by Becky Avella
She didn’t have to turn around to know Sean was behind her and lashing out at him seemed like a good place to start. “Why do you even bother?”
“Bother with what?”
“Praying,” she accused, the bitterness dripping from the word as if it were a wet sock. What was wrong with her? Why did she care what happened between him and his God? Asking for God’s help wasn’t a personal affront to her. Still, it felt like one.
“Seems like every time I catch you doing it, something worse happens.” She flipped around to face him. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and knock it off.”
Sean didn’t look shocked. He wasn’t mad, either. His calm ticked her off all the more.
“You think God did this,” he said gently. Was that a question or a statement?
Did she blame God? He probably just didn’t care. “No, I don’t think He did this. But it happened on His watch, didn’t it?” Deanna wrapped her arms around herself, trying to warm the odd chill she felt. It was too hot to be this cold.
“I prayed for Gram,” she admitted. “Out front. I asked for His help.”
Sean remained silent, waiting for her to spill her guts.
“And where is she?” Deanna took a step toward him, wanting to get a rise out of him. Her finger stabbed at his shoulder. “Where is your horse, Sean? I’m sure you prayed about that, right?” He said nothing, and before she could regret it, she spit out her next spiteful question. “Where is your father?”
He winced. Eventually, he said, “Praying isn’t like dropping a quarter in a vending machine and expecting a prize to pop out. Yeah, I wanted to have answers, but I don’t get to tell God how it’s done.”
“Like I said,” she huffed, “why bother, then?”
“Because I can’t do it on my own,” Sean said, sweeping out his hand, indicating the shambles of her life. “Can you, Deanna?”
“Whatever,” she snarled and stomped away.
“Deanna,” Sean called after her. She didn’t face him, but she stopped to listen.
“You wouldn’t want God to do your bidding,” he said. “You wouldn’t want Him to be that small.”
She fled. Being mad at God felt too good to stick around and let Sean pacify her. She burst out into the alley, leaving behind the syrupy smell. But the smell outside was equally suffocating. She brushed away a fleck of ash from her nose. And then another one. She looked into the sky. The smoke was getting worse and ash was starting to fall like snowflakes. She sucked in a deep breath and instantly regretted it.
At first her throat tickled, but the sensation escalated to a coughing fit. Less and less air flowed to her lungs. She couldn’t stop hacking. She couldn’t breathe.
She felt the soft pressure of Sean’s large hand on her back.
“Sean, I can’t breathe,” she wheezed. She swiped at her watering eyes. “I can’t breathe,” she repeated, hearing the panicked tone of her voice before another round of violent coughing began. Her body started to tremble as pain burned under her rib cage.
He rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades. “You’re okay, Deanna. You’re going to be okay.”
It took so long to stop coughing, but eventually, the pain eased and she could breathe normally again. The falling ash clung to Sean’s black hair, making it salt-and-pepper as if he’d aged decades before her eyes. He looked so wise and so kind. Her heart ached from the concern etched on his face.
She stepped closer. If he reached for her again, she wouldn’t turn him away; she’d let him hold her, let him make her feel safe again. When had she become so needy?
“I’m failing, Sean,” she whispered. “Nothing is ever enough. It doesn’t matter how hard I work at The Hangar, or how many rodeos I win, or how many customers hire me to fly them somewhere. The Hangar is losing money. My plane is sitting in your alfalfa field. I’m going to lose it all.” She inhaled sharply, blinking hard. “I can’t lose Gram. She’s all I’ve got.”
He pulled her close, and she buried her face in his chest. His big hands kept rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. In the distance church bells rang, snapping her back into good sense. She counted seven gongs. She pulled back and wiped at her eyes, humiliated. One minute she was yelling at him, the next she was falling apart.
“Seven o’clock,” Sean said. “Maybe Arlene closed up early so she could go to Jim’s meeting.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Maybe she’s sitting there in the gym waiting for you right now.”
