by DL Fowler
After about half an hour, tiny white flakes snap me back to the here and now. No way it’s snow, not in the heat of summer. I sniff the air. My head runs through all the possibilities. “There’s a fire somewhere.”
RJ jerks back on his reins and turns in his saddle. What started as a few cinders fluttering down is now light flurry. He holds out his hand to catch a sample of the ash and nods in the direction of the hut. “Must be coming from over there.”
I turn the mare downhill toward home.
RJ grabs her halter and yanks us back. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“To the hut. To grab as much stuff as I can before the fire—.”
“If a fire breaks loose with all this dry fuel lying around, we won’t have a prayer unless we get out now. The last thing you wanna do in a forest fire is try to escape downhill. Fires tend to burn upslope, which means you’ll be heading right into it. You’re dead unless you win the lottery, and a strong wind moves it in a different direction. But the odds are against you, big time … sorry.”
“Then we’d better keep after Amy. No way can she outrun a fire on foot. We’ve got to find her.” I jerk the mare’s reins out of his hands and dig my heels into her sides. RJ freezes in his saddle, his mouth wide open. The mare bolts past him and breaks into a full gallop. I scream, “Shit … not so fast,” and hang on for dear life.
I take a quick peek at RJ and see him turn his stallion to come after me. Just as I get straightened around, a low hanging branch smacks me in the face. When I open my eyes I spot a tree down across the trail. The mare plants her feet. I fly out of the saddle and crash to the ground. Pain shoots through my shoulder, my neck, and arm. Flat on my back, I can’t catch my breath.
Next thing I know I’m shivering. RJ’s kneeling next to me, his hand is on my forehead, his shirt draped over me like a blanket. My feet are propped up on a saddle. Ash is falling around us. He says to stay still.
I mumble, “Wouldn’t think of moving.”
“We’ll have to get going again soon. But first, we have to be sure you’re not going into shock.”
Amy
I push harder through the scrub. Brush is getting thicker. High branches scratch my face, low ones snag my ankles. I stumble … catch my breath. Check the ridgeline. It’s getting farther away.
I slant uphill … press against the Manzanita branches. White flakes are falling … ashes. Like when we burn garbage, and sparks shoot up … and float away. Maybe they’re coming from Mercedes’ stove. My throat’s scratchy. The brush keeps getting thicker. Now it doesn’t give way at all. I turn straight uphill … one step is as far as I get. Maybe going to the top isn’t a good idea.
Downhill is easier … just have to worry about loose rocks. Or … what if I step on one of those killer snakes? I breathe fast. Try to swallow … can’t. Eyes sting … lungs burn. Smoke everywhere … ash is getting thicker. Summertime snowflakes swirl around … tiny red candy wrappers, too. They turn black before they hit the ground. Bryce says you have to be careful burning garbage. Sparks can fly off, catch dry needles on fire … maybe grass, too. If sparks land up in the trees, the whole forest will burn down. Somebody didn’t listen. They weren’t careful.
My heart beats faster. My chest is gonna explode. Reach in my pocket … no candy wrapper. Fall to my knees, sobbing. Cry ’til there’s no tears left. Stand and look downhill. The Manzanita peters out at the bottom. There’s a flat clearing about as big as the lake. Way off to the right side … grass is on fire. Flames reaching for the low hanging branches. To the left it’s clear. I race through the Manzanita to the bottom … go hard to the left … hot, dry air burns my throat, lungs. Have to get away from this fire.
Mercedes
RJ helps me back onto the mare, but this time he ties a lead to her bridle and cinches it to his saddle horn. I don’t have to steer any more … just hang on. He nudges the stallion into a walk and we head uphill. I keep an eye out for Amy’s tracks, but my throbbing neck and shoulder paralyze my brain. Can’t really say when I zoned out.
At the top of the ridge, RJ says he hopes she’s following the crest ’til she spots the lake down below. If she misses it, she’ll wind up on a bluff that overlooks the highway.
