Burned Corn Stalks

The post-hole digger bit into the frozen dirt. Clara drove the wooden handles apart, the vibration rattling up her forearms and settling deep in her shoulders. She pulled the clump of earth free. Tossed it aside. The wind ripped across the valley, tearing dead yellow leaves from the cottonwoods and pasting them against the wire fencing.

She wiped her brow with the back of a canvas glove. The skin on her knuckles was cracked, bleeding slightly in the cold dry air. She stared at the empty road leading to the highway. Nothing but dust and the skeletal remains of the summer grass.

Then the sound hit.

It was a high-pitched mechanical whine, followed by the violent crunch of tires skidding over loose gravel. Clara dropped the digger. Her hand went instinctively to her hip, to the heavy iron of the Colt she swore she didn't need anymore.

A rusted black truck tore around the bend, fishtailing wildly. The rear bumper scraped the cattle guard, throwing a shower of sparks into the dry weeds. The truck didn't slow down. It slammed into the massive trunk of the old oak tree by the porch. The hood buckled upward like a crushed tin can. Steam hissed violently from the radiator, pooling in the cold air.

Clara drew the Colt. She thumbed the hammer back. The metallic click was swallowed by the hissing engine.

The driver's side door kicked open. A body spilled out onto the dirt, tumbling in a mess of torn denim and dark liquid. A heavy metal lockbox hit the ground next to him, the brass hinges scraping against the rocks.

Clara kept the gun raised. She stepped off the porch. Her boots crunched on the gravel.

The man groaned, rolling onto his back. He clutched his side. His hands were slick with bright red blood. He looked up, squinting through the steam and the dust.

Jack Reno.

Clara stopped. The muscles in her jaw locked so hard her teeth ground together. Five years. Five years of silence after the botched job in Denver.

"Get up," Clara said.

Jack coughed, a wet, rattling sound. He tried to push himself up on one elbow, but his arm gave out. He collapsed back into the dirt, his head thumping against the tire.

"Clara," he gasped.

"I said get up."

"I can't."

"You drove a two-ton piece of scrap metal into my oak tree. You can stand up."

Jack let his head loll to the side. He looked at the heavy brass lockbox lying inches from his fingers. "They're coming."

"Who?"

"Donaldson's people. Thomas."

Clara stepped closer. She kept the iron sights trained dead on the center of Jack's chest. She noticed the way his hair had grayed at the temples, the new scar cutting across his left eyebrow. He looked older. He looked broken.

"Matthew Donaldson is a cattle broker," Clara said.

"He's buying the valley," Jack wheezed, pressing his hand harder against his ribs. Blood leaked between his fingers, dripping onto the dry earth. "He's using contractors. Wiping out the ranches. Stealing the water rights."

"What's in the box, Jack?"

"The deeds. The forged papers. Everything Thomas needs to make it legal."

Clara stared at the lockbox. The brass was scratched, smeared with Jack's blood. She looked back at his face. The familiar curve of his jaw. The eyes that had lied to her in a cheap motel room half a decade ago.

"You ghosted me," Clara said.

"Clara, please."

"We had a plan. We had the cash. I woke up and you were gone."

"I had to."

"You left me in Denver with the feds knocking on the door next down."

"I drew them off!" Jack yelled, the effort causing him to spasm in pain. He curled inward, hacking violently. Spit and blood flew from his lips, landing on the dust.

Clara didn't lower the gun. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She felt the cold metal of the trigger against her index finger. She could end it right here. Just squeeze. Let the past bleed out in the dirt.

A low, rhythmic thumping echoed across the valley.

Clara looked past the ruined truck. Three black SUVs were cresting the ridge, moving in a tight formation down the dirt road. The sun caught the reflection of tinted glass and heavy grille guards.

"Thomas," Jack whispered, his eyes rolling back slightly.

Clara looked at the SUVs. Then at the lockbox. Then at Jack. She lowered the Colt, her thumb guiding the hammer back down with a soft click.

"Grab the box," Clara said.

Jack didn't move.

Clara cursed, holstering the gun. She grabbed Jack by the collar of his jacket and hauled him upward. He screamed, a raw, ugly sound that tore through the autumn wind. Clara hooked her arm under his shoulder, supporting his weight. She kicked the lockbox, sliding it toward the porch.

"Move your legs," she commanded.

They dragged themselves up the wooden steps. Jack's boots scraped uselessly against the boards, leaving a thick, dark trail behind them. Clara kicked the front door open, hauling him over the threshold. She shoved him hard against the wall. He slid down, leaving a broad smear of red on the floral wallpaper.

Clara went back for the lockbox. She grabbed the handle, ignoring the slick blood on the metal. She hauled it inside, slamming the heavy oak door shut and throwing the deadbolt.