“You better hope she is,” Deanna said, trying to rouse her anger again. She wanted to keep blaming Sean and to make him pay, but the anger had dissipated. How could anyone stay mad at Sean Loomis for long?
It wasn’t him she needed to be angry at anyway.
“Get in,” she said, pointing at her car. “It’s my turn to drive.”
Sean scrunched up his mouth and didn’t move. “You didn’t see your tires.”
All four tires had been slashed. She wasn’t surprised, actually. She should have expected it. And she knew more was coming. The worst part was admitting that, like it or not, she was still dependent on Sean. Weak and needy. The very things she’d fought against her whole life. Gram would tell her, “Grin and bear it, girl.”
She sighed, resigned. “Looks like we take the Beast, then.”
* * *
The high school gymnasium was standing-room only, packed to capacity. Sean and Deanna pushed through the throng, trying to position themselves where they could search for Arlene without drawing attention to themselves.
“It’s as crowded in here as it was for the basketball championship last year,” Sean said, pulling at the collar of his T-shirt. He liked wide-open spaces. Not crowds. This was too tight for his liking.
“Lot of the same people are here,” Deanna whispered.
“A little different mood, though,” he muttered. On the night of the championship, there had been none of this weighty anxiety that pressed people into their seats now.
The squeaky wooden bleachers overflowed with families, while ruddy-faced ranchers stood guard on each side of the stands, too full of pride and nervous energy to sit down.
“Any sign of her?” he asked.
“No,” Deanna said, lifting wide, fear-filled eyes to him. She reminded him of the whitetail deer on his property. A startled deer could make it a quarter of a mile across a field before Sean could even blink. If he wasn’t careful, he feared Deanna might take flight in the same way. He pushed away the urge to restrain her, to force her to stay right here where he could protect her. That would be the worst approach possible for Deanna. He was working with borrowed time. If he couldn’t produce her grandmother soon, nothing would stop her from bolting.
The faces he searched were pinched and hungry for good news. They listened to Jim Johnson talking, but all they really wanted from their sheriff was reassurance, to be told that Kinakane would remain untouched by the angry flames marching toward it. Sean recognized most of the people there, but he couldn’t see Arlene Jackson among them.
Grabbing Deanna’s hand, he put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Don’t leave.” When she stiffened, he quickly added, “Please, Deanna.” He might be a fool when it came to women, but he was smart enough to know that no one ordered Deanna Jackson to do anything.
Sean nodded toward Jim. “You’re not going to be able to find her without his help. We need a plan.”
“You and your plans,” she hissed. “It’s always ‘wait a little bit longer’ or ‘after we talk with the sheriff.’”
She jerked her hand out of his. “You can’t make a plan for everything. Sometimes you just have to act.”
A rancher turned and glared at them. “You need to take it outside or shut up,” he said. “I’m here to listen to Sheriff Johnson talk, not you two lovebirds bickering behind me.�
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Sean’s cheeks burned; he felt like a teenager being shushed in church. Deanna’s face flamed, too, but Sean wasn’t sure if that was anger or embarrassment. “Sorry,” he mumbled, hoping to defuse the situation before Deanna’s temper flared.
Sean’s fingers twitched at his sides. His pleas weren’t working. He wanted Jim’s help. There was no doubt they needed his professional perspective. Deanna was wrong—they did need a plan, but if he couldn’t convince her of that, he’d have to leave with her.
Sean moved his body between Deanna and the door. He leaned in near her ear again, attempting one last time to talk sense to her. “She could still be here. You can’t see everyone in this room.”
Deanna huffed, but she turned back around. Sean exhaled. She wasn’t leaving yet. It was a temporary victory, but he’d take it.
In front of the bleachers, metal folding chairs held reporters. A few camera crews were set up on the baseline, their cameras aimed at center court, where Jim stood behind a music stand that someone had turned into a makeshift podium.
“Come on, Sheriff,” someone called out, interrupting the presentation. “Just spit it out. Is the fire coming or not?”
