Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marshall
Monday
The first crack of thunder comes so sharp and violent, it jerks me awake as if someone snapped a whip above my bed.
I sit up fast, chest tight, sheets twisted around my legs. Lightning flashes white through the thin curtains, bright enough to burn an afterimage against the inside of my eyelids.
Damn.
The storm’s finally here, and it’s not a gentle one.
I scrub a hand over my face, pushing sweat-damp hair off my forehead. The bedroom is hot, too hot, too heavy with the heat wave we’ve been choking through for weeks. Storms after dry spells are the worst. Lightning without rain is a rancher’s nightmare.
Too much spark.
Not enough relief.
Then rain after a fire is almost worse than the fire itself. The ground can’t hold. If it comes down hard enough, it’ll all come rushing downhill. That can be a real nightmare.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and listen.
Not much rain.
A little wind. Just enough to make the window rattle.
But the lightning…
Another streak tears across the sky. Too close. Too bright.
I can feel the vibration all the way through the floorboards. A low thud follows, rolling over the land as a warning.
I stand, stretch my aching back, and pull on a shirt. It smells of cedar smoke and sweat and horses, my whole life, clinging to me even in the dark.
I should try to sleep, but I can’t.
My skin’s prickling.
My nerves are wired.
And my chest feels tight in that same old familiar way, the way it always gets when storms roll through too fast.
Lightning storms were Luke’s favorite. I used to tease him for it.
He loved to watch them same as most people watch fireworks—wide-eyed, amazed, buzzing with some wild energy that made him want to run out into the storm, all foolish and laughing.
My stomach knots. I force the memory back where it belongs.
I cross the room barefoot, step into the hall, and make my way toward the kitchen. The old wooden floors groan under my weight. The whole house feels restless. As if it’s bracing for something.
I flip on the kitchen light.
The kettle sits on the stove. Out of habit, I reach for it.
Maybe tea will help settle me. Or at least give my hands something to do besides clenching into fists every time the sky explodes.
Another flash.
The lights flicker overhead.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Hold steady.”
The power stays on, humming faintly.
I let out a slow breath.
Behind me, a door opens, hinges whining a protest. Quiet footsteps pad into the kitchen.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Wyatt’s voice floats in, low and groggy.
His hair is sticking up, glasses crooked, shirt blowing open. He blinks at the overhead light with a soft wince.
“Tea?” I offer.
He yawns. “Yeah. And about six more hours of sleep.”
Lightning flashes again, bright enough to turn the whole kitchen white for half a second.
Wyatt’s eyes widen. “Storm’s worse than they predicted.”
“The lightning’s too close,” I say, reaching for a mug. “Way too close.”
“No rain?”
“Not enough.”
He grimaces. “That’s not good.”
“Understatement.”
I pour water into the kettle and set it on the stove. The burner clicks twice before the flame catches.
Wyatt leans against the counter, arms crossed, gaze drifting toward the window. “This is giving me the same feeling I get right before a horse colics.”
“Bad.”
“Real bad.”
Another low boom shakes the walls.
I force myself to breathe. Deep in, slow out.
I hate these sorts of storms. Lightning storms. Dry storms. The kind that can turn a single spark into a disaster.
I reach up to the top cabinet and grab the tin of chamomile tea. Wyatt watches me, eyebrows lifting slightly.
“Chamomile?” he asks. “Thought that was my thing.”
“It’s everyone’s thing when it’s three in the morning.”
He smiles faintly.
“Fair point.”
We sit at the table while the kettle heats, silence thick around us, punctuated only by the crackle of the storm and the occasional clatter of a loose shutter tapping the siding.
“You okay?” Wyatt finally asks.
“Fine.”
He gives me a look that says he absolutely does not believe me.
I look away.
“I don’t enjoy storms,” I admit.
“Because of the ranch?”
“Because of everything,” I murmur.
He doesn’t push. Just nods with understanding.
The kettle finally whistles. I pour the water. We sit across from each other, nursing steaming mugs as if the warmth can chase away the foreboding hanging between us.
“We should check the horses at first light,” Wyatt says. “They’ll be spooked.”
“I’ll check them before sunrise,” I say automatically. “You get some sleep.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not letting you go out alone in a storm.”
“I won’t be alone,” I argue. “Plus, it’ll be calmer by then.”
“It won’t,” he counters, staring at the window as another bolt of lightning forks across the sky.
He’s probably right.
