Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Wyatt
Monday
The sky looks wrong.
It’s orange. Bruised citrus pressed behind a curtain of smoke.
And the smell… Not just wood. Dry grass. Sap. Heat. A wildfire smell.
It’s worse than this morning. I knew it would be, but knowing and seeing are two very different things.
I’m standing out by the fence line, hand braced on the top rail, squinting out toward the distant ridge. Heat ripples rise from the earth around the ranch, but that far-off glow is hotter.
Angry. Hungry.
Marshall comes up beside me, all quiet intensity and calming presence, which is his default but even heavier tonight.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.
His eyes narrow. “It’s spreading.”
I let out a breath I’ve been holding since lunchtime. “Yeah.”
“You talk to the fire chief?”
“Twice.” I run my hand through my hair, which is pointless because it just makes it stand up more. “They’ve got crews working both sides, but the wind’s not cooperating. And the ground… well.” I gesture vaguely at the dry, cracked earth beneath our boots. “It’s all tinder.”
Marshall’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t like things he can’t control. Before I can say anything else, the screen door slams behind us.
“Hey!” Jesse calls, jogging down the steps with that easy stride of his, sunlight and charm, even with ash drifting. “Kids are asking if they can roast marshmallows tonight. Which feels like a real bad joke all things considered.”
He’s smiling, but his eyes are tight.
He sees the smoke. He’s not immune to fear. He’s just good at hiding it behind a joke.
I clear my throat. “We need to talk.”
“About the fire? Yeah.” Jesse grabs the top fence rail, mirroring our posture. “It’s getting ugly out there.”
“We need a plan,” Marshall says. “If it reaches the valley edge, it’ll jump fast. The forest is too damn dry.”
Jesse exhales hard. “You think it’ll reach us?”
Wyatt Tucker, professional pessimist wrapped in a nice guy exterior, would very much want to say yes. But I try to be the reasonable one in these moments.
“It depends on the wind.”
Which is the truth.
The frustrating, impossible-to-control truth.
A beat of silence stretches between us.
Then Jesse pushes off the fence. “Let’s go talk to them. The firefighters. See if they need extra hands, or at least get a real update.”
“Already been doing that,” I say. “Plus, someone needs to stay here with the kids.”
Jesse presses his lips together in a grim line. “I’ll ask Abilene.”
That catches me off guard, not because it’s a bad idea, but because the thought of her out there alone, with that smoke hanging low over the valley, starts my chest turning uncomfortably.
Marshall glances at me. Just a flicker. Enough to say: You worried about her too?
I look away.
“She’ll say yes,” Jesse continues, oblivious to the way my stomach twists. “Kids adore her. And she’s always home anyway.”
“Then go ask,” Marshall says, already stepping back toward the house.
Abilene answers her door with her hair in a loose braid and a smudge of dirt on her cheek as if she’s been working with her hives again.
Even with worry in her hazel eyes, she’s got that soft presence that makes the world feel slightly less unhinged.
Jesse talks. She listens. Nods.
She doesn’t hesitate.
When we leave her porch, Jesse looks weirdly relieved. Asking her to watch the twins was the most intimate request he’s made all year.
I don’t blame him. If I were the one asking, I might’ve tripped over my own tongue.
Driving toward the fire feels surreal.
The roads are mostly clear—people aren’t stupid enough to go sightseeing near a wildfire—but it grows thicker the closer we get.
Smoke creeps along the asphalt as low fog. The sun is a flattened disk behind a sheet of haze.
Marshall drives. His hands grip the wheel tighter every time the flames glow brighter through the trees.
I’ve only seen him this way twice.
When we lost Luke, and when he buried his mother.
He doesn’t talk much when he’s scared.
He does things. He takes charge. He plans six steps ahead.
Jesse, on the other hand, talks more when he’s scared.
“Okay, worst-case scenario,” he says, leaning forward between the seats. “Fire hits the valley, jumps the ridge, heads toward the ranch. We’ve got time to move the animals, right?”
“Plenty,” I lie.
He narrows his eyes. “Is that vet Wyatt talking or emotional support Wyatt?”
“Both,” I lie again.
“Your left eye twitches when you’re lying,” he shoots back.
I glare at him in the rearview mirror. “No, it doesn’t.”
He points at my face triumphantly. “There! It just did it again!”
Marshall grunts. “Both of you shut up.”
But he says it softly, not harshly. He needs the bickering to keep from spiraling.
We round a bend, and suddenly the world is fire.
Not close enough to burn us, but close enough to feel the heat through the windshield.
Flames lick up dry brush on the hillside. Fire crews are stationed at multiple points, hoses blasting water, trucks pumping, people shouting orders over the roar.
The three of us get out of the truck and walk toward the nearest engine. It’s hot, too hot for late afternoon. My shirt clings to my back.
Mayor Hannah Richards is there, hair pulled into a tight bun, clipboard tucked under her arm, sweat streaking her brow. She turns when she hears us.
“Boys,” she snaps, clipped with stress. “Glad you came. It’s not good.”
Marshall steps forward first. “How bad?”
She exhales, gaze flicking toward the flames.
“Wind changed direction around noon. We’ve been trying to contain the spread, but the ground is dangerously dry. We’re considering evacuations for the homes closest to the valley edge. With the burn scar on the ridge, we’re at risk for debris flow if rain kicks up.”
A cold ripple goes down my spine.
Evacuations. Not a word anyone says lightly around here.
Jesse swallows. “You think we’ll have to leave Willow Ranch?”
“Not yet,” the mayor says. “You’re far enough that the fire would need to cross two natural breaks before it reaches you. But if the wind shifts again…”
“Which it might,” I finish quietly.
She nods grimly.
Marshall’s jaw locks. “What can we do?”
“Right now?” Hannah says. “Stay alert. Move your livestock as far from the tree line as possible. Prepare your go gear. And if you see embers or spot fires on your property, you call us immediately. No hero moves.”
Her eyes pause pointedly on Marshall. He looks away.
We stay for a while, helping where we can, carrying equipment, handing off water bottles, holding hoses while firefighters reposition commands. It’s hot, exhausting work, even in short bursts.
By the time we climb back into the truck, my lungs feel coated in smoke, and my hair smells of a campfire gone wrong.
The sky is darker now. Flames flicker in the distance like malevolent stars.
Jesse breaks the silence.
“We should move the animals tonight.”
Marshall nods. “Yeah. No waiting.”
“We’ll need to start early,” I add. “Before the horses get too agitated.”
“We can do that,” Jesse says softly.
For a beat, none of us speak.
The ranch is supposed to be steady.
Safe.
Home.
Tonight it feels fragile, breakable.
As Marshall drives us back, I catch sight of Abilene’s tiny house down the road from ours. The porch light is on.
Inside, shadows move, her with the twins, maybe setting out snacks, maybe calming them as the smoke creeps low.
The sight steadies me.
Life continues, even in the middle of fear.