, just necessary. That I'd been terrified the whole time, sure I was about to die with every step. That true bravery was what he'd shown, facing down Collins despite already being injured, putting himself between danger and my family without hesitation.
But the words wouldn't come, lodged behind the lump in my throat and the rawness from the smoke.
Ma looked between us, her hands still working methodically but her eyes taking in our clasped hands, the way we leaned toward each other despite our injuries. Something shifted in her expression—not quite acceptance, not yet, but a softening. A recognition.
"He's always been brave," she said softly, the words unexpected enough that both Dan and I turned to look at her. "I just forgot to let him show it."
The simple admission hung in the air between us, weightier than it might have seemed to anyone else. For my mother to acknowledge that she'd held me back—even with the best intentions—was monumental. A crack in the protective walls she'd built around me since my childhood injury.
Dan's eyes met mine, understanding the significance even without me explaining it. His thumb brushed across my knuckles in silent support.
The paramedics reached us then, efficiently assessing Dan's condition and preparing to transfer him to a stretcher. One of them turned to me, taking in my burns and smoke-stained appearance with professional concern.
"Sir, we need to check you out too," she said, already reaching for additional supplies from her kit.
I nodded, suddenly too exhausted to argue. Now that I knew Dan would be okay, that Pa was alive and in good hands, theadrenaline that had kept me going was draining away, leaving bone-deep fatigue in its wake.
As the paramedics worked around us, Dan never let go of my hand, his grip a silent promise that whatever came next, we would face it together. In the flickering emergency lights, with the acrid smell of smoke still heavy in the air and the ruins of our barn smoldering in the background, I held onto that promise like a lifeline.
