It was the house.

Flames licked up the back of it lashing up higher than the roof. Max let the horses race past it and pulled them up on the other side of the barn. If they didn’t see the fire, they wouldn’t spook as much. Augusta sprang from the wagon like she was half rabbit, her eyes looking as big as dinner plates in her small face. Leaping from the wagon, Max hit the ground running. He was halfway to the house when the whole roof went up like dry kindling. In a flash, it was a solid blanket of orange and yellow flames.

“Damn it!” He spotted Augusta at the well, cranking the bucket up while she stared in horror at the house. At the porch, he hesitated. His plan had been to go inside, grab Augusta’s trunk that contained some of her clothes, shoes, and books, and save that at the very least. But the intense heat punching back at him, stopped him. Even as he argued with himself, he saw the front parlor go up, tongues of fire licking out through the front door. He retreated, smelling burned hair and knowing it was his. Lost. It was all lost.

Augusta screamed his name and he swiveled to find her loping with a bucket of water in each hand toward the barn. She, too, had given up on the house and was now campaigning to save the barn. She was right. The wind could carry embers to its roof. Throwing the buckets of water against the side of the structure, she whirled and ran back to the well for more.

“Wet it down!” she yelled at him.

He ran into the barn for more buckets. The troughs had water in them, too. He’d filled them to the brims before they’d left for the Hoffmeister place. As he grabbed two buckets, he heard the horses outside whinny and then a grunt. Not a horse grunt. He froze, his ears straining, his sixth sense setting off alarms inside him. Another grunt and gasp. Max dropped the buckets and raced out of the barn and around to the opposite side where he’d left the horses and wagon. Squinting against the gloom, he saw a shadow on the ground near the horses. The shadow moved, ducked, dropped something, and sprinted away. A torch glowed on the ground. The horses reared, pawed the smoky air, and screeched. The whites of their eyes looked wild and sent another bolt of alarm through Max.

He rushed forward and kicked dirt over the torch, killing the flame. Then he ran, ran like he was on fire, to catch up with the fleeing shadow man. The arsonist had fled to the wooded acres behind the house where pecan and walnut trees stood sentry with berry bushes and vines. Max wove through them, his boots catching on overgrowth, making him trip and lurch forward, but he kept upright and plodded on. He could hear someone ahead of him, thrashing and breathing loud like bellows. Then the sound diminished. He stopped and held his breath, listening . . . listening.

Twigs snapped, and he spun around. The bastard had double-backed and was heading for the house again! He leaped over shrubs and shouldered past trees, making a new path for himself, his mind forging ahead of him. Probably headed for his horse, he thought. Needs his horse for a clean getaway.

Augusta was there!

With a snarling shout, he found a new burst of speed and sped past the final trees and out into the open where the house was nothing but a huge column of flames, lighting the area like the sun. Smoke clouds rose to obliterate the stars and moon. Embers flew in the air like swarms of fireflies. Dangerous, deadly fireflies.

He spotted Augusta by the barn, still tossing buckets of water onto the barn walls, aiming as high as she could manage. Sweat poured into his eyes and he blinked, focused, searched as he ran to the east side of the house, his instincts guiding him there. A wide-shouldered figure was outlined against the orange light, moving fast. Max caught sight of the blazed face of a horse a few yards behind the chicken coop.

Covering the space in a long-legged sprint, Max flung himself at the departing figure. His hands landed on the man’s shoulders and his body weight took the trespasser down to his knees. He knew who’d he’d nabbed. Knew it before he saw the hooked nose and droopy mustache.

“Where the hell you think you’re going, Babbitt?”

An elbow rammed back into Max’s ribs, making his breath whoosh out and his vision blur for a few seconds. Babbitt turned and plowed a fist into the other side of Max’s ribcage. Fury pumped through Max and he released a howl as he gained his feet and balance. He grabbed Babbitt around the middle and flung him sideways, putting some distance between them so that he could regain his breath.

