A horse bursts through the side door, wild-eyed and lathered. His hooves slip against the dirt as he bolts into the night.
Another follows.
Then another.
All but one breaks through the smoke.
Bluebell is still inside.
My stomach drops.
Rory wouldn’t leave her horse behind.
I bolt straight for the barn.
Heat slams into me, stealing the air from my lungs. Violent coughs have me pulling my shirt over my mouth to cover it.
I drop to my knees, crawling toward the stalls. It’s impossible to see, gravel cuts my palms, and my skin feels like it’s melting off.
“Rory!”
The roar of the fire steals my screams.
I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.
I’ll die here if it means she gets out.
I don’t know where I am or how far I’ve gone—five feet or five inches, it’s all the same. A few more feet and my arm bumps metal. I yank my arm back from the searing pain. A stall door.
I’ve got to be close.
A hand wraps around my ankle, dragging me back.
“No!” I kick, trying to free myself.
I have to find her.
I fight, clawing for purchase, but it’s useless. I’m hauled out and pinned against my grandfather’s chest, his arms banded around me—holding me up and holding me back.
“Shhh . . . You’re okay.”
It’s too soft. Mark Slate was as blunt and gruff as he was barrel-chested.
This voice is soothing—kind and concerned. Familiar too, but I can’t quite place it.
“Everything is fine.”
Only, that’s not what comes next. My nightmares always end with the same four words.
“It’s too late, Emmett.”
“Emmett.”
That gentle echo pulls me back to the present.
I wake with a gasp; sweat rolls down my temples. My lungs burn like I never left the smoke behind, and my throat is raw, like I’ve been screaming.
“There you are.” Calming pressure strokes up and down my shin as she stands over my bed.
