Page 54 of Branded By the Cowboy

Not a flue. Not a chimney.

This is wrong.

I take off running, boots slipping on ice-slick patches, breath puffing white as panic claws up my throat. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. The air thickens with smoke the closer I get, curling into my nostrils, bitter and chemical andwrong.

I skid to a stop at the barn door and yank it open.

Heat slams into me like a freight train.

Flames are already eating through the corner of the storage room—licking up the walls and catching on the stacked hay bales like they’ve been waiting for a spark. The fire isn’t wild yet, but it’sfast, leaping with terrifying hunger as smoke billows into the rafters in thick, choking waves.

“Oh, God.”

I don’t hesitate. I run. I grab the nearest bucket and look for the hose—but the faucet’s frozen. I lunge for the fire extinguisher, yank the pin, and aim?—

It sputters. Coughs.

Dead.

The smoke surges and my lungs seize. My eyes burn.

Terrified bleats from the goat pen inside. High-pitched. Panicked.

My heart lodges in my throat.

I run—stumbling through the narrow passage between stalls, coughing hard as I push open the interior gate. The goats are pressed to the far corner, eyes wide, bleating frantically.

“Come on,” I rasp. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”

I flap my arms to guide them toward the side exit. They hesitate. Stubborn. Confused. The smoke thickens. I grab the lead goat by the collar and tug hard. Finally, they move, stumbling, slipping, and skittering into the open.

I herd them through the back pen gate, slam it shut, and sag against the post, coughing so hard it rattles my ribs.

Then I hear it.

A thin, desperate bleat from inside.

I whip around.

The high-pitched cry comes from the feed shed, not the main stall. One of the goats must’ve wandered in before the flames started. My stomach twists.

“No. No, no, no…”

I don’t think.

Imove.

I yank my scarf over my nose and dart back inside, staying low. The smoke is worse now, rolling thick and fast along the rafters. The shed door is ajar, and fire licks the frame.

I spot the goat—Cheese Puff—trapped near the corner. She’s wedged behind a tipped bucket, her eyes wild. Flames flicker behind her.

I dart in and heave her into my arms—she’s heavier than she looks—and spin toward the door.

I’m almost there when I hear the metallicclick.

The wind? The fire shifting the frame?

I lunge for the handle.

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