Chapter Sixteen
I was amazed to perceive the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke…a strong smell of burning.
Bront? texts, “Can’t talk tonight. Got a date with the sexy farmer! But check out Birdy’s Insta. There’s news!”
Immediately, I pull out my phone and open the app.
Birdy’s posted a close-up shot of herself.
She’s looking in the mirror, brow furrowed, determined set to her chin, with the caption, “Update: Cancer’s back.
Leaving Florida for a hospital vacay. Please pray, cross your fingers, send positive vibes, or whatever. Will cherish it all.”
She punctuates the message with a sad face emoji.
Oh no. Shame floods me. This is a real woman with a very real disease. And part of me was jealous. Competitive. Petty.
So I delete my account.
Then, it’s evening. Axel Rose has gone home, and Chet’s hidden himself away somewhere. I set up my easel, planning to take a stab at painting the beautiful orange-and-pink sunset. I’m mixing colors when an extremely fit woman with silver hair plaited into two long braids strolls over.
She’s wearing scrubs. Which is strange. But maybe Chet’s aunt is a medical professional who finds scrubs so comfy, she uses them as loungewear?
“Hello,” she says, voice tight. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Grace Poole. Are you Jane?”
“Sure am!” I overcompensate for her lack of warmth by projecting a bunch myself. “Pleased to meet you. Hope you’re settling in alright?”
“Oh, sure,” she answers. “Thought I’d get some fresh air. This time of evening is beautiful out here.” Grace peers over my shoulder, spotting my canvas. “Are you an artist?”
“No,” I reply, feeling bashful. “Painting is just a hobby. What about you?”
Grace’s face scrunches up. “What about me?”
“Do you paint? Because Chet showed me the blue barn’s attic art studio. If you’re into that sort of thing, it would be the perfect place to practice some self-care!”
Puzzlement skips over Grace’s features, but after a second, she settles on a neutral expression. “Sure,” she replies, smiling again. “Couldn’t agree more!” Grace pivots away, toward the county fair trail. “Alrighty, then. Think I’ll go for that walk. Have a pleasant evening.”
“You too!”
I go back to painting, one eye watching as she retreats into the sunset. Hopefully, Chet won’t be mad that I made conversation with his aunt. But, after all, she approached me.
Later that night, long after bedtime, I wake up needing water. My mouth tastes like a lint filter. In the little trailer’s kitchen, I drink three full glasses and still feel parched.
Then I’m hit with the overwhelming sense that something isn’t right. Shoving my feet into my flip-flops, I step outside.
The air is still; it takes a moment to realize that I smell smoke.
Not the clean, piney kind I like, but thick, hot, unnatural.
My heart slips into overdrive. The west side of the stable glows with an orange pulse.
Choosing fight over flight, I race to the tack room, grab the emergency extinguisher, and book it for the main entry.
There’s a fire in one of the hay storage bins. And hay dust is like kindling soaked in lighter fluid. A spark can turn a whole barn into a funeral pyre in seconds. I use the extinguisher, killing some but not all of the flames.
The horses are terrified—snorting, kicking, their bodies pressed against stall doors.
Smoke claws at my throat and fills my eyes with tears.
Suffocated by the heat, I go stall by stall, forcing the bolt on each one, screaming the horses’ names and swatting their butts until they stampede for the exit.
Luckily, they all sense my urgency and hustle out. Even Spitfire makes haste.
Except, when I reach Miss Adele’s stall, I find her wide-eyed and too afraid to move. “Come on, girl!” I rasp, grabbing her halter and dragging with every ounce of strength left. The flames are closer now, and this horse won’t budge. But I won’t leave the stable without her.
“Jane!” Through the haze of smoke and the chaos of my fear, Chet materializes. “You have to get out of here. Now!”
“Not without Miss Adele!”
Chet neither argues nor hesitates. Rather, he charges into the stall, throws his arms around Miss Adele’s neck, and—using his full, broad-shouldered power—shoves both her and me through the smoke-choked haze. I lose a flip-flop in the scramble, toes burning against the floorboards.
There’s a sharp, wet crackle as timbers sweat and pop. Miss Adele bucks against the halter, nearly flattening me.
Chet’s face registers surprise, then frustration. “Forgive me, Jane, for what I’m about to do.”
He gives Miss Adele’s rump a slap so loud it echoes through the aisle. Suddenly she’s off—careening down the corridor and into the open. Chet and I are right behind her.