The house was dead silent, save for Jack's ragged breathing and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

The Floorboards

Clara dropped the lockbox on the rug. She walked past Jack without looking at him and moved into the kitchen. She grabbed a kitchen chair, wedging it under the door handle. It was a stupid, useless gesture against military-grade contractors, but it made her hands stop shaking.

She walked back into the living room. Jack was pressing a couch cushion against his side. The fabric was already turning dark.

"How many?" Clara asked.

"A dozen. Maybe more," Jack gasped. "Heavy rifles. Body armor."

Clara looked at the large picture window facing the front yard. The SUVs were tearing down the driveway, kicking up a massive cloud of dust. They slammed the brakes, forming a semi-circle around Jack's wrecked truck.

Men piled out. They moved with terrifying efficiency, spreading out behind the open doors of their vehicles. Black tactical gear. Matte-black rifles.

A tall man stepped out of the center SUV. He didn't wear a helmet. He wore a tan jacket and aviator sunglasses. Thomas.

"Reno!" Thomas's voice echoed across the yard, amplified by a megaphone. "We know you're in there. Throw the box out the door and walk out with your hands on your head."

Clara turned away from the window. She moved to the center of the living room and kicked the coffee table out of the way. It skidded across the hardwood, crashing into the television stand.

"What are you doing?" Jack asked, his voice weak.

Clara dropped to her knees. She dug her fingernails into the seam of the heavy oak floorboards. She found the hidden latch. She pulled hard. A large section of the floor lifted away, groaning on hidden hinges.

Inside the cavity lay a fortune in steel and wood.

Four Winchester lever-action rifles, wrapped in oiled cloth. A pump-action shotgun. Boxes of heavy grain ammunition stacked in neat rows. It was the cache she had built for the day the past finally caught up with her. She just hadn't expected the past to be bleeding on her floral wallpaper.

Clara grabbed a Winchester. She tossed it to Jack. He caught it clumsily, wincing as the wooden stock hit his wounded ribs.

"Load it," Clara said, grabbing a handful of shells.

"Clara, I—"

"Load the damn gun, Jack."

She picked up a second Winchester and a box of .45-70 cartridges. She started shoving rounds into the loading gate. The mechanical click-clack of the bullets sliding into the magazine tube was the only sound in the room.

"You have sixty seconds, Reno!" Thomas yelled from outside.

Clara finished loading. She racked the lever. The heavy brass cartridge popped up and slammed into the chamber. She walked to the window, keeping her body pressed against the wall.

Thomas was leaning against the hood of his SUV, holding the megaphone loosely.

Clara raised the rifle. She rested the barrel on the window sill, aiming through the glass. She didn't look at Thomas. She looked at the engine block of the nearest SUV.

She pulled the trigger.

The recoil slammed into her shoulder. The glass shattered outward in a million glittering pieces. The heavy bullet tore through the grill of the SUV, ripping into the radiator. Steam erupted instantly.

The courtyard erupted into chaos.

Gunfire tore into the front of the house. The noise was absolute, a deafening roar that shook the floorboards. Bullets ripped through the drywall, shredding the wallpaper and sending plumes of white plaster dust into the air. Clara dropped to the floor, covering her head as picture frames exploded and books were shredded on their shelves.

Jack was firing blindly from the floor, working the lever of his Winchester as fast as his wounded body would allow. Empty brass cascaded onto the rug.

Clara crawled across the floor, glass crunching under her boots. She reached the overturned couch and propped herself up. She took aim through the ruined window. She saw a contractor moving up the right flank, trying to use the oak tree for cover.

Clara tracked his movement. She exhaled. Pulled the trigger.

The man dropped, his rifle clattering against the roots of the tree.

A barrage of return fire chewed through the couch right above her head. Stuffing exploded in a white cloud. Clara ducked down, her ears ringing with a high, piercing whine.

"They're flanking!" Jack yelled, pointing toward the kitchen.

Clara scrambled backward, her hands slipping on the plaster dust covering the floor. She grabbed the shotgun from the floorboard cache and racked it. She moved into the kitchen just as the back door kicked open.

A man in black armor stepped through the frame.

Clara didn't hesitate. She fired from the hip. The blast hit the man square in the chest plate, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward off the porch. He hit the dirt hard and didn't move.

Clara slammed the door shut and engaged the deadbolt, her breathing shallow and ragged. She leaned against the cabinets, the shotgun heavy in her hands. The gunfire outside suddenly stopped.

The Duct Tape

The silence was worse than the noise. It was heavy, ringing with the aftermath of violence. Dust motes danced in the shafts of autumn light cutting through the bullet holes in the walls.

