I lost Mom, the woman who had been my guiding light, my best friend, my whole life. I replay that night over and over in my mind. If I hadn’t heard the horses, Mom would still be here. If I hadn’t run to find a way in, Mom would still be here.

It was my fault. I’m sure of it.

The official reports said the fire was started by a cigarette, and it was ruled “unfortunate and accidental”. That was a bunch of bullshit. The barn’s owner, a middle-aged man named Roy Henderson, who liked to drink, set the barn on fire on purpose. He had been tipped off that we were coming to get the horses. Once we had them, he wouldn’t have been able to cover up the evidence. He’d have been fined and slapped with animal cruelty charges.

Instead, he burned his own barn to destroy the evidence and collect the insurance money. I don’t believe he meant to kill Mom or hurt me. But he meant to burn his already abused horses to death. He was a monster. I wanted him to burn. I wanted to tie him up in a stall, not feed him for weeks, then set the thing on fire. I wanted him to feel the heat on his skin, to feel the pain of his flesh melting off.

Phoenix spent weeks in intensive care. The local vet who’d been called out came intending to put her down. I refused to give up on her, to give up on the horse Mom died saving. She was taken to the clinic run by Dr. Wells, who had been our equine vet for years. Phoenix’s initial bills were paid for with donations. Mom had a lot of friends in the equine world, and when the horrific tale got out, complete strangers wanted to send me money. I couldn’t deal with it. It was too much.

Dad came as soon as he heard. He stayed with me in the hospital and stayed for another week and a half once I was released. I don’t have a bad relationship with my father, just a distant one. He lives in New Jersey; he remarried after the divorce and has three more kids. I know it was hard for him to be away from his family, but I’m glad he was there.

There was so much fucking paperwork. Seriously, can’t the credit card companies and the gas people cut you a break after a tragic event? No one prepares you for the mess that follows death. I was mourning the loss of my mother, trying to get used to not having her. My world turned upside down, and half my heart died right along with her. Some days I considered getting out of bed to shower a victory. How the hell was I supposed to remember to pay the bills—bills I’d never had to worry about before? And why are those people so greedy? I had to pay late fees on top of everything else.

With Dad’s help, I finally got caught up on payments, but I exhausted most of Mom’s savings and used all of her life insurance to pay off the house. It didn’t get easier from there. Mom worked. She had a steady income. She knew how to budget. She had deals worked out with feed stores and the vet. And she was here to take care of the horses.

Free pity labor only lasts so long. People came in floods at first, offering time and money to keep the rescue running so I could finish college. I didn’t want to; I’d missed so much just from being in the hospital, yet I was so close to graduating.

I had to play catch-up, and Lori did most of my assignments, but I did it. I’m sure I passed my finals out of sympathy. I got Cs on everything, which wasn’t bad enough to make me fail but wasn’t good enough to look like an obvious pity grade. Going back to the apartment on campus Lori and I shared for the last few days of college was hard. Everyone thought it would be a distraction, keep my mind off the burning hole inside of me. But I was numb. When I didn’t feel crippling sadness, I felt nothing.

I missed home. Missed the barn and the horses. But things weren’t the same.

I blink back tears and push my shoulders back. I should look professional, right? It’s hard to act like I care when I don’t. I don’t want this job. I don’t want to work for some rinky-dink local paper writing articles about the Petunia Festival in the spring. But, I need the money. Yeah, I don’t care about this job, but I care about being able to buy hay at the end of the month.

I clutch the straps of my leather purse—well, it’s not really mine. I borrowed it from Lori. She’s into designer labels and fashion. I wouldn’t say I’m not, but it’s never been my priority like it is for her. I look around the little lobby again. The receptionist’s desk takes up half the space. A dying plant sits on the windowsill across from me, and a few framed articles from the press hang on the wall, all yellowed with age.

My palms are already sweating from being wrapped around the black leather straps. I flatten them on my gray dress pants and wait, knowing that I look totally awkward. Five minutes tick by. Then ten. Then fifteen. I start to get anxious. I should have practiced the interview questions more. What if they ask me something and I draw a blank? I get embarrassed just thinking about it.

Just when boredom is starting to replace my anxiety, the door to the lobby opens. A tall man dressed in a muddy brown suit says my name, reading it off a paper. His expression is one of boredom, a look that clearly says he’s not interested in interviewing me. At all. Great.

I take a breath, let it out as I stand, and smile, suddenly terrified to interview. The man, who I assume is Mr. Weebly, raises his brown eyes from the paper. He does a double take—an actual freaking double take. Do I have something on my face?

“You’re Haley?”

“I am. Haley Parker, nice to meet you.” I stride over and hold out my hand. My hand with the sweaty, clammy palm. Whatever. It is what it is.

“Oh, uh, well, nice to meet you,” he sputters. His eyes run over me slowly, pausing at my breasts. “Please, come into my office,” he says, still staring at my boobs. I flick my eyes to the receptionist. Is this really happening? She offers me a half smile and a raise of her eyebrows.

I hunch my shoulders forward. Dammit. I shouldn’t have let Lori dress me, though the yellow and gray top is anything but revealing. I follow him through the door and into a large room with two rows of desks cluttered with computers, notes, papers, and photographs. I can’t deny the small rush that goes through me. Maybe I’ll have my own desk someday, filled with messily stacked papers and photos of rescued animals.

We go into his office. It’s neat and tidy but smells like fast food. Oh, that’s why I had to wait so freaking long. He was finishing lunch. He waves his hand at the leather chair in front of his desk. I wait for him to take his own seat, then carefully sit on the edge, keeping my shoulders back and trying not to look like I’m scared out of my fucking mind.

It’s just a practice interview. I need to remind myself a million times. I am not going to settle for this job. I’ll get another with a bigger press where I can really have an impact. I can share the stories for those who cannot speak.

“So,” he starts, glancing at my resume for a millisecond. “Tell me about yourself.”

I internally groan. I knew he’d ask that question. Everyone asks that question. I put on my fake smile. “I recently graduated from The University of Montana with a degree in journalism. I was active on the school’s debate—”

He waves his hand in the air. “I mean the real you.”

I relax a bit. “Uh, I like to read a lot, and I’ve been raising and riding horses my whole life.”

His eyes go back to my rack. For fuck’s sake, my eyes are up here! I’ve gained a few pounds over the last year at school. I wasn’t happy about the way my stomach jiggled or the cellulite on my ass, but the increase in cup size was a fair trade-off.

“Why the paper? I’d think a woman like you would want to be on screen, not behind it.”

I grit my teeth. Practice interview. Practice. Practice. Practice. “I’m very passionate, Mr. Weebly,” I start then immediately regret my word choice. I shouldn’t say anything remotely sexual to fuel this chauvinistic pig. “I feel that the written word can convey the message just as well, without the distraction of getting made up for appearances. The focus is on the story, not on who is reporting it.”