Under different circumstances, Sean would’ve been one of these ranchers. He’d be standing with his own arms crossed, braced to hear the worst. His only concern would be protecting his livelihood and his livestock, protecting the home that had been in both sides of his family for generations. The Callaghan side had come straight from Ireland several generations before him, and the Loomis family were natives. They’d always been here. Regardless of the day’s events or how justified Sean was to be distracted, his home should still be his focus. The fire was coming whether he was paying attention or not. He had to know what was at stake. He tried his best to stop worrying about Deanna long enough to hear the sheriff’s words.
“As of this evening,” Jim said, “Kinakane has been upgraded to level-two evacuation notice.”
Sean’s stomach tightened. A ripple of anxious whispers scampered across the bleachers. The media people sat up, suddenly awake. Jim had just handed them a sound bite for the eleven-o’clock news. Reporters waved their hands in the air, trying to interrupt him, but Jim barreled through, ignoring them.
“The official level change means there is significant threat to this area and you all need to be ready to evacuate,” he said. His sigh was audible through the PA system. He looked over the heads of the waving media and fixed his gaze on his friends and neighbors in the stands. Genuine concern and weariness oozed from him. Politics came with the job, but this sheriff cared more about his constituents’ safety than he did about pandering to the media. Sean ached for his friend, sure he couldn’t even fathom the load on Jim’s shoulders, couldn’t imagine all he’d dealt with in the past week.
Jim continued, “I’ve been all over the county. I’ve seen firsthand the devastation to people’s homes and livestock. How there hasn’t been any loss of human life yet...” He paused, collecting himself. “Well, I thank God for that.”
Sean had seen the dead cows and the burned-out houses on the news, but Jim had actually been there. He’d helped sound the alarm to evacuate, had comforted those who had lost it all.
“I just got word that the Red Cross is packing up their temporary shelter,” Jim said. “They’ve determined Kinakane isn’t safe enough for the refugees. Bottom line is this, people—if you don’t absolutely have to be here, now is the time to go.”
The sheriff kept his eyes locked on the crowd, unblinking. “Conditions change fast. We’re doing our best to keep the Facebook page current and local media outlets updated, but we can’t predict everything. Don’t wait for someone to knock on your door. Evacuate immediately if you’re at all concerned.”
Jim waited, letting the gravity of his words register. Leave it to Jim to give it to them bluntly. Sean could always count on Jim to tell it to him straight, and Sean couldn’t wait to talk with him alone.
Deanna bounced on her toes, her eyes still scanning the crowd. Had she heard a single word? She might be in denial, but Sean didn’t blame her. She didn’t have room mentally or emotionally to worry about one more thing. And that was okay, because Sean was doing enough worrying for the both of them.
And then Deanna gasped. Her fingernails bit into Sean’s skin.
“What is it?” he asked. She looked so pale.
“Farside of the bleachers,” she whispered. “By the side door.”
In the shadows, behind the bleachers where no one else was looking, stood Arlene Johnson. Sean’s lips turned up at the corners, ready to form a smile, but before he could enjoy the relief, the moment shattered. His stomach plummeted. Behind Arlene stood their old classmate Greg Martin. Wasn’t he one of the men Austin Mills had assured them would no longer be a threat?
Sean balled his fists. Greg was slowly guiding Arlene toward the far exit. He wanted to sprint across the gym to rescue her, but Sean was facing another whitetail deer situation. Move too fast, and he’d startle the other man and lose Arlene in the process.
Greg locked eyes with Sean and lifted his finger to his lips. Slowly, he moved his other hand out from behind Arlene’s back to reveal a black pistol he held in it, sending Sean an abundantly clear warning.
ELEVEN
When Deanna was ten years old, she walked too close to an unbroken stallion who didn’t want to load into a horse trailer. He’d kicked unexpectedly, connecting with her chest. The force sent her flying, slamming her against the barn wall. She slid to the ground, shocked from the pain and lack of air, unable to move. It really was a wonder it hadn’t killed her.
