14. Luna
Chapter 14
Luna
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, warm and familiar. Shay sits at the head of the table, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other idly stroking Jingle’s ears as he sprawls across her lap.
She’s been home from the hospital for three days, and she looks better. Color has returned to her cheeks, and her eyes are brighter. Still, Henry fusses around her like she’s made of glass.
Tom is arguing with Ben about fencing strategy again. Something about the south paddock and “goats that have a death wish.”
I’m at the stove flipping pancakes when Angus brushes behind me to grab a second cup of coffee. His hand lingers low on my back for a second—steadying, grounding. My skin buzzes from the simple touch.
“You okay?” he murmurs so only I can hear.
I blush, knowing the reason for his question. My husband was particularly… vigorous last night, leaving me sore in all the best ways. I clear my throat. “Yeah. You?”
He smirks, eyes glinting with a slow-burn heat that’s all for me. “I’m good.” Then, low and wicked near my ear: “Little smug, maybe. Made my wife come three times last night.”
I swat his arm, but I’m grinning like an idiot. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth before stepping back, “are very, very welcome.”
Across the room, Shay stands. “I should feed the goats.”
Henry shoots up. “Nope. You’re on rest duty, remember?”
“I am resting,” Shay insists. “Feeding goats is relaxing. It’s basically yoga with hay.”
“You’re barely five months,” I say gently, setting the spatula down and wiping my hands. “And you had contractions. You need to rest.”
“I can walk,” Shay says, but she’s already easing back into her seat. “Fine. You win. But only because my back is killing me.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I offer, grabbing my coat. “You put your feet up and boss us around from the porch like a proper ranch queen.”
Shay smirks. “Deal.”
The guys gather their gear and head out, Angus pausing long enough to brush a kiss across my temple. “Don’t linger out there too long. Forecast says the wind’s picking up.”
I nod. “Won’t be long. Just want to check the water buckets and do a quick sweep of the storage room in the barn.”
He eyes me for a moment longer as if he wants to say more. Then he nods and heads out, boots thudding down the porch steps. I watch until they disappear past the rise, then blow out a slow breath.
The house feels quieter without them.
Shay curls up on the sofa with a book and a fuzzy blanket, her feet propped up, one hand resting lightly over her belly. I stack the last of the breakfast dishes, rinse out the sink, and wipe down the stove. It’s a simple, grounded routine I envied in other people’s homes.
Now it’s mine.
“Heading to the barn,” I tell Shay, popping my head into the living room.
“Sure I can’t do it?” she asks hopefully.
I shake my head. “You were in the hospital three days ago.”
“Which is why I’m fine now,” she says stubbornly, already trying to lever herself up.
I raise a hand. “Nope. Sit. Drink your tea and rest. Doctor’s orders, remember?”
She grumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like bossy sister-in-law, but she stays put.
I grab my coat and scarf, tugging them on as I head for the door.
By the time I step outside, the sky has turned a flat, pewter gray, the breeze biting with a sharp edge. I tug my collar higher and crunch across the patchy yard, my boots skimming over the wet straw and half-melted snow.
The air smells strange. Unease blooms in my stomach.
I shake it off. It’s just the season turning.
A faint sound catches my ear. Not the usual rustle of animals or the groan of the barn settling in the cold.
A crackle.
Dry. Wrong.
I pause, hand on the gate latch.
Then I smell it—smoke. Not woodstove smoke. Not chimney smoke. But hot, acrid, burning .
My stomach drops.
I spin toward the barn.
For a second, everything looks normal—just quiet buildings under a gray sky. Then I see it: a thin plume of smoke curling from the far side of the structure, barely visible against the cloud-thick morning. It snakes upward, too fast, too dark.
Not a flue. Not a chimney.
This is wrong.
I take off running, boots slipping on ice-slick patches, breath puffing white as panic claws up my throat. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. The air thickens with smoke the closer I get, curling into my nostrils, bitter and chemical and wrong .
