Chapter 12 Jesse
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jesse
Monday
The sun’s been gone for hours, and the pasture lights are the only thing cutting through the smoke-heavy dark. The thing about moving livestock during a wildfire is that everything feels ten times louder than it actually is.
Every hoofbeat.
Every snort.
Every clank of a gate.
It all echoes against this backdrop of distant fire roar, wind whistle, and the kind of silence that clings to your bones. The kind of silence that comes right before everything changes.
I hate that kind of silence.
But Marshall? He moves in it because he was built for it.
We’ve got about forty head between the pastures, horses, a couple rescued donkeys, three longhorns Clint talked Marshall into “babysitting” last year that somehow never left.
The donkeys are easy. The longhorns are obnoxious. The horses are nervous enough to be a problem.
Lightning storms last night had them on edge. Smoke drifting in has them worse.
But the thing about Marshall Jones is: horses listen to him.
Not because he’s loud. Not because he forces anything.
Because something in him whispers the language they understand—pain, fear, stubbornness, hope. He knows how to talk to hearts that spook easy.
And I admire the hell out of him for that.
He walks through the pasture now, wading through thick water. Head lowered slightly, hands loose by his sides. He’s humming under his breath, some old country tune he’s probably been humming since the day he was born.
A young mare sidles sideways, her whole body vibrating with fear. I move closer, ready to grab her halter before she bolts.
“Easy,” Marshall murmurs, gentle as breath.
The mare’s ears twitch. She goes still.
I swear it’s witchcraft.
“You got her?” I ask, stepping in beside him.
“Yeah.” He strokes the mare’s cheek. “Let’s lead her in with the others.”
We walk her forward, and she follows him.
Sometimes I wish I had that in me.
That calm power. That ability to reach out and quiet something wild.
I’ve got jokes. Charm. Strong hands for building fences and fixing roofs. I’m good at braiding Eliza’s hair and mediating Caleb’s emotional crises about cereal.
But deep inside, where men keep their pride and their regrets, I wish I was a little more like Marshall Jones.
I’m doing all right. But I want to give my kids more than all right.
“Jesse?”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“You’re thinkin’ too loud.”
I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Didn’t know I was doing it out here.”
He squeezes my shoulder once, his version of a hug, encouragement, and a threat all rolled into one. “You’re a damn good hand. And a better father.”
My throat gets tight.
Then a cow moos too loudly, and both of us jump a little.
He grunts. “Let’s keep moving.”
By the time we start moving the herd in earnest, my phone says it’s pushing ten. We spend the next hour guiding animals to the far pasture—open land, greener, with a creek running through it and less dry brush waiting to turn into kindling.
Abilene’s bees are set up there now, and I keep catching myself glancing toward that new little cluster of hives.
She trusts us. That twists up my chest in a way I’m not ready to unpack.
I’m lining up a gate chain when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s late enough that the stars are sharp overhead, fire glow still licking the edge of the horizon, and anyone calling now would have to be important.
I pull it out.
Silas Harlan.
My best friend. My brother in everything but blood.
And a man who doesn’t call unless there’s something serious going on.
“Silas?” I answer. “You good?”
Static. Wind. Then his voice, rough and clipped.
“Jess, where are you?”
“Ranch. Moving animals.” My stomach tightens. “Why?”
“The wildfire jumped again.” His tone sharpens. “Wind shifted. You’re directly in the line of it now.”
My heart stutters. I look across the field toward the smoke, thicker, darker, curling upward as angry fists.
“Shit,” I breathe. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough that the chief sent a warning to all ranches east of the ridge. Willow is the closest. You need to be ready to potentially move. Tonight.”
My pulse kicks into high gear.
Marshall looks over at me, sensing something wrong even from across the pasture. “What’s goin’ on?”
I hold up a finger, turning away so I can hear.
“Silas,” I say, “what do we do?”
“You need manpower,” he says. “I’m bringing Cody and Duke. We’re on our way. Twenty minutes.”
“Silas, you don’t have to—”
“I’m not letting your damn ranch burn,” he snaps, and it’s so purely Silas that I almost laugh. “You’re family. Family doesn’t ask. Family shows up.”
