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Adele and Macalister exchanged a look.

“Well,” she said.

“She’s not wrong. Unless you go on horseback, that road is the only way out of here and to safety if the fire gets close,” he said.

“That is something I’ll think about if it becomes necessary,” she said. “For now, the greater problem is Hildy.”

“You could order her to work,” he said. “You are her employer.”

“I suspect that the moment I try, she’ll remind me that it’s Mr. Whitley who pays her wages and since I’m clearly not living with Mr. Whitley at the moment…”

“Your word won’t have much sway,” Macalister finished for her. “We need more hands if we’re going to try to wet down the house and chase embers.”

“You could take her back to the Gables and then see if any of the men who work at the house will come up to help. Or maybe some of the ones you hired to clear the land here.”

“I suppose I could try to find out where the fire’s broken out,” he said. “But that will leave you alone here.”

She understood immediately. If he became cut off, no one would come for her.

She drew her shoulders back. “Rosewood is my house. I should be the one who stays.”

“It’s safer if you take Hildy. If I take your horse and buggy, you won’t have a means of escape,” he argued.

“If I need to leave, I’ll saddle your horse,” she said.

He looked skeptical, no doubt wondering if she’d ever saddled her own horse before—let alone ridden with a man’s saddle.

“I will figure it out if I need to, but until then I am not leaving,” she insisted as Hildy banged out of the front door, her small case in hand.

“Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said. “I’ll see if I can convince those men to help, but if I can’t…”

It would be just the two of them, working to save her house.

She squared up to him with a nod. “Tell me what I should do in the meantime.”

chapter fifty-two THERESA

July 2, 1960

Theresa pulled open the front door of Rosewood House and ran straight to the telephone on its little stand in the living room. She dialed as quickly as she could, one of the newsroom’s overnight switchboard operators picking up on the third ring.

“Pasadena Herald Times, how may I direct your call?”

“The assignment desk, please,” said Theresa.

“Hold please.”

The line took a moment to connect, but the overnight assignment editor picked up on the first ring. “News?”

“Albert? It’s Theresa Johnson from Obits.”

“Theresa, I don’t have time right now. I’m working the desk solo and there’s a fire up in the mountains above Altadena—”

“I know. I’m there.”

“You’re there?” he asked, incredulous.

“I’m here right now, in the house of a seventy-nine-year-old woman who is trying to save the home she’s owned for more than fifty years.”