Babbitt’s face was streaked with soot and rivulets of sweat. His eyes glimmered like two round coals stuck in the sockets. He hunched over, his hands open and ready to grab and twist and pound, his feet planted apart. A sinister grin lifted one side of his mouth.

“You’re lucky you and her weren’t in that house,” he said, his speech slurring a little from the liquid courage he must have drunk before he’d struck the match.

Behind Max the fire roared, charred debris fell in a burst of sparks, some landing on his shirt and burning holes to his skin. He barely felt it. His whole being focused on the man in front of him, all swagger and righteousness like he’d just done the world a favor. Max charged at him and the top of his head rammed into Babbitt’s shoulder, driving him back so that he stumbled over a rock and lost his footing. Max grabbed a handful of Babbitt’s shirt front and pounded his face with his free fist. Blood spurted from Babbitt’s lip. He spit in Max’s face and socked him on his right ear and jaw, setting off a clanging in Max’s head for a few seconds.

Fists flew and made contact. Gristle caved in and bones fractured as the fight heated to a firestorm of grunts, groans, and cursing. One moment Max was on top of Babbitt, giving him hell, and the next he was being kicked by Babbitt in the side, stomach, and face. He grabbed Babbitt’s boot as it swung again toward his nose and held on tight, giving it a mighty twist that cost Babbitt his balance again. He landed hard on his back and Max rose shakily to his feet. Standing over Babbitt, he leaned into his swinging fist and landed a head-snapper on the man’s square jaw. Babbitt’s eyes rolled back and went limp, but Max was beyond noticing such trivialities. He grabbed his shirt again, hauling him up far enough to hammer him once more, then let him fall like a sack of grain to the ground.

“Lonestar! You okay?” Augusta flung her arms around his middle and looked up at him, her face streaked with soot, her eyes alight and wide.

“I didn’t want to fight.” Max shook his head and gently removed her arms from around him. He felt caged, jittery, not himself. He was breathing so hard, he could barely speak. Behind Augusta, the fire created a hellish halo, outlining her body and turning her hair crimson instead of gold.

“I know, but he gave you no choice. What are we going to do with him? We can’t let him go. Not after what he’s done.” Her shoulders slumped, and he thought he heard her sob. She bent down to retrieve a bucket she’d dropped and turned slowly to stare at the inferno. “We have to save the barn, Lonestar. Let out the livestock in case we can’t . . .” Her voice dried up, evaporated by the hot wind.

Max examined his stinging hands. The skin over his knuckles was red and split, oozing blood. He tasted blood, too. Babbitt moaned and kicked, but didn’t open his eyes. Augusta was right. They couldn’t let him go.

“I’ll truss him up and put him in the wagon. Later, I’ll haul his sorry butt to the sheriff. For now, we’ll get the animals out of the barn and away from this fire. You do that, and I’ll take over wetting the barn and the ground between it and the house.” He took the bucket from her limp fingers. “Go on, now. Better keep an eye on the chicken coop, too. Might need to open the gate so they can escape if they have to.”

She nodded and ran for the barn, her skirts whipping around her legs, her hair streaming out from the braid it had been in earlier. He glanced up at the embers floating in the dark sky. It would take just one or two to land on the barn roof and start another catastrophe. He loped to just inside the barn to grab a hoop of rope. Augusta flung open Majesty’s stall door and fit a halter over the mare’s nose and laid-back ears. She spoke soothingly to the prancing horse.

Max hurried back to Babbitt, rolled him over onto his belly, and tied his hands behind his back, then hog-tied him for good measure. Hefting the unconscious man up was like lifting an anvil. Max finally hooked his hand under Babbitt’s arms and dragged him over the ground to the wagon. He left him lying on his belly beside the barn and checked the knots in the rope to make sure they were good and tight before leaving him. He’d deal with the cowardly weasel later.

