I clear my throat. “We need to talk.”
“About the fire? Yeah.” Jesse grabs the top fence rail, mirroring our posture. “It’s getting ugly out there.”
“We need a plan,” Marshall says. “If it reaches the valley edge, it’ll jump fast. The forest is too damn dry.”
Jesse exhales hard. “You think it’ll reach us?”
Wyatt Tucker, professional pessimist wrapped in a nice guy exterior, would very much want to say yes. But I try to be the reasonable one in these moments.
“It depends on the wind.”
Which is the truth.
The frustrating, impossible-to-control truth.
A beat of silence stretches between us.
Then Jesse pushes off the fence. “Let’s go talk to them. The firefighters. See if they need extra hands, or at least get a real update.”
“Already been doing that,” I say. “Plus, someone needs to stay here with the kids.”
Jesse presses his lips together in a grim line. “I’ll ask Abilene.”
That catches me off guard, not because it’s a bad idea, but because the thought of her out there alone, with thatsmoke hanging low over the valley, starts my chest turning uncomfortably.
Marshall glances at me. Just a flicker. Enough to say:You worried about her too?
I look away.
“She’ll say yes,” Jesse continues, oblivious to the way my stomach twists. “Kids adore her. And she’s always home anyway.”
“Then go ask,” Marshall says, already stepping back toward the house.
Abilene answers her door with her hair in a loose braid and a smudge of dirt on her cheek as if she’s been working with her hives again.
Even with worry in her hazel eyes, she’s got that soft presence that makes the world feel slightly less unhinged.
Jesse talks. She listens. Nods.
She doesn’t hesitate.
When we leave her porch, Jesse looks weirdly relieved. Asking her to watch the twins was the most intimate request he’s made all year.
I don’t blame him. If I were the one asking, I might’ve tripped over my own tongue.
Driving toward the fire feels surreal.
The roads are mostly clear—people aren’t stupid enough to go sightseeing near a wildfire—but it grows thicker the closer we get.
Smoke creeps along the asphalt as low fog. The sun is a flattened disk behind a sheet of haze.
Marshall drives. His hands grip the wheel tighter every time the flames glow brighter through the trees.
I’ve only seen him this way twice.
When we lost Luke, and when he buried his mother.
He doesn’t talk much when he’s scared.
