The old barn was a torch. Flames roiled and billowed from the roof, filling the night sky with an orange glow. In the smoky light, human figures ran and shouted, leading and driving shadowy horses. Through the roar of the fire, I could hear loud neighs and shriller equine screams, the crash of shod hooves on asphalt. Fire trucks sat in a row in the drive, and men in yellow suits played hoses in what looked like a futile attempt to douse the inferno. The biggest boarding and training barn in Santa Cruz County was burning.

 My God. I had time only for a split second of nightmarish recognition through the windshield before I launched myself out of the truck. Pushing through the crowd in my way, I ducked roughly under the arm of an overweight man who was staring at the blaze with a rapt expression. “Excuse me,” I said, “I’m a vet.”

 I’d taken two fast steps in the direction of the barn when a voice halted me. “Gail, over here.”

 Turning, I headed toward Clay Bishop, one of the Bishop family—the folks who owned the Bishop Ranch Boarding Stable. Tall, attractive, easy-going, Clay was normally a quiet-spoken, reserved man; he was also a personal friend of mine. I barely recognized his voice, sharp-edged with strain.

 “There’re a couple of horses in real trouble in the arena. Could you go have a look at them?”

 Before I could say yes, he was off in the direction of the barn, long legs shoving him into a run.

 Horses in the arena—I took a deep breath. This could be bad. Even as I pushed my way past a group of firefighters with a crisp, “I’m a veterinarian,” my mind chanted a repetitive refrain. Take it easy, Gail. Hold it together. Stay calm. Just do what you can do.

 “Dr. McCarthy, please, come quick!” A female voice, shrill and panicky. Angie Madison, one of my clients.
 I went through the arena gate at a half run; Angie was leading a horse toward me, or trying to. The mare on the end of the lead rope kept planting her feet and coughing violently—deep, wrenching explosions that shook her whole body.

 Damn. My mind rapidly catalogued everything I knew about smoke inhalation in horses, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot. This was the first barn fire of my seven-year veterinary career. The big problem, as far as I could remember, was pneumonia. Antibiotics, then.

 “She was trapped in there. Bart barely got her out.” Tears in Angie’s voice.

 Bart was Bart Bishop, Clay’s brother, and the resident trainer here.

 I took a closer look at the mare, and, even in the strange orange-y half dark, recognized the neat diamond-shaped star on her forehead. Sugar—Angie’s horse.

 “Will she be okay?” Angie asked, as the mare coughed again.

 “Probably.” I said it firmly, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “We need to make sure she doesn’t get pneumonia.”
 Even as I checked the mare’s vital signs, my eyes roamed the arena. Lots of horses, some loose, some tied, some led by people. All milling about. Who to help?

Sugar’s pulse and respiration were elevated but acceptable under the circumstances, gum color normal as far as I could tell in the dim light.

 “Clay said there were a couple of horses here that were in real trouble?” I asked Angie.

 “Oh, yeah. There’s two down at the other end of the arena that got burned, I think.” Angie’s eyes stayed on her mare as she spoke. In her early twenties, she had the egocentricity of youth. Though not unkind, or so I thought, she was incapable of feeling much but the extent of her own tragedy.

 “We’re supposed to run the barrels at the Cow Palace in another month.” Angie watched Sugar heave out another cough. “I guess I’ll have to draw out.”

 “Probably, “I said again. “I need to go look at those other horses. Your mare’s in no immediate danger. I’ll be back to treat her when I can.”

 “Will she be all right?” Angie asked me anxiously once more. The perennial question.

 “I think so,” I said. “I’ll put her on some antibiotics.”

 I was moving off as I spoke, headed toward the far end of the arena where two horses were standing. Two human figures held them; another seemed to be applying something to one horse’s neck. At a guess, these were my burn victims.
 In the periphery of my vision, I was aware of pandemonium around me—smoke and flames  bellowing from the barn, choking miasma in the air, a churning mass of people and horses. My mind chattered strange, disconnected asides—damn, it’s been a hot and dry, hope this doesn’t start another brush fire, let these horses not be too bad.

 Still, I kept my eyes focused, ignoring both the turmoil and random thoughts as best I could, moving steadily towards the far end of the arena. I was a vet; this was my job.

 “I’m a vet,” I said out loud to the woman holding the nearest horse.
 “Thank God,” she responded.