He dumped trough water on the ground around the barn, then made bucket trip after bucket trip to wet down the barn wall facing the burning house while Augusta led Majesty and the mules to the corral, then followed with the goats. The animals were agitated, racing around the corral, ears pinned back, eyes wild as they felt and saw the fire. The mules made eerie sounds, half-brays and half-whinnies, and turned their tails to the burning house as if by not seeing it, they would suffer no harm from it.

Augusta joined the two-person bucket brigade again, seemingly tireless in her trips back and forth from the well. The sky had turned a pearl gray when Erik and Susan arrived with their children asleep and covered in quilts and blankets in the back of their wagon. Susan was already crying and Erik muttered in his native tongue when they joined Max and Augusta by the well. Max recognized some of the words and they’re weren’t usually uttered in front of women and children.

“Max, you’re bleeding!” Susan said, sobbing.

“I’m okay, Suze.”

“Did you catch the bastard?” Erik asked without bothering to say Babbitt’s name.

“Sure did,” Max assured him. “Caught him with a flaming torch in his hands. He’s tied up around at the side of the barn. Thought I’d take him into the sheriff later.”

Erik rolled up his sleeves. “You keeping everything damp? Good idea.” He wrenched the bucket from Max’s hands. “You go take him now. Tell the sheriff what happened. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Max rested a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Did you see the smoke?”

“I did. Smelled it first. I got up earlier than usual to check on our pregnant mare. She’s been off her feed lately. When I stepped outside, I smelled the fire. Then I saw the smudges of smoke in the west and I knew.” Sadness turned down the corners of his mouth. “I damn well knew. But I figured it was the barn he’d lit again.”

“Not this time.”

“Were you home?” Susan moved close to Augusta and placed her arm around Augusta’s sagging shoulders.

“No, we were visiting the Hoffmeisters in Altus,” Augusta said, her voice going hoarse on her. “When we got here, the fire was just getting going. We hadn’t even stopped the wagon when the roof went up. So fast!” She drew a trembling hand down her face. “It was all so fast. There was nothing we could do.”

Max wanted to hold her, protect her, turn back time and save the house and Augusta’s grief over it. Instead, he stood his ground, numb, like his insides had been scraped out and he was nothing but a husk except for the flame of rage burning in him. He couldn’t remember a time when Augusta’s shoulders weren’t braced, ready to carry whatever life dropped on them. Not now, though. Her small frame looked even smaller. The tremble of her lower lip foretold of her emotional state before tears built in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks, washing away some of the soot and ashes.

“Oh, Gussie, dear!” It was Susan who embraced her, tried to protect her. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.” Susan sobbed and kissed Augusta’s forehead. Her gaze drifted over to Max. “You, too, my brother. It’s just isn’t fair.”

Fair. He’d given up on life being fair a long time ago. Yet, lately, life had been better than fair. The farm. Pretty Augusta. A home of his own. He surveyed the carnage, saw ashes floating in the breeze, and wondered if they were taking his hard-won happiness with them.

Augusta turned her teary gaze on him and he cringed inside. Seeing her like this, defeated and forlorn, cut through him with the sharpness of a newly honed blade. She lifted one hand – a small, dirty hand, her nails ragged, her knuckles scraped.

“Lonestar . . . you sure you’re okay?” Her voice barely carried to him above the pop and snap of the dying fire. The flames had consumed the house and had shrunk to flicking tongues and a bed of orange, yellow, white, and gray.

He spun away, wanting to shout at her that he was anything but okay. He didn’t know what to do with the fury and despair rising in him. “I’ll take Babbitt in,” he said, the words snapped off, brittle and bitter, then he stalked away from them.

Babbitt was conscious, his dark eyes red-rimmed and brimming with hatred. His right one was swelling along with the right side of his jaw. Crimson stained his lips and teeth. He wiggled as much as he could in the binds, cussing and grunting.

“I know you woulda killed me if that bitch hadn’t been around to bear witness,” Babbitt snarled at him. “Like you did Hank Bishop!”

Lonestar ignored his stupid taunts. He shoved him onto his side, grabbed the ropes tied around him.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Erik said, coming to his side. “He weighs a ton.”