I wince from a stabbing pain in the pit of my stomach. “But, what if she’s headed the other direction … right into the fire?”
“They’ll find three charred bodies if we follow her. We just have to hope she made the right choice.”
I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back tears. A short time later, a wave of nausea hits. I hunch forward and let out a weak, “Hold up—please.”
RJ halts his stallion, and the mare stops, too. He jumps down and rushes over to catch me as I lean to the side. When my feet hit the ground he braces me and helps me down the backside of the ridge—about a hundred feet. I slide down and rest my back against a tree stump … hold back a surge of vomit working its way up my throat.
He pulls off his shirt and tucks it under my head. “Here. Lie down … point your feet uphill. You’re going into shock from the pain.”
My teeth chatter.
He leaps up, sprints to the top of the ridge, and leads the horses back down to where I’m shivering to death. He ties them up, unsaddles the mare, and drapes her blanket over me. I close my eyes, hoping sleep will carry me off this mountain.
I wake up, moaning, drenched in sweat, my face clammy. My shoulder throbs. Someone—not RJ—says, “So sleeping beauty’s decided to wake up?”
I know the voice. But it can’t be. He’s dead. I saw it with my own eyes. A woman laughs. Is that Tess? I try to prop myself up. Pain shoots down my arm. “Where am I? RJ?”
The man and the woman laugh again. Hard, cold metal presses against my temple. I eye the barrel of a rifle, follow it up to a bony hand clutching the narrow part of the stock, an index finger resting along the trigger guard. I look up at his face and gulp. It is him. How the hell …? He’s wearing the same creepy smile that used to turn my stomach when the bastard came up to the loft for his “special treat.”
Someone moans a few feet away. I call out, “RJ!” Another moan.
The woman laughs again. It is Tess. My heart sinks.
Bryce pokes at my head with the rifle. “Tess, what do you say we just finish these two right here and now?”
Tess’s shrill voice sends a chill down my spine. “No. We need the girl, she’s the key to Chandler’s millions.”
“Then how ’bout the boy? He’s just dead weight.”
“Good point. Only thing he can do is cause trouble. Just leave him tied up here. If the fire doesn’t get him, he’ll make a good meal for some hungry coyote or mountain lion. And nobody can trace him back to us.”
My eyes dart back and forth between Bryce and Tess. Neck’s too stiff—can’t turn far enough to get a glimpse of RJ.
I blurt out the best argument I can think of. “That stallion—it’s a one rider horse. You’ll need RJ—or you’ll have to hoof it all the way to wherever you’re planning to take me.”
Bryce grunts. “We’ll do the riding. You can do the hoofing.”
“But I can’t—the pain—that’s why we stopped.”
Tess mutters, “Put her on the mare. Shoo the stallion back home.”
My heart pounds in my ears. “Our best chance of out running the fire is all of us on horseback. To do that we’ll need the horses… and RJ.”
Bryce swings the rifle barrel away from my face. “She’ll do the walking. Now, let’s get a move on. Don’t like how that ash is blowin’ over to this side of the ridge. Only takes one spark in the wrong place to set the whole place ablaze.”
“And the boy?” Tess asks.
Bryce swats the stallion’s hindquarter. “Git ou….”
The horse bolts and gallops away.
Amy
Watching ash fall as I run. Embers catching in the grass … burning small patches then dying out. Up ahead, something o
n the ground … a bundle … or …. I slow to a walk. A body. I step closer. It moves. I freeze.
A man … he gets up on his knees … his head drooping … shoulders sag. One arm dangling limp … an ugly red and purple splotch above his elbow. I tiptoe close to him … bend down for a close look at the bloody arm. He turns his face … looks up at me. God, it’s the man from the huge cabin.
He takes my hand. His voice is weak. “Help me up.”
I pull him to his feet.
He staggers … leans into me … drapes his good arm over my neck. Almost whispering, he says, “Have to keep going. Fire’s coming our way. It’ll pick up speed. Got to get to my bunker.”
