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Rekindled from Ashes

By Cindy M. Amos

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Chapter 1
An irreverent wind rifled through the shortgrass prairie of western Kansas. The first week of March seldom reached eighty degrees, so Burk Crosby determined to make the most of his work day. He studied the sagging top wire that enclosed his largest pasture and opted to tighten the fence with a splice, a quick fix that would keep the herd contained.
When the wind gusted, he nearly lost his hat, an irksome hindrance. He grabbed a length of barbed wire and slid fence pliers into his back pocket. Having already taken the head count on the cattle, he gave the ailing fence his unbroken attention.
The south wind rushed past again, sending his hat rolling down the fence line. He quick-stepped in retrieval mode with a grumble locked under his lips. A faint hint of smoke rubbed against his devotion to the fencing task, but he ignored it to set the wire splice in place.
A glimpse of the southern horizon made venom rise in his throat at the cantankerous bluster determined to mar the warm day. Under clear skies, he could see a good ten miles into Oklahoma from where his ranch sat southeast of Ashland. Today, a dark bush seemed to overgrow the horizon, making any distant outlook impossible. He blinked to better discern the blurred hindrance.
Unsettled, he dropped the wire splice and walked along a steady rise on the landscape. Further west of town, such a slope plunged into red dirt canyons that eventually framed the Big Basin. Cut by a creek, this pasture offered a more gradual transition, but he was grateful for the elevation nonetheless. As his boots kicked dust at the top of the rise, he paused and assessed the southern horizon.
First to the east, and then to the west—as far as his gaze roamed—the dark bush vented skyward. Plumes of smoke began to snake from the bush, licking the air. “Lord God above, not a grassfire…” By the looks of things, half of Oklahoma might be on fire. With the boisterous wind hailing from due south, his ranch sat in the direct line of advance.
He turned to locate the cattle. Surrounded by knee-deep grass—winter-bleached and crackle-dry—the terrain lay volatile as all get-out. Sweat tightened his hatband. He broke into a choppy run off the knoll, needing a survival plan and needing one fast.
~
Swamped with hollow satisfaction, Lyndie Leigh Sessoms accepted payment from the rodeo coordinator and handed the check over to her manager. “Here you go, Ernie. Thanks for coming over from Tulsa to catch the Oklahoma City show.”
The coordinator tipped his hat and disappeared inside the arena.
Ernie Matthews kicked at some wood chips lining the chute area as he folded the plump check into his wallet. “You could still get on the playbill down in Enid the fifteenth of March—if you wanted to.”
She held out an open palm to stop him. Goodness knows that man could draw out a two-word prayer, given the opportunity. “Look Ernie, we’ve already been over this. I need a break—some time off to think about my future. This rodeo circuit has grown wearisome lately.”
“But folks adore you, Lyndie Leigh.” He leaned in to give her a show biz wink while he tucked the wallet away. “You’re a modern-day Dale Evans. The world needs a star like that.”
She sniffed and squared her feet. “Maybe what the world really needs is a Roy Rogers figure—a hero on a palomino to ride in and save the day.”
“Speaking of horses, would it be all right for me to loan out Tracer for sire duty during your sabbatical? We could cut the fee fifty-fifty.”
Her gaze shifted to the horse trailer already hitched to Ernie’s truck. The buckskin’s muzzle appeared through the window. “Do whatever you think is best. At the end of three months, we’ll reconsider where we stand.”
He tapped the heels of his boots together. “That’s a mighty long time off, Lyndie. You’ll have to come back strong. Where you headed, anyway?”
“Someplace that needs me.” She offered her hand in a parting gesture. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t forget your Friday night radio spot. That’s still a go for Western Star duty.”
“String around my finger to remember.” She pretended to tie one on. “Hope you’ll listen in, so you won’t worry about me too much.”
He shook his head and stepped back. “Try to find what you’re lookin’ for, little lady. Life ain’t about foot-dragging, after all.”
“Be well, Ernie. Time for me to head north.”
“Watch that Kansas state line. I heard there’s a wildfire out of control up that way.”
She saluted and walked toward her rig. Maybe she needed direct exposure to fire. The camper trailer didn’t necessarily appear flameproof—but she sure felt that way.
~
Ironic that he’d come out to mend fences, Burk now clamped down on the pliers and snipped through the fourth strand. With a little cooperation, he could move the entire herd onto his winter wheat to buffer them from the intensity of the blaze. Over the last half hour, the dark line had crept considerably closer. If only the wind would lay back some, then the pressure might ease off a bit. Still, he couldn’t trust what amounted to a lame wish.
He jumped into his four-wheeled ATV and threw it into reverse. Ill at ease from the smell of smoke, the cattle stood packed together along the far fence. He planned to herd them through the new break, optimistic that the lure of greening wheat would be too much to resist. For the second time that week, he flat-out needed a herding dog.
Once in position, he made some noise by tapping the vehicle’s horn a couple of times. Those honks scattered the herd like an angry bust on racked billiard balls. None went straightway into the corner pocket of the fence cut—not one. He spat and checked the grassfire’s progression over his shoulder. For the first time, he spotted orange flames where the sky met the land.
“Come on—cooperate for once.” He swept an arc to the east around a majority of the cattle and drove them back toward the opening. A solitary steer wandered into the wheat field and began grazing. Like a roadside advertisement, the suggestion spread. Within minutes, three-fourths of the herd stood on fire-resistant ground cover.