I skid to a stop at the barn door and yank it open.
Heat slams into me like a freight train.
Flames are already eating through the corner of the storage room—licking up the walls and catching on the stacked hay bales like they’ve been waiting for a spark. The fire isn’t wild yet, but it’s fast , leaping with terrifying hunger as smoke billows into the rafters in thick, choking waves.
“Oh, God.”
I don’t hesitate. I run. I grab the nearest bucket and look for the hose—but the faucet’s frozen. I lunge for the fire extinguisher, yank the pin, and aim?—
It sputters. Coughs.
Dead.
The smoke surges and my lungs seize. My eyes burn.
Terrified bleats from the goat pen inside. High-pitched. Panicked.
My heart lodges in my throat.
I run—stumbling through the narrow passage between stalls, coughing hard as I push open the interior gate. The goats are pressed to the far corner, eyes wide, bleating frantically.
“Come on,” I rasp. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”
I flap my arms to guide them toward the side exit. They hesitate. Stubborn. Confused. The smoke thickens. I grab the lead goat by the collar and tug hard. Finally, they move, stumbling, slipping, and skittering into the open.
I herd them through the back pen gate, slam it shut, and sag against the post, coughing so hard it rattles my ribs.
Then I hear it.
A thin, desperate bleat from inside.
I whip around.
The high-pitched cry comes from the feed shed, not the main stall. One of the goats must’ve wandered in before the flames started. My stomach twists.
“No. No, no, no…”
I don’t think.
I move .
I yank my scarf over my nose and dart back inside, staying low. The smoke is worse now, rolling thick and fast along the rafters. The shed door is ajar, and fire licks the frame.
I spot the goat—Cheese Puff—trapped near the corner. She’s wedged behind a tipped bucket, her eyes wild. Flames flicker behind her.
I dart in and heave her into my arms—she’s heavier than she looks—and spin toward the door.
I’m almost there when I hear the metallic click .
The wind? The fire shifting the frame?
I lunge for the handle.
Locked.
No.
I try again, jiggling the latch and slamming my palm against the wood. I rear back and slam my shoulder into it once. Twice. It doesn’t budge.
The heat is unbearable now. The shed walls glow dull orange. Smoke curls in, thick and choking. Cheese Puff bleats in my arms, trembling.
I sink to my knees, wrapping her close, the world narrowing to fire and ash and fear.
Heat surges at my back. The flames have found the dry hay now. The shed moans under the weight of it—wood creaking, air whooshing like it’s being swallowed whole.
The fire doesn’t burn—it devours.
I try to think. Phone, phone, where’s my damn phone ? —
It’s in the house.
Of course it is.
Panic claws at my chest. That old, cold fear from childhood rises. The fear that came with locked doors and no comforting arms when you cried. The fear that whispers no one’s coming.
The shed groans above me as the wood gives way.
I press a hand to my chest, forcing myself to breathe.
I’m not alone now. I’m not invisible. Someone will notice. Someone will come.
Angus will come.
He has to.
My eyes burn. My throat is a blade.
Still clutching Cheese Puff, I drop to the floor—lower air, maybe cleaner. But every inhale chars my raw throat.
“Please,” I whisper to no one. “Please.”
My vision blurs.
Cheese Puff lets out a mournful bleat.
The barn groans again, louder.
I think of the fire swallowing the only place that ever felt like mine.
The flowerbed I was saving for next week.
Shay and Henry’s baby I’ll never meet.
Angus calling me wife like he meant it.
And for a split second, I mourn the roof, the walls, and the structure I thought I needed.
But the flames have stripped everything down to truth.
It was never about the roof.
It was about the man who built a space for me beneath it.
The steady hands. The quiet belief. The love that held me up, even when I didn’t know how to stand.
And I think—I’m not ready to leave this.
Not when I’ve finally found home in my husband’s arms.
And then?—
A crash.
A voice.
“LUNA!”
Angus.