True Love at Silver Creek Ranch(2)

“You said three horses!” he shouted from beneath the scarf.

A groan seemed to emanate from the barn timbers, turning both their heads. Smoke wafted out in great streams to the sky, but the fire still seemed contained in the tack room.

“I can’t be sure until I check each stall!” She tried to yank her elbow away, but his grip was strong. A blast of heat wafted out, engulfing her, making her sweat even more beneath her layers of winter clothing. She felt almost light-headed.

He loomed over her, and now she could see the sandy waves of hair plastered above his ears, and his narrowed eyes, brown as the sides of the barn but so intent on her.

“I checked all six on the west side. I didn’t hear anything more coming from the east after you’d gone.”

“I can’t take that chance. I only got through four stalls on my side.” She stared at the herd of horses clustered uneasily at the far end of the corral. Nate’s horse, Apollo—was he there? She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to him. And then she saw the dappled gray gelding, and relief shuddered down her spine.

The man didn’t answer her, and she turned to see him disappear into the barn, the smoke swirling out and around him as if to draw him deep inside. A stab of fear shocked her—why was he risking himself for her? Her eyes stung as she reached the entrance, but he was there again, stumbling into her, the upper half of his face dirtied by the soot, his eyes streaming.

“It’s empty!” he called.

She could have staggered with relief that her beloved horses were all right—that this brave man hadn’t been injured.

But relief was only momentary as she began to think about the structure itself, built by her family well over a hundred years before. She hugged herself against the sadness.

As if reading her mind, he said, “You can’t do anything now. And I hear sirens.”

The fire engine from Valentine Valley roared down the dirt road that wound its way through the ranch. The horses were going to be even more frightened, so she ran to the end of the corral and opened the gate so they could escape into the next pasture.

When she returned to the stranger’s side, they were pushed out of the way by the trained professionals. Most were volunteers, like Sally Gillroy from the mayor’s office, who liked to gossip, and Hal Abrams, the owner of the hardware store where her dad and Nate met fellow ranchers for coffee. She recognized all these men and women, but it was strange to see their grim faces rather than easygoing smiles.

“Are you all right?” Hal demanded, his glasses reflecting the flames that had begun to shoot out both doors.

Brooke nodded, still hugging herself, feeling the presence of the stranger at her back. She almost took comfort from it, and that was strange.

“Horses all saved?”

She nodded again, and was surprised to feel a wave of pride and even excitement. Knowing she’d risked herself made her feel more alive and aware than she’d felt in a long time. Everything in life could be so transitory, and she’d just been accepting things that happened to her rather than making choices. She couldn’t live that way anymore. She had to find something that made her feel this alive, that gave her more purpose and focus.

And it scared the hell out of her.

“You’re in the way,” Hal said. “Go on up to the house and clean up. We’ll wet down any nearby buildings to keep them safe. But the barn is a goner.” He turned his shrewd eyes on the stranger. “Is that blood?”

Brooke spun around and saw that the stranger had lowered his scarf. In another situation, she might have been amused at the dark upper half of his face and the white lower half, but she saw blood oozing from a cut across his cheek.

“I’m fine.” The stranger used his gloved hand to swipe at his cheek and made everything worse.

“Come on,” Brooke said wearily, refusing to glance one last time at her family’s barn although she could hear the crackle and roar of the fire. “The bunkhouse is close. We’ll wash up there and see to your face.”

And she could look into his eyes and see if he was the sort who set fires for fun. He didn’t seem it, for he didn’t look back at the fire either, only trudged behind her.

The bunkhouse was an old log cabin, another of the original buildings from the nineteenth-century silver-boom days, when cattle from the Silver Creek Ranch had fed thousands of miners coming down from their claims to spend their riches in Valentine Valley. Brooke’s father had updated the interior of the cabin to house the occasional temporary workers they needed during branding or haying season. There were a couple sets of bunk beds along the walls, an old couch before the stone hearth, a battered table and chairs, kitchen cabinets and basic appliances at the far end of the open room, and two doors that led into a single bedroom and bathroom.