He takes a step. I stay with him … look up at his face. The frown tells me he’s worn out from the pain … probably lost lots of blood. But that doesn’t slow him … each step’s a little quicker than the last. His breathing gets faster, too—and louder. Sometimes he coughs … then winces. When he stumbles … his face gets all screwed up … and he mumbles things I can’t understand.
Ash and embers are getting thicker. I keep peeking over my shoulder … smoke spreading along the ridge … no Bryce in sight. Once in a while, I tell him to stop and rest. He shakes his head … points straight ahead.
Not much farther we find a pasture … most of the grass is eaten or worn away. Across it … a barn and ranch house … the one where RJ and his uncle lived. The neighbor man sees it, he walks faster … grunts with every step. As we come around to the front of the barn my heart jumps up into my throat. RJ’s stallion is waiting at the barn door.
RJ’s uncle, his butchered face, the pool of blood—it all flashes through my head. I slump over … my knees wobble. The neighbor grabs my arm with his good hand and holds me up.
His voice is raspy. “Let’s go inside.”
I glance over my shoulder. No Bryce. We head for the kitchen door.
In the kitchen, I help the man into a chair. He rests his head on the table … his good arm for a pillow … bloody arm dangling by his side. I get a mug full of water—he raises his head—I lift the mug to his lips. When he finishes drinking he whispers, “Booze?”
“Huh?”
He winces. “Got to be some around. See what you can find.”
Search the whole house. At the doorway to Uncle Eric’s room … flies … like the ones swarming his body … sucking his blood. I study the dark stained carpet. Puke pushes up into my throat … hold it back. Close my eyes for a second. Try to think what everything would look like through crinkly, red candy wrappers.
Find booze in the cabinet next to the bed. When I set the bottle on the table next to the man, he whispers, “Towel.” I hand him one. He douses it with whiskey and starts dabbing the wound. Then he pours booze right on the bloody hole in his arm.
I walk over to the cupboard, holding my breath as I peek out the backdoor. Still no Bryce. Good.
The shelves are almost empty. Only a few things got left when Mr. Miller, Uncle Eric’s neighbor, interrupted us. There’s a jar of honey. I take it and pull up a chair next to the man … slather the honey over his wound. He wrinkles his nose … frowns.
I say, “Kills germs. Helps it heal. Bryce taught us that.”
“So … what are you doing out here … all alone?”
“Kinda got lost.”
He nods. “Me, too. Where do you live?”
I screw the top back on the honey … take it to the cupboard.
“You look a lot like the kid who lives across the lake from me.”
Point to the booze. “You gonna drink any of that?”
Shakes his head. “My name’s Jacob … you can call me Jake. What’s yours?”
Put the top on and start back to Uncle Eric’s bedroom. I stop … look back. “Amy.”
“Thanks, Amy … for saving my life.”
“It’s nothing.”
He wheezes. “Since it’s my life, I should be the judge of what it’s worth.”
I walk back … set the booze on the table … sit down. “Your granddaughter.”
His eyes get big. “What about her?”
“She’s lucky …” my voice breaks like I’m gonna cry.
Hangs his head. “I lost her ….”
“That’s right … you said somebody … took her.”
He wrinkles his forehead. “I told you? When?”
“You gave me a ride. I was walking up the mountain. I lied. Told you I didn’t live across the lake.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Guess I forgot ….”
I stare down at my hands folded in my lap.
“Amy, I’d like to return the favor.”
“What favor?”
“Saving my life.”
“It’s not saved yet.”
He grins. “When we get out of this mess …. “
I shrug.
“Do you like candy?” he asks.
“Sure ….”
He digs into his pocket. “I always carry these. Just in case I find her again. They’re her favorite.”
When he opens his hand, I smile big. Cinnamon candy … in a shiny red, crinkly wrapper.
He stands. “We better get going if we’re going to outrun this fire to my bunker. Real medicine there … and food.”
When we step outside … big orange flames and smoke up on the ridge. A loud, groaning noise.
