“Call the fire department,” I instruct Warner, taking off for the shed behind the house where we keep the fire extinguishers. Behind me Warner yells, “I called them as soon as I saw it.”
Still, it will take them twenty minutes or so to get out here. I throw open the shed and grab two extinguishers. Warner does the same, and together we take off at a run.
I smell it a few seconds before I see it. Once, at the Merc, I saw Burning Wood as the scent of a candle, and I thought that made sense because I love the smell of a campfire.
But not right now. This smell of burning wood breaks my heart.
The barn is a cavernous square with two off-shoots on either side. Fire licks up the sides, about halfway up, but all the way around. My brain registers that as odd, but I don’t have time to analyze.
Warner and I run around the perimeter, spraying, and soon the cowboys run over.
“The shed,” I shout. “More extinguishers!” Rivulets of sweat snake down my body. It’s hot as hell, and it doesn’t feel like we’re making much progress. The equipment we have just isn’t enough. The pond is less than a hundred yards away, but we need the firefighters’ pump.
And then it hits me. The animals. Mom’s goats are inside. I sprint to the front and throw open the door. Smoke billows out, burning my eyes and throat. I cover my mouth and nose with my forearm and run inside. I can’t see more than a few feet in front of my face, but I know my mom keeps stacks of wool blankets on a shelf to my right. I stumble over, my free hand stuck out in front of me, feeling for the fabric. When I locate it, I grab one of the blankets and wrap it around me, using one hand to hold it cinched above my head.
I do my best, stumbling along, feeling for the latches on the gates my mom uses to keep the goats separated. Their bleating is nearly as loud as the splintering wood, and they sound desperate, as if on some level they know they are in danger. I do my best to open as many latches as I can, but I know I can’t keep going. The smoke is too much and I’m starting to feel sick. I run for the exit, and there are goats running every which way. A few feet in front of me, I spot a limping goat. It’s going so slow, it will never make it. I scoop it up on my way past. Behind me is a loud crack, and I sprint out of the barn holding the goat.
The relieved shouts of my name are the first thing I hear, but it’s drowned out by screaming sirens. A fire truck followed by an ambulance. Suddenly my mom’s in my face, running her hands over my cheeks, wide eyes checking me for signs of obvious injury.
I cough. “I’m fine, Mom.”
She gives me a long, heavy look, then takes the goat from my arms. “That was stupid, Wes,” she scolds, but her lips quiver.
Maybe it was stupid, but it was also innate. Inside me is a drive to serve, to protect, to save. It’s a biological instinct. I’ve always felt it, and then when it came time for me to choose a job in the military, the bomb squad seemed an obvious choice.
The firefighters jump into action, depositing one end of their pump into the pond and snaking the firehose to the barn. They yell to one another, and soon the pump is drafting the water.
I look around at who’s here now. When I’d run into the barn, it had only been me, Warner, and a handful of cowboys. My mom and dad, Gramps, and the remaining cowboys stand here now. Every single person who lives on this ranch, with the exception of Warner’s kids, and Wyatt and Jessie.
The amount of water the firefighters are using to handle the fire makes our use of fire extinguishers laughable. The first thing I’ll do when the ranch is mine is fill in the inadequacies in fire response.
My mom counts the goats. Tears fill her eyes and she floats into my dad’s waiting arms. “We’re missing six,” she tells him.
Dammit. My poor mom.
It’s not too long before the fire is out. One of the men approaches my dad, and when he removes his helmet, I see it’s Derrick, my friend from high school.
“Derrick? Hey, man.” I offer a hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”
But Derrick doesn’t look happy that he’s just put out a fire. He looks worried. “Wes.” He shakes my hand, then turns to my dad. “Mr. Hayden, my guys and I have reason to believe this fire was set intentionally.”
My dad’s head jerks back in surprise. “Why is that?”
Derrick gestures to another firefighter, who has also removed his helmet. He walks over with something in his hand. A gas can?
Derrick takes it. “This was found in the woods just beyond the barn. Like it had been tossed there.”
“Let me see that.” I motion for the object. Derrick gives it to me, and I turn it over, looking for any kind of marking that might tell us who it belongs to. There’s nothing.
“Wes, let’s get you checked out by the paramedics,” Derrick urges, glancing at the waiting ambulance.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Go on, Wes,” my dad instructs, his voice deepening. “You were in that barn and you need to get checked out.”
I know better than to challenge my dad right now, especially when he’s worried about me. If I refuse, he’ll get angry, and he doesn’t need that. The man had heart surgery a month ago.
Derrick keeps talking to Dad, asking him if he knows anybody who would have done this, and I head for the ambulance. Warner comes over while the paramedics are doing basic checks.
“You scared the shit out of me when you ran in that barn, Wes.”
“I knew what I was doing.” What a crock. I didn’t know what I was doing. Instinct sent me in there, not intelligence.
“Wes.” Warner’s voice is serious. “You’re my big brother. We might be in our thirties, but there’s still a lot of shit I haven’t given you yet. Don’t go doing anything crazy and leaving me alone with Wyatt anytime soon. He can’t take my shit-talking the way you can.”
I laugh. The paramedic slides a cool stethoscope up my back and presses it into my skin. “I love you too, brother.”
Warner’s eyes widen, but he tries to act like my words are no big deal. Something I say every day.
“You too, Wes,” he replies, swiping a hand over his face. He changes the subject. “Heard from Dakota?”
The paramedics declare me all good, but tell me I’m going to need some serious hydration and a lot of Visine for dry eyes. I thank them and walk away, pulling my phone from my pocket as I go. One voicemail, from Dakota, left an hour ago. I press the button and listen.
“Wes, hi. It’s me. I mean, obviously. Sorry I sound so nervous. It’s just that I got an email from my credit card company and I’m confused. Are we not… is the wedding still on? Because I thought with our agreement and everything,” she pauses, and I can hear knocking in the background. “Someone is here. Anyway, call me back, okay? Bye.” She hasn’t hung up yet. The voicemail is still rolling, the seconds ticking by on the screen. I hear a man’s voice, then the line goes dead.
“What’s wrong?” Warner asks. There must be a look on my face. I shake my head, my lips pursed, and call Wyatt.
“Hey, bro,” Wyatt answers.
“Where are you?” I bark.
“Playing poker at a friend’s house. Why?”
“I need you to go to Dakota’s hotel room. Now.”