Chapter Four
Beyond my rolling hills, along the edge of the horizon, spread a line of orange. The blaze careened forward; two cowboys silhouetted the glow. They must’ve set the fire, supposing it’d chase me off. I squinted—was that brawny one the Lawman?
Cricket reared, tendons contracting on his neck. I grasped his bridle. White sclera was visible below his amber irises, wrinkles tented above his eyelids. “We’re fine.” I rubbed his nose. “Hold on to your boots.”
I must start a backfire. With my hunting knife, I sliced off a branch from a hazel shrub, then dug in my satchel for matches.
The box was damp. I cursed and struck the lucifer. Nothing. Struck again. Nothing. The wind pummeled southeast, which would draw the wildfire straight to us. During a drought, with a strong wind, a prairie fire could flare past in minutes, devouring everything in its path.
I struck the lucifer on the box, struck again. And—finally, the match burst. After lighting my hazel branch, I raced to the hilltop and studied the bearing of the wind, the oat-colored grasses tossing about in discord. I lit the grass before me.
A feathery plume of fountain grass caught.
The red-orange ember glowed, and then the flame expanded, blackened waves unfurling, ready to ravage.
I gauged the direction of my backburn. The blaze burnt true, upwind and straight toward the oncoming fire.
I swept my hazel brush in a strip before me, igniting the grasses and honey mesquite bushes along the cusp of the hill.
Fire tumbled down my branch, the entire stalk almost ablaze.
Heat singed the hair on my forearms. I moved along my line, creating a burnt refuge, my backfire creeping down the hill with crackling flame, wind roaring across the prairie.
The springtime fires of years past had echoed with voices.
Lark rushing up and down the line, jittery with enthusiasm; Magnolia poised below her bonnet, her gaze focused on the burn; Pa hollering instructions to Ezra; Willie cursing as he burnt himself.
I tossed my branch into the flames, yanked up a stalk of dried thistle, and sliced off the prickly edges.
Around the stalk, I looped a nightgown and wetted the fabric with my canteen.
I dumped my other canteen onto my necktie and pulled the doused cotton over my mouth.
Then I squared my shoulders and battled flame.
My fire behaved well, slithering down the slope, but here and there it burst backward.
I stomped and swung. My shoulders ached; my hands throbbed.
Smoke sank into my skin, clogged my breath, but my fire fell back. My fire would fight fire.
A few knolls away, the headfire loped across the plain at unbelievable speed, gobbling up all the colors and nutrients of my land.
The flames rose as tall as a wood grove.
Fingers of crimson reached outward, as if to grasp me, as if the hunger and greed of this race had infected the flame.
I recognized the wildfire’s frantic need to devour, its inability to harness control.
But I hoped I never again was that destructive.
Once my fire had burnt a couple of feet of blackline, I grasped Cricket’s reins and stepped onto the charred earth, the coals hot against the soles of my boots. I knelt at the hill’s divot, tugged Cricket toward me. He jerked his head, eyes wide in terror and pain, but he didn’t run.
The oncoming fire boomed like a thundering locomotive.
I pressed my knees into our refuge, the ground searing the white cotton of my skirt, the embers blackening the tiny bluebonnets growing along the fabric.
The fire a column of red and bronze, violet and cobalt shadows, wisps of ochre and mustard.
We were surrounded by flame, the wildfire roaring and snapping, my hair sizzling, the swarm of heat suffocating.
And then, after a moment engulfed, the terror surged past, racing on to devour whatever next fell into its path, its hiss dimming and dimming until I could again breathe.
Flakes of gray drifted onto my shoulders: ashes floating in smoke.
I tugged the damp fabric off my mouth, swept the cloth over my face.
The white cotton coiled in my palms, covered in soot.
Somehow I knew my life would never be free of ash again.
I fingered the ends of my hair, walnut-brown strands dappled by smoke and chalk.
The wildfire had burnt roots and branches, scars and memory. The sky above transformed into gunmetal-tinged clouds of smoke, as if the earth had exhaled a puff of exhaustion, and then something murmured up from the deep. I felt whispers.
It was like the earth groaned.
I toppled backward into the debris. I needed air and water. The fire had stolen my senses and left me dreaming. I held my temples, inhaled, and stood. I must continue.
I strode to my saddlebag, my body full of smoke, my bones sluggish, and yanked out my Winchester. Trained the barrel on the horizon.
Like a ghastly mirage, through the haze, the cowboys perched atop a slight incline, slumped back in their saddles. I didn’t have time to battle robbers—I must race to the land office before anyone else. After such a fire, they’d expect me to be weak.
But fire was a cleansing, an uncovered hope. I felt remade. Who knew what I was capable of after such an attack?
A grin cracked across my face—brittle, dark, dangerous.