No, no—the red barn was consumed by flames that flared through the roof, sending tongues of orange and red flicking into the darkening sky. Smoke billowed in thick black clouds, carrying the acrid smell of burning hay and old timber. The fire had a voice—a crackling roar of destruction.
Not the barn!
Sierra stood near the house, a garden hose in her hands, directing a pathetic stream of water toward the inferno while another man worked frantically with a second hose from the other side. The barn’s wooden siding glowed like heated copper in the firelight, paint blistering and peeling in long curls that drifted away on superheated air.
Sirens whined in the air.
Rowan skidded into the drive, nearly out of the truck before it fully stopped, running toward the scene.
The barn’s structure was compromised but still standing, flames concentrated in the hayloft but spilling down the interior walls. The house remained untouched, fifty feet of gravel driveway providing a firebreak, but flying sparks sprayed dangerously close to the roof shingles.
“Saxon!” he shouted over the roar of the fire. “Get that hose over here! Wet down the house!”
He ran up to Sierra, who shot him a look even as she turned to the house.
“Are there any more hoses?”
“I don’t?—”
“Where’s Huck?” The cowboy ran up to Sierra. “I lost him in the smoke!”
She stared at him, even as Rowan searched the yard.
“Inside the house—” She turned to it.
No. No, he wasn’t. Because he spotted the kid—Huck—headed into the barn.
Rowan’s blood turned to ice.
The barn’s main door stood open, a rectangle of hellish orange light framing the entrance. Smoke poured from the opening, and the heat was already intense enough to feel from twenty feet away.
“Huck!” Sierra started running toward the barn.
Rowan caught her arm, spinning her around. “No! You’ll get yourself killed!”
“He’s my son!”
“I’ll get him. Sax—keep her away!”
He took off running as Sierra screamed behind him.
The heat hit him like a physical wall as he reached the doorway, superheated air searing his lungs with each breath. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, squinting against the smoke that made his eyes stream.
The interior was a hellscape of shadows and leaping flames. Fire had consumed most of the hay stored in the loft above, raining burning debris down into the main aisle. The wooden support beams groaned ominously, stressed by heat and the weight of the collapsing structure above.
“Huck!” His voice was swallowed by the roar of flames.
A sound—crying, maybe, or a frightened animal—came from the middle of the barn. Rowan moved toward it, staying low, where the air was slightly cleaner, dodging falling embers that hissed and sparked when they hit the concrete floor.
He found the boy huddled in an empty horse stall, clutching a small Jack Russell terrier puppy against his chest. The kid’s face was streaked with soot and tears, his school clothes singed and dirty.
“He ran into the barn. I couldn’t leave him,” Huck gasped when he saw Rowan.
“I know, buddy. But we need to go. Right now.”
Rowan scooped up the boy, puppy and all, holding him tight against his chest as another section of hayloft collapsed behind them. The support beam nearest the door cracked with a sound like a gunshot, and the entire structure shuddered.
He ducked his head and ran.