 In the dim light I couldn’t see very clearly, but I could smell. The horse smelt of charred hair and burned meat. It stood calmly as another woman applied what appeared to be salve to its neck and withers; I couldn’t assess its expression very well, but I knew by the overall demeanor what it would be. Stoic.

 I had seen this before in horses with broken legs and other major injuries. Once the initial trauma and panic was past, the horse seemed to withdraw into himself and quietly endure. Nature’s way of making the wait for the end more bearable.
 “How bad is he hurt?” I said to the woman applying the salve.

 “I can’t really tell. He’s burned pretty bad I think. He just barely got out. Bart said a burning rafter came down next to him, basically caught his mane on fire.” Her voice was calm, almost detached.

 “Is he your horse?”

 “Yes.”

 “Would you like me to have a look? I’m a vet. Dr. McCarthy from Santa Cruz Equine Practice.”

 “Of course.” The woman glanced at me as she spoke. She was a stranger to me, and I could only guess at her feelings, but despite her apparent detachment, I thought she was on the edge of overwhelm.

 I checked the horse’s pulse and respiration, both were elevated but not exceptionally so, given the circumstances. He didn’t appear to be shocky. His burns, though extensive, seemed less severe than I had expected.

 “He’s not burned too badly; I think its mostly superficial,” I said to the woman, using the flashlight she handed me to peer at the charred flesh. “That salve is fine to use him.”

 “We’re lucky,” she said flatly. “Two other horses that were right next to him in the barn didn’t make it out.”

 “Oh no,” I said.

 She merely nodded. “This one,” she gestured at the horse next to us, “is burned, too, but not as bad.”
 I swiveled the flashlight beam onto horse behind me. The burn marks weren’t as extensive here, and mostly over the horse’s rump. Once again I did the routine checks and directed the horse’s owner to apply dressings and give prophylactic antibiotics.

 When I was done, someone led another horse up, and then another. Most were coughing; I saw a few more burns. I was just starting to examine horse number six when I heard a familiar voice.

 “It is criminal, I tell you, criminal, to keep horses like this. See what comes of it.”

 The voice had a pronounced German accent; I knew to whom it belonged. Hans Schmidt, the new horse vet in town, and a truly flamboyant character. Even a background of smoke and flames couldn’t seem to dim his overly charismatic aura. As far as I could tell, he was lecturing the woman next to me on the evils of keeping horses in confinement—a pet peeve of his—while she held a coughing pony who waited for his attention.

 “Hans,” I yelled, over the hubbub.

 “Ah, yes, the lovely Dr. Gail McCarthy.” Hans was also an incorrigible flirt. His teeth flashed white in the darkness as he looked my way.

 I didn’t have the time for this. “Hans, I’m not going to have enough antibiotics in my truck for all the horses who need them. How about you?”

 “I have some.”

 “Could we collaborate?”

 “Of course, my dear. What is mine is yours.”

 “Thanks,” I said briefly, not fooled. There would certainly be an accounting later. Hans was as well known for being tight with money as he was for being flirtatious with women.

 Finishing up with the horse I was working on, I took a deep breath and dug my cell phone out of my pocket. Pushing one of my speed dial numbers, I waited.

 A male voice answered after several rings, sounding both sleepy and annoyed. “Yes?”

 “John, this is Gail. I need your help.”

 “I’m not on call tonight. You are.”

 “Right. However, this is a major emergency. I’ve got a fire at the Bishop Ranch and what looks like several dozen horses that need to be started on antibiotics. Could you go by the clinic, load up the other truck, and come out here and help me?”

 “It’s my weekend off.”

 “I know that, John. This is a big problem. I need help.” I tried to keep the fury I was feeling out of my voice.
There was a moment of silence. Then, “All right, all right. I’ll be there.” And the click of the phone hanging up.
 Damn right you will, you bastard. I stared at the cell phone in my hand, and then shoved it roughly back in my pocket. I still couldn’t believe I had to deal with this asshole.

 John Romero was our new junior vet. Jim had hired him three months ago, while I was on vacation. We did need the help, and, in theory, I was pleased, though I would have liked to have been part of the hiring process. As it turned out, in practice John Romero was a complete pain in the butt.