Once outside, I drop to my knees, sucking air. Chet sits beside me, rubbing circles on my back. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “Let it out if you have to.”
That’s when I realize—I’ve got no urge to vomit.
“She’s okay,” I gasp, pointing out to where Miss Adele sprints the perimeter, all legs and terror, but alive. “They’re all okay. I’m not gonna throw up.”
Chet reaches over, catches my hand in his, and squeezes it hard enough that my pulse hammers against my wrist. “I’m glad,” he says. His voice is rough, but the edge is gone. “And thank you, for saving them.”
Then, a cough wracks him—deep, wet, animal. I thump his back, and he hacks up a lungful of smoke. Miraculously, I hear sirens. Two fire engines pull up, and lickety-split, their hoses are set and ready to douse the flames. One firefighter approaches Chet and me.
He points to the horses behind us. “Any horses left behind, or did you get them all?”
“That’s all of them—oh, but your aunt Grace! She’s in the blue barn! Should she vacate?” I switch my gaze back and forth between Chet and the fire chief. “Is there any chance the fire will spread?”
“No,” Chet answers quickly. He points toward the blue barn. “It’s hundreds of feet away. I bet Grace slept through this whole mess.”
The firefighter shakes his head, grimacing. “Whatever you say. My crew has the fire contained, so I won’t argue with you. But it was foolish going in for those horses yourself. You should have waited until we got here and let us do it.”
“With all due respect”—Chet’s jaw is clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching—“if we’d waited, those horses would be dead.” His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me slightly behind him as if the firefighter poses some kind of threat.
The chief seems unconvinced, but says, “Well, I’m glad everyone is okay.” He retreats, clearly sensing Chet’s bristling energy.
The crew makes quick work of the flames, leaving the stable damaged but standing. As we begin corralling the spooked horses, Chet stays nearby, his eyes darting between me and the animals like he can’t decide which needs more protection.
“We need to let the horses know that they’re safe,” I tell Chet.
“Let me,” he says, voice gravelly from smoke. “You’ve done enough.”
Chet moves toward Gatsby, who seems especially spooked. Chet’s shoulders are rigid, but his hands gently touch Gatsby’s muzzle.
“You’ve gotten good with them,” I say.
Chet’s eyes follow me, never straying more than a few seconds. “Thanks, but I wish I had your instincts.” He releases a tired breath and secures Copper Cash to a post, then moves immediately to help me with Tapioca. His hand steadies my elbow when she tosses her head. “You were so brave,” he says.
I search his face for sarcasm but find raw sincerity instead. My stomach flips. “I was just doing what I was hired to do. Caring for the horses.”
Something flickers across his features—pain, maybe? “Well,” Chet says, “you went above and beyond.”
He stands so close I can see the soot embedded in the lines around his eyes.
“Do you have any idea how the fire started?” I ask, suddenly needing to fill the charged silence.
Chet swipes at his soot-stained cheek. “No.”
“And the fire chief didn’t say?”
He shakes his head, still watching me with that strange intensity. “Just one of those things.”
I look toward the blue barn, suddenly suspicious. “Chet,” I say. “You don’t think—I mean, what if Grace—” I pitch myself forward, ready to charge into the blue barn. God help me, if Grace Poole is responsible for the fire, I’ll throw her out of here myself.
Chet yanks on my arm. “Grace had nothing to do with it.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“But—”
Chet pulls me into a fierce hug. His arms are strong, and he presses me close. I’m nearly as hot and breathless as I was while inhaling smoke. Chet’s grip on me loosens. “Holy shit,” he says, looking down. “What happened to you?”
Following his gaze, I realize that both my feet are puffy and raw pink, especially the one without a flip-flop. Up until this moment, adrenaline was masking my burns. Now the pain toddles in, late and loud.
“You’re gonna get an infection,” Chet declares.
“It’s nothing,” I say, which is a lie.
Chet’s eyes narrow, like he can see through my bravado.
“Do you understand what nothing means?” Not waiting for my response, he squats and, before I can protest, lifts my right foot in his palm.
His thumb hovers just above the worst of the burns, and for one insane, mortifying second, I think he’s going to kiss my foot like I’m a storybook princess.
Instead, Chet stands and hoists me—just freaking lifts me under the arms, burning feet and all—and stalks toward his house.
I squirm, gripping his biceps, which are solid yet smooth.