“Okay,” I concede. “We’ll both go.”
We drink in silence again. But my mind isn’t quiet.
It keeps drifting, toward the ranch, the fields, the woods beyond the fence line that look calm now but are the first to ignite when lightning hits dry ground.
It drifts toward the animals, the fences, the hay storage.
Wyatt exhales slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses.
“If this keeps up,” he murmurs, “I’m not gonna make it to Dusty Spur. Emmett wanted me to check in on a few of the horses that were acting off.”
I glance at him over the rim of my mug. “They’ll understand.”
“Yeah, but…” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “Red doesn’t worry unless something’s really wrong. If I can’t get out there…” Another crack of thunder drowns his words. “Well, let’s just say this storm isn’t helping anything.”
I nod, because he’s right.
The land is too dry. The lightning too constant.
And the roads out toward Dusty Spur turn to slick clay when the weather loses its mind.
“They’ll be alright for a day,” I try.
“Maybe,” he says, but the doubt in his voice sits heavy in the room.
Another flash turns the window white. The thunder hits a beat later, rattling a picture frame on the wall.
Wyatt flinches. So do I.
We’re quiet for a long moment, both of us staring at the storm because right now it’s alive, circling just outside the glass.
“I hate this,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”
He taps one finger against the mug. “This storm feels like it’s building.”
“Yeah,” I say again, my chest tightening.
Because I can feel it, too.
That wrongness. That coiled tension in the air.
The kind that means the valley’s about to change.
The kind that means none of us are sleeping tonight.
The alarm doesn’t wake me. The light does.
I must’ve drifted off at some point, exhaustion winning the fight.
Harsh, orange light streams through the curtains in a way that doesn’t make sense. Morning sun isn’t orange. Not this bright. Not this wrong.
I bolt upright. My heart drops into my stomach.
Because that’s not sunlight.
It’s firelight.
“Shit.”
I’m on my feet before my brain fully processes what I’m doing. I yank the curtain aside, and there it is.
A glow on the horizon.
Rising.
Spreading.
Thick smoke billows upward into the dawn sky, dark against the early light.
“Wyatt!” I shout, already grabbing my boots. “Get up.”
He stumbles out of his room a second later, eyes wide behind his glasses. “What? Oh no.”
There’s no time to waste.
“Call the fire department.”
“They’re probably already…”
“Call them anyway. And let Jesse know so the twins don’t race around.”
He runs for the phone.
I jam my feet into my boots without bothering with socks, grab my jacket, and rush outside.
The air smacks me.
Smoke.
Heat.
Wind pulling against my clothes.
The fire’s far enough that the ranch isn’t in immediate danger, but fire spreads fast. Too fast when everything’s this dry.
Wyatt comes running out behind me. “They’re on it already. Engines are on the way. They said it started from the storm. Lightning strike. Jesse knows, and he’s looking after the kids.”
Of course it was lightning. Always lightning.
“We need to check the animals,” I say.
Wyatt nods.
We move fast, toward the barn, toward the pastures, toward the horses that are already stirring uneasily. Their ears flick back and forth, their bodies tense.
I murmur to them, steadying them with my voice, my hands, my presence. I’ve always been able to calm them. Always known how to make them trust me, even when the world’s burning.
But not today.
We work in silence, moving methodically, checking stalls, checking fences, preparing just in case we need to move them all to the far fields.
The whole time, the fire burns bright on the horizon.
Too bright.
Too close.
When things settle, I pull out my phone with shaking fingers and text my closest friend.
Marshall: Fire on the ridge. Started overnight. Lightning. You hearing anything on your side?
The three dots appear almost instantly.
Sawyer: Yeah. We see the smoke from High Ridge. Clint’s already moving cattle. You all safe?
Marshall: We’re fine for now. Storm hit us hard overnight. Horses are on edge. You good?
Sawyer: We’re moving fast. Anything you need?
I hesitate. Then type.
Marshall: Not yet. Just… keep me posted.
Sawyer: Always.
I shove the phone back in my pocket.
Wyatt stands beside me, breathing hard from rushing between the barns.
He follows my gaze to the horizon. “Think it’ll spread this way?”
“Depends on the wind,” I murmur. “And if we get more lightning.”
He nods grimly. “We’ll be ready.”
I want to believe him. I do believe him.
But I can’t shake the feeling curling low in my gut, the same one I had the night before Luke died.
The same feeling that comes before everything changes.