Page 35 of Ride Me Reckless
We walked outside together. My truck bed was stacked and tied down neatly, bags lined up like soldiers. I tossed the cup in the trash and nodded my thanks.
As I climbed behind the wheel, he called out, "Colt?"
"Yeah?"
He shrugged. "You ever think about what it means that people keep comin' to you when they need something steady?"
I didn't answer.
Just tipped my hat and drove off.
Some things in this town never changed, but something was shifting. I could feel it.
It wasn't just the weight in my back.
I was halfway home, humming along to an old George Strait tune, the feed bags shifting just a little in the back when I saw it.
Smoke.
Not the kind that comes off a grill or a burn pile. No, this was thick, rising fast, curling black into the June sky—pouring out from the side window of Dalia's house.
I slammed on the brakes so hard that the tires shrieked. Gravel scattered as the truck fishtailed sideways, dust and panic tangling in my gut.
"Shit—Dalia."
I yanked the gear into Park and was out the door before the engine finished idling. Phone already in my hand, I dialed 911 with a shaking thumb as I sprinted toward the porch.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"There's a house fire," I said, breath already ragged. "Just outside Lovelace—Dalia Walker's place on County Road 12. Smoke's pourin' out of the kitchen window. She's likely still inside."
"We're dispatching a unit now. Can you confirm if anyone's in the house?"
"I'm goin' in to find out."
"Sir, wait for the responders?—"
But I'd already shoved the phone in my pocket and kicked at the locked door with my boot. Once. Twice. The third time it gave way, splintering inward with a groan.
The smoke hit me like a freight train—choking, hot, blinding. I dropped low, covered my mouth with the crook of my arm, and moved through the house, memory guiding me more than sight.
"Dalia!" I called, coughing. "It's Colt! Where are you?"
No answer.
Just the crackle of something burning in the kitchen and the low moan of the structure starting to protest.
I turned into the hallway and saw her, crumpled on the floor near the bathroom, gray curls fanned out like spilled cotton. Her lips were moving faintly.
I dropped beside her. "Dalia?"
Her eyelids fluttered. Barely conscious.
"Marge…" she whispered.
"Marge's been gone a long time," I murmured. "It's me. Colt. You're gonna be okay, but we gotta get out of here."
When I lifted her into my arms, a bolt of pain shot through my lower back so sharp I almost dropped her. The world tilted. My knees buckled. But I gritted my teeth and held on.