“He does.”

The two of them hoisted Babbitt to his feet and slung him into the wagon bed. Clover and Quick jostled the harnesses, anxious and nervous, having stood in their traces for hours while they smelled smoke and breathed in the hot air. Max’s mind went back to the beginning of this trip. The light-heartedness. The optimism. How quickly it had all fallen to ashes.

Babbitt kept up his barbed comments on the ride to Pear Orchard. Lonestar barely heard him. His hatred for Babbitt festered in him. If he let loose right now, he might just kill the fire-toting bastard.

He kept his mouth shut, although he wanted to cuss a blue streak, to howl at the injustice, to yell that he didn’t have the means to rebuild. No lumber. Not enough money to buy that much lumber. Their “home” was a barn now. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be asking Augusta to live in a barn with him this winter.

Babbitt cackled behind him like he’d read his mind. Max stared straight ahead, clutching his morose feelings to him and feeling at one with them.

By the time Max returned to the farm, the sun was high in the sky, clearly illuminating the ruination. The house was nothing but a broken chimney in a pile of smoking ashes. The barn stood pristine and untouched along with the other out buildings. Even the privy, closest to the house, was mostly unscathed except for the wooden front door was blackened by the intense heat.

Two of the six trees near the house had gone up with the blaze. Augusta, Susan, and the two children emerged from the barn. Lonestar could hardly bear to look at Augusta. The sight of the weariness stamped on her face and her dirty, bedraggled clothes wrenched his heart.

“You are barely able to stand on your feet, Gussie,” Erik observed. “You should come home with us. Take a long bath and then a long sleep. There is nothing to do here for now.”

“That sounds like heaven,” she said, managing a brief smile. “I am bone weary.” She looked past them. “We were able to contain the fire, though. That’s a blessing. This whole place could’ve gone up like tinder.”

“I hungry, Papa,” Brigit said.

“It’s a safe bet that we are all hungry, my little dumpling.” He picked her up and nuzzled her neck. She giggled and pushed his face away with a dimpled hand.

Susan looked up at Max, who hadn’t alighted from the wagon yet. “You ready to go?”

“I’m staying here.”

Augusta had started to heave herself up to sit beside him, but stopped at his announcement. She peered up at him. “Why?”

“To look after what’s left. The horses, goats, pigs, Buttons.” He shrugged, his gaze touching everything around him except for Augusta’s grime-smeared face.

“You need a bath, too.”

“I’ll wash off here.”

“Don’t be foolish. Your wounds need to be seen to. You’re all bloody and your eye is almost swollen shut. Let’s go to Susan and Erik’s and have a proper bath, meal, and rest. The animals will be okay. I’ve milked the goats and fed the chickens. We can turn the mules and Majesty out to graze with Buttons while we’re gone.”

“You go on. I’m staying.” He felt her eyes on him, drilling, seeking, questioning. He made a sweeping motion, a dismissive motion. “I’ll see you later.”

Susan laid a hand on Augusta’s shoulder and said quietly, “Leave him be for now and you come on with us.” Then she addressed Max. “I’ll expect you at supper, brother.” She didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, she circled an arm around Augusta’s waist and guided her toward the other wagon.

Max sat for almost an hour in the wagon after they’d gone, not able to find the will to do much of anything. Finally, when the horses pawed and nickered, he slid from the seat and unhitched them, then led them into the barn where he set to work brushing them and feeding them. One by one, he brought in the others from the corral, working by rote as he relived the fire and aftermath. He tried not to think about Babbitt because thoughts of that man set him off, made him want to pound his fists into something.

After he’d seen to the horses and mules, he trudged to the well and filled the water troughs before pouring buckets of the cold water over his head and down his body. His shirt and trousers were filthy, turning the water dark gray and pale pink from his blood. He tugged off his boots and peeled off his clothes. He dunked the clothing in a bucket of water over and over before wringing them out and flinging them over the corral fence, so they’d dry in the sun and wind. Shivering, he sat in one of the troughs and used a horse chamois as a wash cloth to rub the soot and blood off him. His skin was red in patches where he’d been punched, and his ribs were powerfully sore. His teeth chattered when he was finally satisfied with the makeshift bath.