Clara walked back into the living room. Her boots crunched on the ruined drywall. Jack was slumped against the wall, his head tilted back, eyes closed. The Winchester lay across his lap. His breathing was wet and shallow.

Clara dropped the shotgun. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a roll of silver duct tape and a pair of trauma shears from a drawer. She walked back to Jack and knelt beside him.

"Move your hand," she said.

Jack slowly moved his hand away from his side. The fabric of his shirt was soaked, clinging to his skin. Clara used the shears to cut the shirt open, exposing the wound. It was a through-and-through, just above the hip bone. Ugly, but it hadn't hit anything vital. Yet.

She grabbed a wad of clean gauze from her pocket and pressed it hard against the hole. Jack hissed, his body arching off the floor.

"Hold still," Clara snapped.

"You're enjoying this," Jack gritted out, his jaw tight.

"I'm keeping you from bleeding out on my floor. Don't flatter yourself."

She tore a long strip of duct tape with her teeth. She pressed it over the gauze, wrapping it tightly around his waist. She pulled another strip, anchoring it down. Her hands brushed against the hot skin of his stomach. Her fingers were trembling slightly. She hated that they were trembling.

"Why did you leave?" Clara asked, her voice low. She didn't look at his face. She focused on the tape, pressing out the wrinkles against his skin.

Jack swallowed hard. "I told you. The feds."

"We had the feds paid off, Jack. We had the route. We had the passports."

"Not all of them," Jack said, his voice catching. "The marshal. Victor. He wasn't on the payroll. He had your picture, Clara. He knew about the safe house."

Clara stopped moving. She stared at the blood on her fingers.

"I took the money," Jack continued, staring at the ceiling. "I made a lot of noise. I made sure Victor followed me out of the state. If I stayed with you, they would have kicked the door in before morning."

"You could have told me."

"You would have fought. You would have shot it out. You would have died in that motel room."

Clara looked at him. His face was pale, lined with exhaustion and pain. He looked back at her, his eyes stripping away the years of anger and leaving only the raw, ugly truth of what they used to be.

"I gave you a clean break," Jack whispered.

"I didn't want a clean break," Clara said.

She grabbed the front of his torn shirt, pulling him slightly forward. Their faces were inches apart. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin. The tension in the room shifted, pulling tight like a wire about to snap.

"I wanted to fight," she said, her voice shaking.

"I know," Jack said softly.

He raised his hand. His knuckles brushed against her cheek, smearing a streak of wet blood across her skin. Clara closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, leaning into the touch before she caught herself. She pulled away sharply, grabbing her Winchester off the floor.

"Save it," she said, standing up.

The light in the room suddenly shifted.

The pale autumn sun streaming through the bullet holes turned a vicious, bright orange. The shadows on the wall stretched and danced wildly.

Clara turned to the shattered front window. The heat hit her face immediately, intense and dry.

The cornfields.

Thomas's men had ignited the dry stalks. A wall of fire was raging across the front acreage, the flames leaping twenty feet into the air. The dry corn caught instantly, popping and cracking like a continuous string of firecrackers. The wind was blowing hard, driving the wall of fire directly toward the house.

"They're burning us out," Jack said, using the wall to push himself up. He swayed, gripping his side.

Clara watched the flames eating through the yellow stalks. The heat was already blistering the paint on the front porch railing. The house was old, built of dry pine and oak. It wouldn't last ten minutes once the sparks hit the roof.

"We can't stay here," Clara said.

"The trucks are blocking the road," Jack said. "They have the perimeter locked down. If we run out the front, they cut us down. If we stay, we burn."

Clara looked at the back door. Then she looked at the brass lockbox sitting on the rug.

"Can you ride?" Clara asked.

Jack looked at her, confused. "A horse?"

"A horse, Jack. Four legs. A saddle. Can you sit on one without falling off?"

Jack looked at his bleeding side. He tightened his jaw. "Yeah. I can ride."

Clara grabbed the lockbox by the handle. She shoved it into Jack's chest. "Hold onto this. Don't drop it again."

She grabbed her Winchester and a bandolier of ammunition, slinging it over her shoulder. "We're going to the barn."

Burning Stalks

The back door swung open. Clara and Jack moved fast, keeping low as they sprinted across the dry dirt toward the large red barn. The heat from the front fields was suffocating, drying out Clara's eyes and making her skin feel tight and brittle. Ash rained down from the sky, large gray flakes settling on their shoulders and hair.

Inside the barn, the horses were panicking. They kicked violently against their wooden stalls, their eyes rolling white with fear at the sound of the crackling fire.

