Darci's Pride. Jenna Mills

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      They’d never make it in time.

      Running back inside, Tyler again veered left. That was his corridor of responsibility. Daniel had the right. When they ran their drills, he and Daniel blindfolded themselves to simulate the smoke and the darkness. But the absurdity of that ground through Tyler. There was no simulating the heat scorching through his clothes, or the acrid smoke choking off his breath. His body fought to breathe, but he pushed himself forward, toward the back of the barn where Lightning Chaser—

      The fire roared, a living creature consuming the barn at a vicious pace. Coughing, Tyler dragged his damp shirt over his mouth and struggled to breathe…run.

      But with another groan, the section of barn in front of him collapsed.

      Tyler twisted into the side of a stall and out of the path of a burning beam.

      “H-help!”

      The cry barely registered over the hunger of the fire.

      “S-some…one he-elp!”

      Smoke stole visibility. Eyes burning, Tyler staggered into the stall and used his hands to find the side. There he could climb. On pure determination he made his way into the next stall and jumped to the hay below.

      Hay. As a precaution, they stored it in another building, but there was enough in each barn to feed a fire into an allout inferno.

      “Help!”

      The voice was weaker now, but Tyler fought his way toward the far side of the corridor. “Who’s th-there?” he choked.

      The sound that greeted him was not human, but equine. A big black shadow moved against the glow of the fire, gyrating frantically. “Easy.” Tyler coughed, reaching for the lead. “Easy now, boy.”

      The horse reared away.

      “Thank God,” rasped the voice he’d heard before, and through the suffocating darkness a hand closed weakly around Tyler’s ankle.

      “Christ almighty,” he swore, dropping to his feet where he found the man. “What the hell—”

      “B-broke away,” Reynard, one of Lochlain’s most recent hires, choked out. “Tried to get back to his stall.”

      And knocked his rescuer down in the process. Reynard was lucky he hadn’t been trampled to death. “Come on,” Tyler said, easing the older man to his feet. “We gotta get you—”

      “Preston!”With the new voice came the hard rush of water and Tyler knew the brigade had arrived. The flames devouring the beam that had blocked the corridor hissed against water as three uniformed firefighters surged toward them.

      “Here!” Tyler shouted, handing off Reynard. Pivoting, he ran for the spooked Thoroughbred, finding a saddle blanket to cover the animal’s eyes.

      “Got him,” called one of the men, reaching for the lead. Tyler released the horse, turned back to the far end of the barn.

      “Preston! You gotta get out of here!” the firefighter called. “The whole place is about to come down!”

      But Tyler was already lunging toward Lightning Chaser’s stall. He had to be sure. He had to check.

      Staggering, he veered into the stall and, eyes burning, saw through the sickening red glow. The horse that had grazed so quietly just that afternoon, the champion Thoroughbred who’d run a breathtaking last leg of the Queensland Stakes. He fought against the back corner of the stall he equated with safety, literally trying to climb the wall.

      The shadowy sight hit Tyler like a punch to the gut.

      “Easy, mate,” he tried to drawl, speaking to the animal as a parent would speak to a child. But his voice was a choked rasp. Fumbling for a blanket, he grabbed the halter and lead and moved forward. “Howzabouta l-little midnight—” His throat burned. His lungs screamed.

      His vision blurred.

      He’d been in too long. He knew that. He’d done the research, consulted with the fire brigade. They’d run the drills. He knew how long he had, how long he could be inside before the smoke overcame him and he became useless.

      But he pushed forward anyway. From his first days of training, Lightning Chaser had given Tyler his all. Just like his grandsire had, all those years ago. A Thoroughbred down to his hooves, the horse never said no. He never protested. He trained and he performed.

      And now he was in trouble.

      Tyler could no more abandon him than he could have left his father or brother.

      Staggering, he reached for his horse even as one of the firefighters reached for him. Then something was thrust against his face and he was choking again, harder, not from the smoke but the rush of oxygen. He gulped greedily, taking what he needed to ease Lightning Chaser from his stall.

      The animal’s guttural cry sickened him. He put his hands to the colt’s back and tried to reassure him, get him to quiet. Quickly he affixed the lead then ripped off his overshirt and pulled it over the animal’s eyes. Then, in tandem with the firefighter, they led Lightning from his stall and down the corridor.

      Through the darkness Daniel appeared. And Andrew. His trainer took the horse. His cousin took him. Coughing, they burst from the building and into the night.

      It was all Tyler could do not to go to his knees.

      But this was his barn, his stable. These were his men. And they looked to him for leadership. Direction.

      Assurance.

      He could not go to his knees in front of them.

      Hands then, lots of them. Reaching for Tyler. Pulling him farther from the inferno. Shouts.

      An oxygen mixture pressed to his face.

      He sucked it in as greedily as before, trying to orient himself. Around him, everything blurred, slowed. The strobe light still flashed in obscene synchronicity with the lights on the fire engines. The bullhorn still pulsed rhythmically. He could see his men, all of them doing what they’d been trained to do. And Christ, he could see the other barn then, Barn A, the original structure—the one used for boarding.

      Up in flames.

      All those horses…some of them weren’t young, weren’t in the same top-notch condition as the Thoroughbreds. Some of them were older, slower.

      One was blind.

      Anthem…

      “Here,” someone said, and he blinked to see a young man with soot-smeared cheeks thrust a glass of water into his hands.A towel then, damp, cool, against his face. He blinked and tried to bring the kid into focus, could make out little more than a scrawny frame and an old, torn bush hat.

      “Thanks,” he said, or tried to say, but wasn’t sure the words made it past the rawness of his throat.

      “D-Daniel—” But before he could locate his trainer, Peggy was there, with her long gray hair loose around her face, wearing what Tyler СКАЧАТЬ