Chapter 23 Joining the Fight
Ryder’s defiant words hung in the air, a declaration of war against the advancing fire and against fate itself. For Sierra, they were a slap in the face, a jolt that broke the last of her paralysis. While he was fighting for the land, she was standing there looking like she was late for a hostile takeover. She glanced down at the fine-spun wool of her gray suit and at the absurd, pencil-thin stiletto heels sinking into the gravel. Useless. She was utterly, laughably useless.
A fresh hot and sharp wave of shame washed over her. She turned and ran, her ridiculous heels twisting precariously in the uneven yard. The house, her childhood home that she’d spent the last decade trying to forget, suddenly represented sanctuary and salvation. She burst through the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and took the stairs two at a time, the clicking of her heels on the old wood a frantic, alien sound.
Her bedroom was a time capsule of the girl she'd been. In the back of the closet, behind the sleek designer label outfits she’d brought with her, was her past. She pushed aside garment bags, the scent of cedar and forgotten years filling her nostrils. There they were. An old pair of faded Wranglers, a pearl-snap plaid shirt, and tucked on the floor, a pair of scuffed, broken-in Ariat boots. They were the uniform of a life she had shed like a snakeskin. She ripped off her jacket and silk shell, her fingers fumbling with the zipper on her designer skirt. The clothes fell into a heap gray irrelavance on the floor.
She prayed the old clothes would fit. The snap-up shirt was the first test. It stretched tight across her bust, the fabric pulling slightly at the pearl snaps. Her gym-toned body was different from the lanky, teenage frame that had last worn it, softer in some places, harder in others. She pulled on the Wranglers. They slid over her hips, but the denim clung to her thighs and cupped her rear with a snugness she didn’t remember. They felt like a second skin, a familiar weight that grounded her. Finally, the boots. Her feet slid into them with a sigh of homecoming. They were molded to her, comfortable and solid. Ready.
She glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger, a hybrid of her two worlds. Sandy blonde hair escaping a professional twist on a cheekbone that was usually impeccably contoured, and a body clad in the humble armor of a rancher. As an afterthought, her eyes landed on the felt hat hanging from a hook by the door, its brim stained with sweat and memories. She grabbed it, jammed it on her head, and ran back out into the developing warzone.
The scene outside had intensified. The sky was a bruised, sickly orange. Luis was a silhouette, backlit by the distant glow, a shimmering curtain of water arcing from the fire hose. Ryder’s truck stood waiting, a beast of a machine, its diesel engine rumbling with impatient power. Purpose surged through her, a current strong enough to drown her fear.
She wrenched open the heavy door of the equipment shed. The familiar scent of oil, old metal, and dry earth hit her. She worked with a frantic, focused energy she didn't know she possessed. She knew the tools he requested and thanks to her inventory project, they were gathered into a tight, organized bundle. She had used all of them at one time. Two heavy Pulaskis, their axe-and-adze heads designed for fighting fire. Four shovels, their handles worn smooth by calloused hands. She found the chainsaws, checked their fuel, and then grabbed every bright red gas can she could find, sloshing them to confirm they were full. They were full, because she had insisted that they were useless empty. She hefted them one by one, her muscles protesting the unaccustomed strain, and loaded them into the bed of the Ram. Picks, axes, a five-gallon water cooler, anything and everything that looked useful went in.
Her water truck. Ryder’s question echoed in her mind. It was an old military surplus vehicle her father had bought at auction, ugly but reliable. She found the keys on the hook inside the shed, jumped into the cab, and turned the ignition. The engine coughed twice, then rumbled to life. The fuel gauge read three-quarters full. Relief flooded through her. She checked the tank valve; it was full of water from the north pasture well, the very well Ryder had spent a week fixing last month. A pang of something complicated, more gratitude than resentment, shot through her.
She drove the water truck over and parked it near the barn, ready to be deployed. Then she ran back to Ryder’s truck just as Dillon and Cody came sprinting from another shed, their arms full of burlap sacks and canteens.
“Everything’s in!” she yelled over the engine’s idle.
Dillon nodded, his young face grim, and tossed the sacks in before scrambling into the truck bed with the tools. Cody, looking pale but determined, followed him, finding a precarious seat on a toolbox. Sierra hauled herself into the driver’s seat. The cab was pure Ryder: it smelled of leather, dust, and clean male sweat. A worn pair of leather gloves sat on the dashboard. The sheer size and power of the truck felt like an extension of the man himself, uncomplicated, strong, built for hard work. She gripped the wheel, put the big diesel in gear, and stomped on the accelerator.
The truck shot out of the yard, spitting gravel behind it. In the rearview mirror, she saw her father standing on the porch, leaning against a post, a frail but defiant statue silhouetted amidst the chaos.
She followed the churned-up earth of the tractor’s path toward the southeast perimeter, where the Sage Ranch property line met the expanse of the Marsh spread. The smoke was thicker here, a choking, acrid haze that made her eyes water. Up ahead, she could see him. Ryder was a master at work, handling the massive tractor and its disc plow attachment with an artist’s precision. He wasn’t just driving; he was dancing with the machine, carving a wide, dark ribbon of earth out of the dry, golden grass. The firebreak. A desperate scar meant to starve the coming inferno. He moved without hesitation, his focus absolute, a natural leader in his element. The man she’d dismissed as the same pesky teen she’d had to deal with when they were younger was a warrior defending his world, and by extension, hers.