them fall behind.
I load up the last of the emergency gear just as Grandpa is putting the mower back in the barn.
“The horses are dry,” he calls to me from across the yard.
I head over to fill the trough just as a patrol car pulls into the driveway. Deputy Himmel leans a deeply freckled arm out the window, shouting. Grandma fills up a mason jar with water and joins Grandpa in the driveway.
“All the roads except 20 are closed,” Deputy Himmel is saying. “There's emergency shelter at the fairgrounds in Burns. Winds are thirty miles per hour. You folks have fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Lightning?” I ask.
“A dozen strikes at least, a few miles over.” Deputy Himmel tilts his head to the east. He chugs Grandma's water with a grateful nod, spins in the gravel, and leaves. I search the east horizon. There's no smoke yet, and I don't smell anything but home.
The Grands trade a look. Grandma cradles hiswrinkled face in her hands, and Grandpa kisses her once.
“I'll get the horses,” she says to him. “Did you raise Ernesto on the radio?”
Grandpa shakes his head.
“You'll find him,” she says. “No one knows the land out there like you.”
“Pigs and chickens,” she calls over her shoulder to me as she heads to the truck and horse trailer.
There are just four old hens in the henhouse now, but I unlatch the door and shoo them out. Bacon and Sausage are pressing their fat shoulders against the gate and wrinkling their soggy noses at the wind. I have to set my boots and tug to get the gate open, but they head straight for the willow that hangs out over the creek. It's the coolest, wettest spot for miles around. The hens are already there.
“Guess you guys got the memo about the fire already,” I say to them.
Grandpa is shouting and waving his hat at Spud, trying to load her up. Spud hates the trailer. All the other horses are bigger than her, and I think they tease her in there. Smoke is just starting to blow up the canyon. I dash in the house and grab four carrots from the fridge and a handful of bandanas from the laundrybasket. I splash the bandanas with water and touch Dad's coat peg for luck on the way out the door. I tie a wet bandana over my face and drop one for Grandma on the open truck window. I hop in the trailer, whistle for Spud, and show her a carrot.
“Come on, Spud. Get in here.” Spud snorts at Grandpa, but she hustles up the ramp to get my carrot.
“Get up, Patton; come on, Bradley,” I call. Our cutting horses pile in.
“Get your saddle, Brother,” Grandpa says. “There's no time for a second trip. We're going to have to ride Ike and Ginger out.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Spud is too old, and you know it. She can't outrun a fire.”
I know he's right, but Ike is Dad's horse. He's almost three hands taller than Spud, and he doesn't like me very much. I heft my saddle up on my shoulder, grab the blanket, and kick the barrel over to where Grandpa is saddling Ginger. The hot wind and smell of burning sagebrush have the horses twitching their heads around to find the danger. Grandpa's steady voice and firm hand keeps them in line. He holds Ike's head while I climb up on the barrel to throw the blanket and saddle over his back and cinch it down.
“Water,” Grandpa says, and hands me both sets of reins. I lead Ike and Ginger to the trough and tie off the reins to the fence so they can drink. I run to the barn for canteens. Grandpa is already there, pulling out the Pulaski, a folding army shovel, the medical kit, and the surplus silver fire blankets. He rolls all of it into two tight bundles, and we head back to the yard.
I look over my shoulder at the house. The sight of it freezes me—Grandma's green checkered curtains at the kitchen window and Grandpa's black rocking chair on the porch. I remember the look on Dad's face the day he left for Iraq. He stood in the yard and studied the house one last time, memorizing exactly how everything should
I load up the last of the emergency gear just as Grandpa is putting the mower back in the barn.
“The horses are dry,” he calls to me from across the yard.
I head over to fill the trough just as a patrol car pulls into the driveway. Deputy Himmel leans a deeply freckled arm out the window, shouting. Grandma fills up a mason jar with water and joins Grandpa in the driveway.
“All the roads except 20 are closed,” Deputy Himmel is saying. “There's emergency shelter at the fairgrounds in Burns. Winds are thirty miles per hour. You folks have fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Lightning?” I ask.
“A dozen strikes at least, a few miles over.” Deputy Himmel tilts his head to the east. He chugs Grandma's water with a grateful nod, spins in the gravel, and leaves. I search the east horizon. There's no smoke yet, and I don't smell anything but home.
The Grands trade a look. Grandma cradles hiswrinkled face in her hands, and Grandpa kisses her once.
“I'll get the horses,” she says to him. “Did you raise Ernesto on the radio?”
Grandpa shakes his head.
“You'll find him,” she says. “No one knows the land out there like you.”
“Pigs and chickens,” she calls over her shoulder to me as she heads to the truck and horse trailer.
There are just four old hens in the henhouse now, but I unlatch the door and shoo them out. Bacon and Sausage are pressing their fat shoulders against the gate and wrinkling their soggy noses at the wind. I have to set my boots and tug to get the gate open, but they head straight for the willow that hangs out over the creek. It's the coolest, wettest spot for miles around. The hens are already there.
“Guess you guys got the memo about the fire already,” I say to them.
Grandpa is shouting and waving his hat at Spud, trying to load her up. Spud hates the trailer. All the other horses are bigger than her, and I think they tease her in there. Smoke is just starting to blow up the canyon. I dash in the house and grab four carrots from the fridge and a handful of bandanas from the laundrybasket. I splash the bandanas with water and touch Dad's coat peg for luck on the way out the door. I tie a wet bandana over my face and drop one for Grandma on the open truck window. I hop in the trailer, whistle for Spud, and show her a carrot.
“Come on, Spud. Get in here.” Spud snorts at Grandpa, but she hustles up the ramp to get my carrot.
“Get up, Patton; come on, Bradley,” I call. Our cutting horses pile in.
“Get your saddle, Brother,” Grandpa says. “There's no time for a second trip. We're going to have to ride Ike and Ginger out.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Spud is too old, and you know it. She can't outrun a fire.”
I know he's right, but Ike is Dad's horse. He's almost three hands taller than Spud, and he doesn't like me very much. I heft my saddle up on my shoulder, grab the blanket, and kick the barrel over to where Grandpa is saddling Ginger. The hot wind and smell of burning sagebrush have the horses twitching their heads around to find the danger. Grandpa's steady voice and firm hand keeps them in line. He holds Ike's head while I climb up on the barrel to throw the blanket and saddle over his back and cinch it down.
“Water,” Grandpa says, and hands me both sets of reins. I lead Ike and Ginger to the trough and tie off the reins to the fence so they can drink. I run to the barn for canteens. Grandpa is already there, pulling out the Pulaski, a folding army shovel, the medical kit, and the surplus silver fire blankets. He rolls all of it into two tight bundles, and we head back to the yard.
I look over my shoulder at the house. The sight of it freezes me—Grandma's green checkered curtains at the kitchen window and Grandpa's black rocking chair on the porch. I remember the look on Dad's face the day he left for Iraq. He stood in the yard and studied the house one last time, memorizing exactly how everything should
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