Clara threw a saddle over a massive black gelding. She didn't bother with a blanket, just cinched the girth tight and shoved the bit into the horse's mouth. Jack was clumsily trying to saddle a roan mare, leaning heavily against the wooden stall to keep his balance.

"Leave the mare," Clara yelled over the roar of the fire. "You're riding with me."

Jack didn't argue. He stumbled over, clutching the heavy lockbox. Clara mounted the gelding, grabbing the reins. She reached down, grabbing Jack's arm and hauling him up behind her. He groaned as he settled behind the saddle, wrapping his free arm around her waist. His grip was tight, his chest pressed hard against her back.

"Hold on," Clara said.

She kicked the barn doors open.

The fire had reached the edge of the yard. The house was already catching, flames licking up the wooden siding and curling over the roof shingles. The heat was a physical barrier, pushing against them like a solid wall.

Clara spurred the horse. The gelding bolted, terrified by the heat, muscles bunching and releasing in a desperate sprint.

They didn't go toward the road. Clara steered the horse directly into the burning cornfield on the eastern edge of the property.

They burst through the wall of fire. The dry stalks whipped against their legs, burning and turning to ash on impact. Clara ducked low over the horse's neck, squeezing her eyes shut against the intense heat. Sparks flew past her face, catching in her hair. She felt Jack bury his face against her shoulder, coughing violently as the thick gray air choked them.

They broke through the other side.

The fire hadn't reached the ridge yet. The horse scrambled up the rocky incline, its hooves kicking up loose dirt and stones. They crested the hill, leaving the inferno behind them.

Clara pulled back on the reins, bringing the horse to a hard stop.

Below them, in a clearing near the highway, was Thomas's command camp. Three more SUVs were parked in a circle. Men were standing around, watching the fire rage in the distance, assuming the job was done.

Thomas was standing near the hood of his truck, talking on a satellite phone.

Clara slid off the horse. She pulled the Winchester from its scabbard.

"What are you doing?" Jack asked, sliding down next to her. He was covered in soot, his face pale and streaked with sweat.

"Finishing it," Clara said.

She lay flat on the rocky ridge. She rested the barrel of the rifle on a flat stone. She peered down the iron sights, locking onto the camp below.

"I'll draw their fire," Jack said.

Clara looked up. Jack had drawn his own pistol. He wasn't waiting for permission. He started moving down the rocky slope, slipping in the dirt, keeping his center of gravity low.

"Jack, wait!"

He didn't stop. He reached the edge of the clearing and stepped out from behind a boulder. He raised his pistol and fired three shots into the back of the nearest SUV.

The camp erupted. The men spun around, raising their rifles.

Clara took a breath. She held it. She squeezed the trigger.

The Winchester barked. The contractor nearest to Jack dropped instantly, his rifle discharging into the dirt. Clara racked the lever, sending an empty shell flying over her shoulder. She fired again. Another man fell against the side of the truck.

Jack was moving now, running straight at Thomas.

Thomas dropped the phone. He didn't draw a gun. He stepped forward, meeting Jack's charge. Jack swung the heavy brass lockbox like a club. Thomas ducked, driving his fist hard into Jack's wounded side.

Jack screamed, dropping to his knees. The lockbox hit the dirt. Thomas grabbed Jack by the throat, lifting him slightly, drawing a heavy combat knife from his belt.

Clara cycled the action of her rifle. She aimed.

Thomas was pulling his arm back, preparing to drive the knife down.

Clara fired.

The heavy grain bullet struck Thomas in the shoulder, spinning him violently. He dropped the knife and fell backward, crashing into the dirt.

Jack collapsed, gasping for air.

The remaining contractors, seeing their boss fall, scrambled into the SUVs. Engines roared to life. Tires spun in the dirt as the vehicles tore out of the clearing, fleeing down the highway.

Clara stood up. She walked down the slope, her boots sliding on the loose rocks.

Jack was sitting in the dirt, clutching his side. The lockbox was resting against his knee. He looked up at her as she approached.

"You couldn't just stay on the horse," Clara said, stopping in front of him.

"I had to give you a clean shot," Jack wheezed, wiping blood from his mouth.

Clara looked down at him. She looked at the blood, the dirt, the brass box. She looked back up the hill, toward the massive plume of black smoke rising from her burning ranch. Everything she had built, everything she had pretended to be for the last five years, was turning to ash.

She slung the rifle over her shoulder. She reached down, grabbing Jack by the collar, and hauled him to his feet.

"Come on," she said.

"Where are we going?" Jack asked, leaning heavily against her.

Clara looked at the empty highway winding through the valley. The wind picked up, blowing a flurry of dead, golden leaves across the black asphalt.

"We have a cattle baron to rob."