“And that draw near Miller’s Creek…” Tommy adds. “Burned hot. Real hot. Ground’s still warm this morning.”
I pause, sack still on my shoulder. “That fire didn’t behave right.”
Both of them look at me then.
Terry exhales through his nose. “No, it didn’t.”
“It jumped the creek,” Tommy says. “I’ve lived here sixty-three years. Never seen fire do that. Not without a hell of a wind behind it.”
“I know,” I say. “It was wild to watch.”
“That’s what scares me,” Terry mutters. “It moved like it had a mind of its own.”
The radio crackles behind the counter, some upbeat voice talking about weekend weather and community announcements as if we didn’t all spend the last few days staring at the sky and wondering what would still be standing come morning.
Tommy takes a long drink of his coffee. “Used to be you could read a fire. Wind, fuel, slope. You could make a decent guess where it’d go.”
“And now?” I ask.
“And now it feels like guessing which way a rattlesnake will strike,” he says.
Terry nods. “Fire crews said the same. Said they’re seeing behavior they’re not trained for. Spot fires starting miles ahead. Embers riding thermals like they’ve got somewhere to be.”
I shift the sack on my shoulder, jaw tight. “Town’s lucky the rain came when it did.”
“Town’s lucky the lightning didn’t keep up,” Terry says. “Another hour of that storm and we’d be telling a different story.”
Tommy shakes his head slowly. “My granddad used to say this valley was fireproof. Too wet. Too green.”
“Your granddad didn’t live through the last ten summers,” I say.
That gets a grim huff out of Terry. “That’s true.”
Silence stretches again, heavier this time. It’s the kind that comes when you realize the rules you grew up with don’t apply anymore.
The radio crackles again. A fire update. Containment percentages. Acres burned. Numbers that try to make turmoil sound manageable.
The bell rings again.
Sammy Brooks strides in, hat clean, boots barely scuffed. He looks around the feed store, expecting applause for showing up at ground zero with a smile.
“Gentlemen,” he says brightly. “Tell me we’re not letting this whole wildfire scare derail the summer rodeo.”
Tommy groans outright this time, not even bothering to hide it. Terry mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “What the hell?”
Sammy doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just decides not to care.
He claps his hands together once, sharp and decisive. “Tourism’s already shaky. We cancel the rodeo, we’re sending the wrong message.”
Tommy turns slowly, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “And what message is that?”
“That we’re scared,” Sammy says. “People don’t like scared towns. They like resilience. Confidence. Tradition.”
Terry snorts. “Fire doesn’t care about tradition.”
Sammy waves that off. “Rain did its job. We adapt. Extra patrols. Firebreaks. Adjustments.”
Adjustments don’t stop lightning.
