Page 78 of Track of Courage

“Go get ’im, Bliss.” River pumped her fist.

Sheesh, but Keely grinned as she pulled on her parka, grabbed her pom-pom hat and mittens, and headed out into the night.

The sight before her stopped her cold, right there on the steps.

No, not cold—hot, roaring, flaming hot. She stared at the barn. Not quite an inferno, flames licked out of the windows on the sides, and black smoke tunneled out the open doors, and—

Where was Dawson?

On no,no—

She turned and opened the door. “Fire! The barn is on fire!”

The barn had gonefrom spark to the furnaces of hell in the space of five minutes. Why hadn’t he yelled for Griffin or Landon—

But no, he had to follow his dog’s warning bark, open the barn door, and then the entire world lit up.

Because he was an idiot.

And maybe not thinking straight. Keely’s song took all the space in his brain. The haunting, beautiful sound of her voice reached in and stole his breath.

He’d barely had the presence of mind to clap. And hadn’t a clue why he had to leave.

Just found himself outside, following Caspian, all the way to the barn, and who knew what he’d been thinking—

The back draft lit the entire back of the barn, bursting to life from whatever ember had been sizzling. If he didn’t move fast, they’d lose the livestock, if not their winter fuel supply. Never mind the firewood—the fire already gnawed at it. Flames crawled up the far wall, into the haymow, toward the roof.

Smoke gathered at the peak, some three stories up, not as thick there, but the entire building could be called tinder.

He opened the first stall, found a milking cow, grabbed her halter, and pulled her out of the pen.

Voices and shouting. He let the cow go and turned to the next pen.

Griffin ran in and opened a horse stall. As Dawson ran the cow outside, Abe and Landon led out a couple more blindfolded horses.

A few other men herded the goats.

Dawson herded out a pig, turned, and spotted Oliver shouting. And next to him, Keely, her face wrecked.

Yeah, well, him too.

“Woolly!” shouted Oliver, now crying.

The stupid llama.

A couple women stumbled out, carrying chickens, lungs racking. The birds landed, scattered into the night.

The community’s entire livelihood lived in the barn.

He spotted a few men with shovels throwing snow on the outside of the barn. Too little, too late.

Get the llama.

He shoved his mouth into the front of his jacket and plowed back into the barn. The stalls hung open, with even the sheep being herded out by a few of the teenage boys. He hugged the wall, heat pouring out of the building, crackling and snapping overhead. He chanced a look—flames crawled across the rafters, the hay blazing.

Only moments before the roof crashed down.

A loud, shrill sound bit through the chaos—he’d call it llama in distress—and he headed for the animal at the end of the barn.