Drying himself with a horse blanket and then wrapping two more around him to warm up, he chastised himself for being a stubborn, dejected sourpuss. He could feel himself spiraling down to that dark, depressing place he’d inhabited while he’d been in prison. After serving out his sentence and finding himself again while working on the Bishop farm, he’d sworn that he’d never let his spirit drop so low again. But here he was, allowing it to happen, letting hopelessness and bitterness rule him, body and soul.

Throwing himself into a mound of clean hay at the back of the barn, he closed his burning eyes, planning to rest, but falling into a deep, dream-smothering sleep.

He awoke with a start, his body jerking all over and his eyes popping open. Erik’s face swam into view. His brother-in-law’s quizzical expression made him blink and then glance around him. It was dusk, barely light enough for him to see the horses and mules stamping in their stalls.

“What . . . I was asleep,” he mumbled, needlessly.

“So it seems. We waited supper for as long as we could, but we saved some vittles for you.” He held out one hand. “Up you come. I fetched your damp clothes off the fence, but I brought you some of mine. I figured you’d need them.” He indicated the stack of clothing next to Max. “And soap, a razor and hand mirror. A few other essentials.”

“I’m obliged.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re family. I had to sneak that stuff out because Susan insists you and Gussie will be staying at our place until you get your new home built. I figure you’ll be here most of the time, no matter what Susan thinks about it.”

Max took Erik’s hand and let him tug him up to his feet. He hugged the blankets about him, glad to be warm and no longer chilled to the bone. “You’re right. Here is where I need to be. I have work to do, no matter if there is a house here or not.”

“It’s good we got the barn finished when we did,” Erik noted. “You could muck out one of the stalls to the dirt floor and set up a little stove in there with a bunk. It would do for a few weeks until we can get a good start on another house for you. We can complete one or two rooms and you can move in while we work on the rest.”

Rubbing his forehead, he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to think about the lack of a house because that would make him dwell on his lack of money and lumber. There would be no building going on until he could get money from his cotton crop next summer. If he thought about that too much, he’d be even more discouraged and he was fighting against that like he would any other plague.

Dwell on where you’re lucky.

He resolved to take that excellent advice to see himself through the long months ahead. Like Erik had said, they’d finished the barn in the nick of time. He could make do in it. He knew that it wasn’t all that comfortable, but he’d slept in worse places. Like in prison where bedbugs and fleas had tried to eat him alive every night and day and mice and rats had nibbled on his toes and ears while he’d slept.

“Get dressed and then come have something to eat, Max. The women are fretting about you.”

Max heaved a sigh, weariness weighting his neck and shoulders. “Yes, I will.” He reached for the clothing as Erik turned on his heel and strode from the barn to give him privacy. The clothes were roomy, but fit okay. He stuffed his feet back into his boots, ran the comb Erik had brought him through his hair, and decided that was good enough. Erik was sitting in the wagon waiting for him. He motioned for him to join him.

“Let’s shake a leg, Max. You have to be hungry enough to eat a fresh killed crow by now.”

“I am, but I’m hoping for something better than that.”

Erik chuckled. “You know your sister. She has a meal ready for you fit for a small army.”

He smiled, but it felt odd and out-of-place on his lips. Maybe because there was no emotion behind it. No truth to the smile. Yes, he was hungry, but he was also without an appetite for much of anything. It was as if his feelings had fled and he was hollow.

“How’s Augusta doing?”

Erik speared him with a glance. “She’s a tough one. Nothing’s going to keep her down for long. She had herself a hot bath and a nap. Ate a good meal. Worried about you. She’s fine.”

She is fine, Max thought. Too fine for the miserable months ahead. Much too fine for that.