Page 69 of At First Dance
“Let’s go, let’s go,” I mutter, tossing in two spare hoses I keep coiled under the back seat, then I’m tearing down the gravel drive, dust spitting behind me like exhaust.
I hit the turn for Mrs. Danner’s pasture doing forty, which is too fast for gravel, but not fast enough for what’s ahead.
The smoke's already visible from the rise—a long gray smear climbing into the sky like a signal flare. I can smell it before I even park. That dry, metallic bite of burning brush mixed with scorched earth and panic.
I slam the truck into park and throw open the door.
A handful of familiar trucks are pulled up crooked near the old fence line. Volunteers. Local boys and old-timers who know the drill by now. We’ve all fought a handful of these over the years. Usually small. Sometimes worse.
Today’s riding the edge.
Mrs. Danner stands off to the side, her hands fluttering uselessly as she paces in the tall grass. Her dog barks like it’s got something personal against the fire.
“Rowan!” she yells. “It started from the back corner. Might’ve been the faulty tractor we had out here yesterday.”
I nod, already dragging a hose from the back of my truck and uncoiling it toward the fence. “You get the animals out?”
“Goats and chickens are clear. But the wind’s shifting.”
Which is exactly what I don’t want to hear.
“Keep back from the fence line,” I call out, waving off her dog and jogging toward the edge where flames lick through dry grass like they’re starving. The heat pulses in waves. Nothing too tall yet, but with enough wind, this could jump the ditch and head straight for the hay barn on our side of the ridge.
A few guys I recognize—Ben Carter, Derek from the hardware store—are already beating at the flames with wet feed sacks and shovels. It’s half chaos, half coordination.
We’ve done worse with less.
I anchor one hose to the water tank I keep in the truck bed and pass another to Derek. It’s warm. The pressure is weak, but it’s something.
“Concentrate on the west end,” I bark. “The wind’s heading south. We keep it boxed in before it jumps the creek.”
I’m soaked in sweat within minutes. Smoke fills my throat, my shirt sticks to my back, and the ground crackles under my boots like dry paper.
Someone yells about more buckets. Another voice calls out for gloves. It’s a hell of a dance. And we’re barely keeping ahead.
Then, out of the haze and heat, I hear her.
“I have towels!”
I turn, blinking through the smoke.
And there she is.
Ivy.
She’s climbing out of her spaceship, balancing a plastic tote in her arms. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts over a white shirt, denim cutoffs, and scuffed boots that definitely aren’t designer.
She looks like a goddamn angel.
Or a hallucination.
My jaw clenches. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She pushes past me, dumping the tote near the truck. “Wet towels. First aid. Bottled water. That guy over there is limping and needs ice. Don’t argue with me.”
I don’t.
She disappears into the smoke before I can say another word, like she’s been doing this all her life. Just not with me.
