Page 189 of Knotting the Cowboys

The truck barely stops before we're moving, muscle memory taking over where emotion wants to shut me down. Bunker gear secured, masks ready but not on yet—need to assess the scene first. The barn rises before us like a vision from hell, flames already breaking through the roof in multiple places. Old wood construction, decades of dried hay in the loft, probably accelerants if Blake was feeling thorough. A death trap designed by someone who wanted to watch the world burn.

"Full protective search pattern," I bark, falling into incident commander mode because it's that or lose my mind. "Mavi, you're with me on primary search, upper level. River, Austin—take the ground floor and work clockwise. Maintain radio contact every thirty seconds."

They move without question, trust built through years of working together even if not always in burning buildings. River's already got the medical kit slung over his shoulder—ever theoptimist, believing we'll need it. Austin's checking his radio, lips moving in what might be prayer or medical protocols or both.

The heat hits like a physical wall when we approach the entrance. Training kicks in—feel the door with the back of your hand, check for superheated metal, watch for signs of backdraft. All clear, just regular nightmare fire instead of explosive nightmare fire. Small mercies.

"Masks on," I order, pulling my own SCBA into place. The familiar weight of the air tank settles across my shoulders, and for a moment I'm back in Helena, back in the job that defined me until it broke me. But this time, failure isn't an option. This time, I know exactly who I'm saving and why they matter.

We enter in formation, staying low where the smoke hasn't completely banked down yet. The interior is a maze of stalls and farm equipment, visibility dropping to zero within seconds. I click on my flashlight, the beam barely penetrating the black smoke.

"River, status," I call through the radio.

"Southwest corner clear, moving along the wall. Smoke's thick but manageable down here."

Mavi and I work the opposite direction, checking each stall methodically even as urgency screams through my blood. Every second counts but missed spaces cost lives. The smoke gets thicker as we move deeper, and I can't stop thinking about Willa's lungs. The damage from the last fire, how she still coughs sometimes in the morning. How much smoke can she take before?—

"Austin, check in."

"Eastern wall clear, found fresh footprints in the dirt heading toward the back."

Fresh footprints. Hope flares hot as the flames around us. She got free. Of course she did—probably picked the lock with pure stubborn determination. My fierce, brilliant survivor.

That's when I hear it.

Faint through the roar of flames and crash of failing timber—a baby's cry. And underneath it, barely audible, someone singing. My heart stops, restarts at double speed. I know that voice, have heard it humming lullabies at three AM, singing off-key in the shower, whispering reassurances to Luna during storms.

Mavi's eyes meet mine through our masks, and we move as one toward the sound. No more methodical searching—this is sprint and pray. The stairs appear through the smoke like something out of a nightmare, wooden treads already burning, handrail gone completely. The songs coming from above, but the path might as well be made of tissue paper and hope.

"I've got point," I say, already testing the first step. It groans but holds. "You stabilize what you can."

"Cole—" Mavi starts, but I'm already climbing.

Each step is a gamble, wood cracking and shifting under my weight. Halfway up, a tread gives way completely and I catch myself on what's left of the rail, splinters driving through my gloves. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the voice getting clearer with each foot of elevation gained.

The loft opens up into a storage area, smoke so thick it's like swimming through tar. But there—movement by the far wall where a hole in the roof is providing just enough ventilation to create a pocket of cleaner air.

"Willa!"

She turns at my voice, and my heart breaks and soars simultaneously. She's holding Luna up and away from her body, arms shaking with the effort, positioning the baby where the air is cleanest while she takes the brunt of the smoke. Her face is streaked with soot and tears, left wrist bent at an angle that screams broken, but her eyes—her eyes are fierce with determination.

"The brave... little star," she's singing, voice cracked and raw, "shines through... darkest night..."

Luna's crying has softened to whimpers, tiny fists waving in distress but still responsive, still fighting. Just like her mother. Both of them.

"Cole," Willa croaks, and I can see her strength wavering, exhaustion winning its battle against will. "I knew... knew you'd come."

"Always," I promise, already calculating angles and options. "Hold on, sweetheart. We're getting you out."

She tries to smile, this broken warrior woman who picked a lock and found high ground and sacrificed her own air to save a baby. The smoke swirls between us like a curtain, and in that moment I see everything with perfect clarity. Not just that I love her—that's been true since she stood in our kitchen covered in soot and defiance. But that she's the strongest person I've ever known. That Sarah would have loved her. That second chances aren't about redemption but about recognizing what's right in front of you.

"Mavi!" I call into the radio. "Need that ladder. Now. We've got them—they're alive."

Alive. The most beautiful word in any language. Alive and fighting and mine to protect, not because they're weak but because they're precious. Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone else help carry the weight.

"Coming up," Mavi's voice crackles back, and I can hear the relief beneath his professional tone.

"Hear that?" I tell Willa, moving closer, testing each board before I commit my weight. "Cavalry's coming. You did it, baby. You saved her. You saved yourself. Now let us help."

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