“Choppers,” he says. “Could be good news, could be bad.” He points ahead. “This fire break will take us home. Let’s just stay to the far side, away from those flames—and try to keep under cover so the helicopters don’t spot us.”
I look over my shoulder for Bryce. Maybe he’s not coming, after all.
Mercedes
Bryce and Tess ride double on the mare. With my wrists lashed together at one end of a rope—the other end tied to the saddle horn—I trot behind, gyrating to stay on my feet. Pain shoots through my shoulder every time the rope goes taut and jerks me forward.
The rocky ground would make it tough enough to keep my balance with arms free. Tied up, it’s only a matter of time before I do a face-plant. My stomach’s drawn tight as a crossbow. We left RJ lying back there on the ground. By now, the fire’s got to be closing in on him. I fight back tears—stumble—twist one way then the next—barely able to stay upright. Another surge of pain.
Bryce calls back to Tess, “We’re lucky that fire isn’t moving any faster. Won’t be long before it starts making its own wind—blows the flames along the ridgeline and over to our side. We better get to the lake fast or we’re toast.”
Tess scolds him, “Careful. She’s got to be in one piece when we find Chandler. He’s not going to pay for damaged goods.”
My foot catches a root. Twist to my good side … lose my footing. My ribcage slams against the ground. Rocks rip my shirt, pants … skin. Bryce pulls the mare to a stop. I get up on my knees … struggle to breathe.
Bryce shouts at Tess, “Not my fault that bitch can’t run without falling.”
Tess slaps the side of his head. “Don’t go so damned fast.”
They’re arguing—this could be my only chance. I peek around for an escape route.
Bryce grumbles, “Hey. It’s not me. It’s this damn nag.”
Tess smacks him again. “Shut up. I’m tired of doing everything your way. You’ve done nothing but screw up my life since we met. From now on, I’ll be calling the shots.”
“The hell you are. You’re living on borrowed time as it is.”
Tess laughs.
He turns in the saddle. “What’s so funny?”
“You. You’re what’s funny. Think you’re some hotshot. No, you’re a wannabe. Just a worthless, weasel wannabe. You’ve got this all backwards. We don’t need you. Not anymore. And I’m tired of being your surrogate mommy—somebody you can cling to, who won’t leave you all alone, staring out a window, worrying whether she’ll ever come home. No. Go ahead and stand by that damn window if you want
. But get it straight. This ‘mommy’s’ never coming home to you again. Never. If anybody around here’s living on borrowed time, it’s you.”
Bryce turns away from her. “What makes you think you can handle Chandler on your own?”
“I’ve got the leverage of three murder raps—on top of two granddaughters.” She mutters, “Once we find the little bitch.”
I grit my teeth and stand up. “What are you talking about, ‘two granddaughters?’ And what murders?”
She glares at Bryce. “First, the sheriff thinks Chandler killed that bum at the shack the night it burned down—we all thought the poor schlep was Bryce. They also want him for Eric’s murder. On top of that, Bryce just set him up to take the fall for killing a local lawyer named Roy.”
Bryce mutters, “Amy’s his granddaughter and so are you.”
First, I’m Tess’s daughter? Now I’m some rich dude’s granddaughter? Makes no sense. But it keeps me alive … whatever. I narrow my eyes. “Since I’m worth a million bucks to you, seems like you should be treating me with kid gloves.”
Tess sneers. “Stay out of this. Chandler doesn’t know about you—and until I give him proof, he’ll just think we’re trying to scam him. But the proof’s right here.” She pats her breast.
Bryce clutches the stock of the rifle that’s hanging by a leather strap next to his knee. “She’s bluffing. Let’s get a move on before that fire catches up with us.”
Tess reaches in front of Bryce and starts untying the end of the rope that’s tied to the saddle horn. Bryce grips her hands. “Don’t get so grabby. I’ll say when I want to be touched.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. Just thought it would be safer if I hold the rope. She’s less likely to fall and break her neck.”
Bryce lets go of her hands. “Fine, and while you’re at it, you can start worrying about what I’m liable to do, once ….”