Page 35 of Total Jane Wreck

“I’m so glad you asked, River,” Axel Rose says. “The grass inside the riding ring has gotten way too high.”

He grins. “I’ll get on that right away.” Then, looking right at me, he says, “Join me for a break in a couple of hours?”

“You got it,” I tell him.

Axel Rose meets my eye and smiles, as if to say, Now that’s how things should be.

Chapter Sixteen

I was amazed to perceive the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke…a strong smell of burning.

Brontë texts, “Can’t talk tonight. Got a date with the sexy farmer! But check out Birdy’s Insta. There’s news!”

Immediately, I pull out my phone and open the app. Birdy’s posted a close-up shot of herself. She’s looking in the mirror, brow furrowed, determined set to her chin, with the caption, “Update: Cancer’s back. Leaving Florida for a hospital vacay. Please pray, cross your fingers, send positive vibes, or whatever. Will cherish it all.”

She punctuates the message with a sad face emoji.

Oh no. Shame floods me. This is a real woman with a very real disease. And part of me was jealous. Competitive. Petty.

So I delete my account.

Then, it’s evening. Axel Rose has gone home, and Chet’s hidden himself away somewhere. I set up my easel, planning to take a stab at painting the beautiful orange-and-pink sunset. I’m mixing colors when an extremely fit woman with silver hair plaited into two long braids strolls over.

She’s wearing scrubs. Which is strange. But maybe Chet’s aunt is a medical professional who finds scrubs so comfy, she uses them as loungewear?

“Hello,” she says, voice tight. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Grace Poole. Are you Jane?”

“Sure am!” I overcompensate for her lack of warmth by projecting a bunch myself. “Pleased to meet you. Hope you’re settling in alright?”

“Oh, sure,” she answers. “Thought I’d get some fresh air. This time of evening is beautiful out here.” Grace peers over my shoulder, spotting my canvas. “Are you an artist?”

“No,” I reply, feeling bashful. “Painting is just a hobby. What about you?”

Grace’s face scrunches up. “What about me?”

“Do you paint? Because Chet showed me the blue barn’s attic art studio. If you’re into that sort of thing, it would be the perfect place to practice some self-care!”

Puzzlement skips over Grace’s features, but after a second, she settles on a neutral expression. “Sure,” she replies, smiling again. “Couldn’t agree more!” Grace pivots away, toward the county fair trail. “Alrighty, then. Think I’ll go for that walk. Have a pleasant evening.”

“You too!”

I go back to painting, one eye watching as she retreats into the sunset. Hopefully, Chet won’t be mad that I made conversation with his aunt. But, after all, she approached me.

Later that night, long after bedtime, I wake up needing water. My mouth tastes like a lint filter. In the little trailer’s kitchen, I drink three full glasses and still feel parched.

Then I’m hit with the overwhelming sense that something isn’t right. Shoving my feet into my flip-flops, I step outside.

The air is still; it takes a moment to realize that I smell smoke. Not the clean, piney kind I like, but thick, hot, unnatural. My heart slips into overdrive. The west side of the stable glows with an orange pulse. Choosing fight over flight, I race to the tack room, grab the emergency extinguisher, and book it for the main entry.

There’s a fire in one of the hay storage bins. And hay dust is like kindling soaked in lighter fluid. A spark can turn a whole barn into a funeral pyre in seconds. I use the extinguisher, killing some but not all of the flames.

The horses are terrified—snorting, kicking, their bodies pressed against stall doors. Smoke claws at my throat and fills my eyes with tears. Suffocated by the heat, I go stall by stall, forcing the bolt on each one, screaming the horses’ names and swatting their butts until they stampede for the exit. Luckily, they all sense my urgency and hustle out. Even Spitfire makes haste.

Except, when I reach Miss Adele’s stall, I find her wide-eyed and too afraid to move. “Come on, girl!” I rasp, grabbing her halter and dragging with every ounce of strength left. The flames are closer now, and this horse won’t budge. But I won’t leave the stable without her.

“Jane!” Through the haze of smoke and the chaos of my fear, Chet materializes. “You have to get out of here. Now!”

“Not without Miss Adele!”