This felt like that. She was rooted to the ground and helpless to do anything but stare. Greg and Gram seemed just as shocked to see her. Who would react first? Sean’s biceps bulged under her hand. The seconds stretched.
Her brain grasped for a solution as her eyes frantically searched for help. She wanted to scream, to force everyone to notice the sinister drama playing out in the dark corner of the gym. But the crowd was too fixated on the sheriff, everyone completely oblivious to anything but their own concerns.
Fire, fire, fire. That’s all anyone thought about anymore, all anyone could talk about. That threat was still miles away. How could they not sense the real danger happening right beside them?
Greg took another step back, pulling Gram along with him, so close to the door. If he made it out, Gram would be gone.
Deanna found her voice. “No!”
The same rancher that had warned them to be quiet before turned to face her, red faced. “That’s it!” he said.
Deanna pushed past him. She couldn’t let Greg make it any farther.
“Deanna, wait!” Sean called after her. She didn’t stop until she was standing in front of the sheriff.
Hundreds of eyes watched her. She sensed the reporters’ curiosity and heard frantic clicks of cameras. A stunned silence settled over the bleachers as everyone leaned forward in their seats, fascinated by the crazy woman interrupting the meeting. She’d probably end up on the news, but all she cared about was getting Gram away from that gun. Greg was almost to the door.
“What is—” Sheriff Johnson started to say.
“Greg Martin,” Deanna shouted, pointing to Gram. “We all see you, Greg. Let her go.”
The sheriff’s head snapped in the direction she pointed.
Deanna kept speaking, determined to draw all eyes onto Greg. It was a risk, but it was all she could think to do. “It’s Greg Martin. You all see him, right? It’s Greg Martin,” she yelled. She wanted him to know he’d been identified, to make him feel vulnerable. “You won’t shoot her with all these witnesses, will you, Greg?”
“Gun!” someone from the bleachers shrieked.
Chaos erupted. Reporters ran for cover. The clang of their crashing metal chairs echoed
across the gym and mixed with the heavy pounding of stampeding feet on the bleachers. Women screamed, men shouted, kids cried.
Sheriff Johnson fixed his firearm on Greg. “Drop it, Martin!” he commanded.
Greg shoved Gram away from him, sending her sprawling across the floor before he slammed his body against the crash bar on the door and disappeared into the night, deputies following quickly on his heels. Deanna sprinted and collapsed onto her hands and knees in front of Gram.
“Are you all right?”
Tears flowed as she put her palms on Gram’s cheeks, searching her grandmother’s eyes for the answer to her question.
Gram was pale and shaking, but Deanna didn’t see any injuries as she helped her to her feet. She gripped Gram’s shoulders and pulled her into a desperate hug. Deanna sobbed, forgetting she should be ashamed of her public display of emotion.
“Thank You, God. Thank You, God,” she cried. Soon it was Gram who was comforting her. Gram smoothed back Deanna’s hair and let her bawl on her shoulder.
Deanna swiped at her running nose. “Why did Greg bring you here?”
“He didn’t. I was already here.”
“But The Hangar was broken into. I thought you’d been kidnapped.”
Gram shook her head. “No, I closed early so I could come to hear what the sheriff had to say. I had just stepped down from the bleachers to use the bathroom when he snuck up behind me and shoved that gun in my back.”
“I was so worried, Gram.”
“I’m okay,” Gram assured her. “But what did he want from me?”
Deanna squeezed her arms around Gram even tighter. She’d explain in a minute. Somewhere out there, vicious men waited, determined to shut Deanna up, to kill her if they could, but she and Sean had defied them so far. They were all still alive. Gram was safe. At the moment that was all that mattered.
* * *
Sean held his throbbing head in his hands. A rock-hard goose egg had grown where Nathan Reid’s shotgun had connected with his skull. Would this day ever end?