Huck clung to his shirt, fists twisted in the fabric. “Don’t go back in there!”
“I have to.” Rowan pried his son’s fingers loose. “Stay with Saxon.”
“Daddy, please!”
The word punched through him. Hollowed him out and shook through his body.
Daddy.
Behind him, the fire raged.
He didn’t have time, but he turned, took a breath, and put his hand on Huck’s shoulder. “I’m getting your mom. Stay here and be brave.”
Then he turned toward the house.
Saxon stood between him and the house. “Front entry’s blocked. Whole roof section came down.”
“Kitchen door?” His voice came out steady now.
“Fully engulfed. You’d never make it through.”
Rowan turned back toward the house, his mind cataloging options. The structure was nearly engulfed, walls of flame, and inside—collapsing supports, air so superheated it would sear his lungs.
But Sierra was in there. His Sierra.
“East bedroom window.” He was already moving, stripping off his jacket as he ran. “Same way I used to sneak in and out as a kid.”
Paint bubbled and peeled from the siding in long strips that curled away from the boards. The smell hit him—burning wood, melting plastic, and underneath it all, the sharp chemical tang of accelerant.
Someone had wanted this place to burn fast and hot.
The bedroom window sat six feet off the ground, its glass already spider-webbed from the heat. Rowan wrapped his jacket around his fist and punched through, clearing the shards before hauling himself up and through the opening.
The interior stole his breath. Flames raced across the ceiling in waves, fed by decades of dry wood and whatever accelerant the arsonists had used.
Smoke cut visibility to almost nothing. Rowan dropped to his hands and knees, where the air was cleaner, and crawled toward where he hoped the living room would be.
“Sierra!” The shout came out as a croak, his throat already raw.
A crash echoed through the house as something heavy collapsed in the kitchen. The whole structure shuddered, and Rowan felt the floor vibrate under his palms. They had minutes, maybe less, before the entire place came down.
“Here!” Sierra’s voice, muffled but strong, came from his right.
The bathroom. The woman had made it to the bathroom, had climbed into the tub.
He shut the door behind him, muffling the fire.
“Huck!”
“Already out. Safe with Saxon.” He reached for the window. It didn’t move, too many layers of paint sealing it shut.
And frankly, it was too small for his shoulders anyway.
She was struggling to stand.
He turned to her. “Can you walk?”
“I think so.” But she stood with one leg favored.