My throat gets tight all over again.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Okay. Just drive safe. Please. The smoke’s bad tonight.”
“We’ll be there soon,” he says. “And Jess?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t panic.”
Too late.
But I exhale through it. “Got it.”
He hangs up.
I turn back toward Marshall, who’s standing stiff as a fence post, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
“What happened?” he asks.
I swallow. “Silas says the fire jumped again. Wind pushed it toward us. Him and his brothers are heading over to help.”
Marshall goes still.
Not the calm kind of still. The storm-building-behind-the-eyes kind.
“Evacuation?” he asks.
“Not ordered yet,” I say. “But… we need to prepare like it could be.”
He nods, tight and grim. “All right.”
We walk toward the barn together, urgency kicking into our steps.
Behind us, the horses nicker nervously, sensing the tension. It’s darker than it should be, heavy, hot, thick with smoke.
And I swear the ridge looks closer than it did an hour ago.
Twenty minutes turns into fifteen.
We’re lining up water troughs near the creek when headlights swing across the pasture. A truck rumbles toward us, big and loud, unmistakably the Harlan brothers.
Silas climbs out first, broad shoulders, jaw set as stone, eyes glittering with the kind of determination that makes you feel ten times braver just by standing near it.
Cody jumps out next, adjusting his glasses, already scanning the field, calculating wind speed and fire trajectory.
Duke comes last, carrying a cooler and two huge jugs of water, like we’re prepping for a tailgate instead of a potential evacuation.
“Evenin’,” Duke says with a grin that doesn’t match the situation. “Heard y’all needed muscles and snacks.”
“Both welcome,” I say, clapping his shoulder.
Silas strides right up to me and grabs the front of my shirt.
“You okay?” he demands.
“Yeah,” I say, startled. “’Course I am.”
He smacks the back of my head lightly. “Don’t lie.”
Cody clears his throat. “We passed the ridge on our way in. Flames are high. If the wind shifts again…”
“Then we cut firebreaks,” Silas says. “Bucket line by the creek. Move all livestock to the lowest part of the pasture. Keep vehicles ready. Contact neighbors.”
I look over my shoulder at Wyatt. He’s still wearing his slightly too small bee suit, the veil pushed back on his head as a weird bonnet.
Duke chuckles. “I like the new look, Doc.”
Wyatt sighs. “Please don’t start. Was helping move the neighbor’s bees.”
Silas crosses his arms and looks at me. “Where are your kids?”
“With Abilene,” I say. “She’s watching them.”
“Good.” He nods. “She’s steady. Smart. Keeps calm.”
I try very hard not to picture her standing on her porch with the twins, firelight reflecting in her hazel eyes, worry tugging at her mouth.
I fail miserably.
Marshall steps forward, taking command because it’s second nature.
“We need to finish what we started. Duke, you help me move the last horses. Cody, figure out the safest perimeter. Silas…”
“I’m with Jesse,” Silas says without hesitation.
I blink. “Me?”
“You panic quieter than the rest,” he says. “Worries me more.”
“Gee,” I say. “Thanks, bud.”
He claps my back with enough force to knock the breath from me. “Come on. We got work.”
Somewhere after midnight, time stops behaving normally.
The next hour stretches and warps until it’s nothing but motion and heat and noise, animals shifting and snorting as we move horses, longhorns, and donkeys toward safer ground, hauling water, checking fences, securing gates, doing everything that needs doing because stopping means thinking and thinking means fear has room to breathe.
Silas and I work side by side the way we always have, fast and efficient, words unnecessary when every glance and hand signal says enough, when muscle memory takes over, and friendship becomes a kind of quiet understanding.
As we work, the fire on the ridge glows brighter, the sky pressing darker and heavier above us while the air grows hotter and thicker with smoke, each shift of the wind forcing us to pause and listen, every crack and roar from the flames twisting tighter in my gut than it was a moment before.
I’m scared. Not for myself, but for the ranch and the animals depending on us. And for what comes next.