“Your dad is in there!” she shouted at Miah.

“What?”

“In the junk barn! I passed him earlier, when he was on his way over there.”

The tractor, Casey thought. He’d said he was going to be working on—

Miah was already running, and Casey took off as fast as his legs could pump, screaming his friend’s name. He’ll run straight in there if I don’t pin him to the fucking dirt.

He was fast, but Miah was faster. It was only by the grace of another ranch hand catching hold of Miah’s arms, spinning him around, and onto the ground, that he didn’t go charging straight into the blaze. Casey tackled him, and with the other man’s help, they managed to drag Miah back a few yards. The air between them and the mammoth barn was like a waterfall now, a wavering yellow wall of heat. The only mercy was that it was a calm day, not windy, and that the breeze was headed for the range and not the other buildings. Still, it was dry country. Even a single scrap of airborne detritus could start a massive brush fire.

Miah was shouting for his father, and the sound cut straight to Casey’s bones.

“He might be fine,” Casey said, struggling to keep his thrashing friend pinned. “He might not be in there.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. It’d be too little, too late—Fortuity was the county seat, but even they had only one fire truck, and it was manned by volunteers. It’d be a long wait before the next nearest departments could rush over from other towns. Too late to save the barn. And unless Denny had been mistaken, or Don had been able to get out, too late to save Miah’s father. Casey’s muscles went watery at the thought, dread and fear and disbelief jumbled together, suffocating.

Miah went slack after a minute’s violent struggle, his swears giving way to hoarse, primal sounds, then dry sobs.

Casey’s heart broke for him. He didn’t know what it felt like to have a father you were proud of. One you loved and idolized and modeled your own manhood after. It had to feel like a piece of Miah himself was burning up.

“He might not be in there,” he repeated, clinging to the possibility himself. “Denny could be wrong. He could’ve gotten out.”

Miah wasn’t hearing any of it. He’d curled in on himself, forehead on the dirt, and Casey could faintly hear him saying, “Dad, Dad, Dad,” the sound swallowed by the rush of the flames, the choking of his sobs.

“We don’t know he’s in there,” the male hand echoed.

“Let’s get you up,” Casey told Miah. “Let’s get farther away. There’s too much smoke. There’s machinery in there, right? It might not be safe.”

That was what Don had been in there for—to dick around with some piece of equipment. Maybe that had started the fire. Gasoline or diesel, hay, all that brittle old wood, or whatever else might be inside. Could’ve been an accident waiting to happen.

Could’ve, but probably wasn’t. The Churches weren’t foolish or careless people. And that fact combined with whoever had been stalking around the place this past week added up to a gnawing pit, deep in Casey’s gut.

And something else hit him as he stood, holding Miah’s arm tight to keep him from bolting, watching the orange flames licking up at the now-lightening sky. Hit him as hard as a hunk of flaming shrapnel, cut him to the core.

The fire. On the starless night.

Only he hadn’t seen a starless night, after all—no overcast evening at the height of the rainy season. He’d seen the dark of the eclipse, an artificial night. And he hadn’t seen Miah, but his father. Silhouetted by the raging fire in his vision, they were impossible to tell apart, just two slender, tall men in jeans and Stetsons. Matching postures, matching mannerisms.

“Fuck me,” Casey murmured.

Miah was jerking, trying to get loose, and Casey held on tighter, steering him away, back down the hill with the other man’s help.

Fuck me. The visions didn’t lie, did they? They only misled. It was lucidity and logic that got it all wrong, time and time again.

And if a good man was dead now, from a tragedy Casey had stood some chance at preventing . . .

He couldn’t imagine how he’d ever forgive himself.

Chapter 24

The fire departments arrived—at first just the skeleton crew of the Fortuity volunteer brigade, followed long minutes later by forces from the surrounding towns and counties.

The volunteers managed to keep the blaze contained, and probably helped stop it from spreading to the bunks and stables and the brush, but the barn itself was an utter loss. Razed to the ground, practically, with one wall left standing, precariously. The collapsed shingle roof drooped in against it, the thickest of the now-blackened beams jutting here and there like charred ribs.

There had been no sign of Don. And no sign was a bad sign indeed, Casey couldn’t help but think.

By the time the water trucks had come and the firefighters had things under control, the sky was once again as bright and blue and cheerful as one could hope for in mid-February . . . save for the fading black ribbon of smoke drifting east, bound for Utah.

Miah’s dog stood twenty yards or so from the action, gaze locked on the smoldering rubble, body taut, tail still. It was one of the saddest sights Casey had ever seen.

The ranch workers were organizing themselves, moving frightened horses from the stables out to the range, away from the lingering smoke and chaos. Helicopters passed overhead—wildfire crews, no doubt, scanning for signs of stray blazes out in the brush.

Casey still had Miah by the arm, though the fight had gone out of his friend.

“Let go of me,” Miah said quietly, eyes still glued to the smoking, steaming remains of the barn.

“You need to stay back.”

“I need to help my employees,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “I need to help get the animals away from here.” There were tears streaking his cheeks, drawing pale tracks down the dark soot dusting his face.

Casey reluctantly, cautiously, let him free. Miah snatched his arm away, rolled his shoulders, called for his dog, and trudged off toward the stables. What on earth was going through his head, Casey didn’t care to guess. But let him hide in the work. Let him hide from the looming uncertainty of what might’ve become of his father.

Through the blackened mess of collapsed boards and flaps of fallen roof, Casey could see the shapes of a half dozen pieces of heavy equipment. Any one could’ve been the machine Don had been planning to tune up. And under any pile of charred wood and slate roofing tiles could be the body of one of the finest men this town had ever seen.

I saw this coming, was all Casey could think.

He was rooted to the spot, unable to move. He’d seen all of this, months ago. He’d gotten the clues wrong and ignored the ones that counted. If he’d had his head on straight, he might’ve stopped all this. Maybe saved a life.

God-fucking-damn it, why the fuck had he been given this so-called gift, of all people? Why some flighty, self-interested criminal, of all the decent—

“Case!”

He turned, finding Vince running toward him.

“Where’s Miah?” his brother demanded.

“Helping move the horses.”

Vince’s shoulders dropped in obvious relief, though his face said it all—the circumstances of the fire hadn’t been lost on him. He’d probably remembered those words the second he heard there was a fire at Three C, in the middle of the eclipse.

“All I could think was, fucking starless night,” his brother panted, recovering from his sprint from the parking lot or the house.

“It wasn’t Miah,” Casey said quietly. “But it might’ve been Don.”

Vince’s heaving chest went still in an instant. “Don?”