Regret for not having a gate handy pinched his side. Another twenty-five head still stood in harm’s way. He glanced south and saw that the fire had already engulfed the adjoining McMinimy spread. Sickened at the sight, he swiped a hand over his lips and headed north, determined to round up the remnant.
As a last resort, he could cut the northernmost fence and leave the cattle to fend for themselves up on the Guards’ property. A double-sized pond up there would make the perfect refuge. Of course, the cattle would have to reason that out and wade into the water. Something sat on the broad edge of ain’t-gonna-happen with that scenario.
Burk breathed in smoke and coughed. He shifted the bandana up over his nose and wiped watery eyes on his sleeve. The wildfire advanced on the devil’s frictionless sled. Where he stood at the base of the knoll, he was about to get run over.
A square plot lined in spring green opened to the west. He’d completely forgotten about the old settlers’ cemetery. Mowed last October, it held practically no fuel for the fire. Racing to the longer edge, he frantically worked the hinges loose from one wrought iron panel and rotated it open. Slowed by dread that accompanied the last-ditch effort, he trotted up behind the southernmost steer and began to wave his arms. “Hey-yah,” he called, closing the distance.
The pried-open railing acted like a funnel to guide the animals inside. Once half the animals had passed through the portal, the vise-clamp on his chest eased off some. He walked the last of the steers into the cemetery compound and took the panel in his hand to close the pen.
For no apparent reason, the herd spooked from the rear. Fighting the smoke, Burk hastened to secure the closure and trap them inside. When he looked up, five hundred pounds of attitude bore down on the opening. He saw a white blaze that marked two flaring nostrils. A split-second decision, he spanned the gap with his body to thwart the skittish escape attempt. The panicked steer remained unfazed. A direct collision stole his breath. Reeling, he crumpled to a helpless embrace of the ground where his rescue turned motionless black.
~
Lyndie chided herself for thinking it would be easy to ride the coattails of the wildfire. Halted, a herd of cattle now claimed the highway as its domain. The last information sign she’d passed stated Sitka was two miles ahead. A gravel road to the west represented her only option, so she pulled the steering wheel in a full rotation to avoid the wide-eyed cattle.
Knowing country roads intersected every mile, she’d head north again at her first opportunity. The fire had already raked through this section. Wooden fence posts smoldered like abandoned cigarette butts down both sides of the road. All points in between could be described, in no uncertain terms, as lifeless black. The prairie had gone from landscape to lunarscape.
An improved road soon bisected this east-west road, so she slowed for a right turn. The gusty crosswind buffeted the camper one last time and surrendered to become a beneficial tailwind. With north her preferred direction, her chosen destination of Ashland must remain somewhere up ahead.
The truck geared down to achieve the climb up a steady rise. The damage along the way left a searing impression. In the corner of a pasture, a lifeless lump turned out to be a trapped steer. The somber sight dug at her nurturing instincts, but nothing could be done at this point.
Once the truck leveled out, an ornate arch appeared up ahead. Intrigued, she eased off the gas to take a better look. It marked a cemetery. There in the ashes, a cowboy knelt outside a wrought iron fence. Braking to a stop, she watched him topple over onto the blackened ground.
After throwing the gearshift into park, she killed the ignition. Right place at the right time. Slinking between barbed wire strands, she made her way to the downed man. Twenty-odd steers continued to graze inside the cemetery, extremely lucky to be alive.
Lyndie dropped to her knees at the man’s side. With his shirt torn in several places, dried blood caked several of the holes. She touched his neck. It felt clammy cool. “Hey there, cowboy. Great job saving the herd. Looks like you outsmarted the wildfire.” When he tried to roll onto his back, she assisted him.
“No…no smart to it,” he replied in a scratchy voice. His chin wore a black-and-blue scuff. Hazel eyes the color of cedars in winter glanced away.
When she leaned closer to shade his face, his pupils failed to respond to the light change. “Okay, cowboy. I’m taking you into town for medical treatment. Think you can walk to my rig?”
“Point to my feet, will you?” The corner of his mouth twitched up as his entrancing eyes fluttered closed.
She tapped the toe of his closest boot, willing to play the comeback game. Her frank assessment began to pay a bonus dividend as the hazel-eyed rancher had been chiseled from a solid rock. When she locked her arms around his shoulders to help him stand, the rock analogy played out into a six foot-two muscle-clad man only a little the worse for wear.
His arm soon slid around her waist. “You lead.”
She took a series of burdened steps. Glancing ahead, she spotted the barbed wire fence. “Hey, are you up to straddling the roadside fence?”
He rested a heavy head on her shoulder. “No—too in and out of it. Roll me under.”
“Okay. Sure wish the steer back there with the white blaze could have had that option. I’m afraid you lost that one.” She paused at the fence and lowered him for the roll underneath.
The man tucked a thumb into a tear in his shirt. “The two of us locked heads earlier, but I couldn’t persuade him to stay in the cemetery.”
“Sometimes winning seems like losing in the moment. It’s best to make your final choice when you can stand up straight in your own boots.” With that nugget of wisdom, she shoved him into a rolling motion and cleared her last apparent obstacle. Goodness, what a find. Those cedar-shaded eyes were another matter.

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