“All this fuss really isn’t necessary—” I interrupt myself, accidentally whimpering when my foot brushes his jeans “—and I’m heavier than I look. ”
“You’re lighter than a sack of feed, Jane. Stop fighting.” Chet doesn’t let go until we’re in his enclosed deck, where, weeks ago, I sat and drank wine with Marigold and Axel Rose. Chet deposits me onto a cushy piece of patio furniture. “Don’t move,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
He vanishes inside, into what I assume is a utility closet.
I hear cabinets opening and closing, muttered curses, glass jars rattling.
When Chet returns, he’s carrying a red plastic bin, the top hastily popped off so the gauze and ointments spill out like guts.
He kneels before me, yanks open four alcohol wipes, and says, “This is going to sting. Don’t punch me. ”
I grit my teeth, prepared to tough it out, but the second the swab hits my skin, I yelp. Chet’s face softens. “You can cuss me out if it helps.”
“It won’t help,” I huff, then let loose anyway. “Sweet mother of Peggy Sue, that burns worse than the fire!”
Chet chuckles, but his touch is careful, almost angelic. He wraps my foot in a dressing, tapes it down, and moves to the next. “Why were you barefoot, anyway?”
“My flip-flop fell off.”
He makes a noise deep in his throat and determines that the left foot isn’t as bad as the right.
The hard lines of Chet’s face are smudged with ash below his eyes.
His hair is wild, as if he’s been through a wind tunnel.
With scraped and raw knuckles, he finishes bandaging me in silence.
Placing cold packs against my feet, Chet looks up at me. For a second, I forget the pain.
“You should see a doctor,” he says, breaking the spell. “I can drive you to the emergency room right now, if you want. Otherwise, tomorrow—”
“I’ll be fine. I have a high pain tolerance. It’s inherited.” I try to smile, but suddenly I’m so exhausted that even moving my mouth is a chore. “I just need rest.”
Chet releases a sigh. “You should sleep inside, in one of the guest rooms.”
A moment of clarity breaks through my exhaustion. I catch Chet’s gaze. His eyes are full of apologies and unspoken confessions. But the nature of those confessions—that, I don’t know.
This man, who cries during Babe, who’s afraid of spiders, who saved Miss Adele, and who dressed my burns just now with strong yet gentle hands, is a self-proclaimed bastard determined to stay away from me.
And apparently, he’s capable of abandoning his girlfriend while she’s battling cancer.
If that’s not the case, if he wasn’t the one to break things off—well, then he’s most likely still hung up on her.
“It’s alright,” I say. “My trailer is fine.”
“I insist,” Chet says. “You’ll be much more comfortable inside the house. Besides, that way I can keep an eye on you.”
“But—”
Fatigue prevents me from forming the rest of my response. Plus, Chet is too quick for me, picking me up again, bridal style. “I won’t take no for an answer, and I insist that you take the next few days off. No more work until you can wear boots without it hurting like hell.”
I don’t argue. What would be the point?
He carries me inside and upstairs. “Here we go,” Chet says. We enter a room with a queen-sized bed, covered with a hand-sewn quilt in the wedding ring pattern. He lays me down. “I’ll go fetch whatever you need from your trailer.”
“It’s okay. I don’t need anything else tonight. That all can wait until the sun comes up.”
“No.”
“No?” My brain feels fuzzy. Pretty sure my words are fuzzy as well. “What do you mean, no?”
“You should take something for the pain. Something to help you sleep. I don’t have much, but—”
“How about two Tylenol PMs, washed down with a shot of bourbon?”
Chet’s eyebrows shoot up, as if he’s impressed. “Your wish is my command.”
He strides off, coming back in no time with what I requested, plus a glass of water. “To keep you hydrated.”
First, I sling back the bourbon. “Is this Four Roses, small batch?”
“Of course,” Chet answers. “Only the best for my Kentucky Jane.”
“You’re too good to me.” I drink from the water glass and down the Tylenol PMs. “There, that should do the trick. I’ll be out like a light in no time.”
Half a smile inches up Chet’s face. “Anything else you need?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” If I wasn’t completely exhausted, traumatized, and in pain, I’d say Chet’s expression was full of longing.
“I’m sure.”
Except, there’s really nothing that I’m sure about anymore.
Chet leaves, and true to my word, I drift off almost immediately. Sleep covers me like a heavy blanket, interrupted only by the voices—loud, yelling voices—that could have been part of my dreams.
Or they could have come from the direction of the blue barn.