 Not to Jim, of course. With Jim he was downright obsequious. With me, however, he was hostile and unhelpful, and I had heard through the client grapevine that he bad-mouthed me at every opportunity. Why, I had no idea. He had appeared to resent me from the moment of our meeting, and in the subsequent three months things had gotten worse, not better.
 And now, to top it off, Jim was on vacation for a month. With the ballast of his presence removed, John’s sulkiness seemed to be leaning toward downright belligerence. I was nominally in charge, but John did everything he could to make things difficult for me, and I simply didn’t know what to do about it.

 Resolving once again to have a frank talk with Jim as soon as he got back, I started to look at the gray horse in front of me. At the same moment a loud crash startled me into a jerky twist. A sudden gout of flame burst from the barn. Shit. Something had exploded. The air was thick with smoke—my eyes had been running steadily for the last hour, and like my patients, I coughed and hacked.

 Momentarily I stared at the barn, mesmerized by the sight. Above the roof, fire reached ever higher into the night. My heart pounded with adrenaline leaking into my system from the sudden start. At the same time I felt a sort of profound wonder. There is something about a big fire that is intensely moving in a primal way. Fear and awe intertwined. I took a deep breath.
 Turning back to the gray horse, I began the examination. Focus, Gail, focus.

 Two hours later I had treated all the horses brought to me for help. John had arrived with more antibiotics—between us, he, Hans, and I had administered them to all horses who had been trapped in the smoke. As far as I knew, two horses had died, two had moderate burns, a couple had mild burns, and roughly twenty were coughing.

 “Is this it?” I asked Bart Bishop, Clay’s brother and the manager of the boarding stable.

 “Yep.” Bart watched me inject penicillin into the last horse’s rump. “There were a couple of dozen horses in the big barn.”

 Bart’s voice sounded both exhausted and wired—a combination I recognized in myself.

 “How about the other barns?” I asked.

 “No problems. They were all metal shed roofs. We got the horses out and away from the big barn and they’re all fine.”
 I turned to look in the direction of Bart’s stare, and saw firefighters playing hoses on the charred pile of rubble that was all that remained of the old barn.

 “It’s a complete loss,” Bart said wearily, reading my thought. “And we’re underinsured.”

 For all that I didn’t particularly care for Bart Bishop, I felt a rush of sympathy.

 “Damn.” I said. “Does anyone know what happened?”

 “Not really. I got a new load of hay yesterday. You’ve got to wonder.”

 It was true. Improperly baled hay had caused plenty of barn fires in its time. Essentially the hay was put up too wet, and the interior of the bales behaved like a compost pile, getting hotter and hotter. If conditions were just right, or just wrong, the hay could catch on fire. Last winter I had opened a bale in my own barn that had steamed heavily into the chilly morning air. The interior was too hot to touch.

 I nodded my understanding and felt a hand on my shoulder. “Gail.”

 It was Clay. I knew his voice and his touch. Turning, I looked up into his eyes—weary, like Bart’s, but sadder, it seemed to me.

 Clay had beautiful eyes, big, blue-green and long-lashed, under strongly marked brows. Their beauty wasn’t particularly apparent now, in the dim light and harsh circumstances, but I was familiar with them from other times and places. Clay’s eyes often seemed a little pensive; now they looked positively somber.

 “How are the two horses that got burned?” he asked.

 “Better than you’d think,” I said. “The burns aren’t too deep or extensive. I heard you lost two.” I looked from one brother to the other.

 “Yeah,” Bart said. “They were in back, next to the hay. They were trapped back there by the time we saw the fire and started getting the horses out. There wasn’t anything we could do.”

 Clay nodded, not saying anything.

 “Bad thing is,” Bart went on, “one of them was a real nice show horse, belongs to this woman who spent a lot of money on him. I just hope she doesn’t sue us.”

 I looked at him, thinking the remark a little callous, and reminded yet again of how much I didn’t like Bart Bishop. His stance, as always, was somewhat rigid--spine straight, shoulders thrown back, chin up. Despite the exhausted lines around his eyes, visible even in the arena lights, his speech was rapid; in him the adrenaline-wired feeling seemed to be uppermost.
 Clay, on the other hand, wasn’t saying much of anything, but I could feel his upper arm just touching mine as he stood close to me, as if for comfort. Glancing at him, I saw his eyes were on the ground, not looking at Bart.

 “You doing okay?” I asked him quietly.

 “I’m fine. Just tired.” He met my eyes and reached out to touch my hand at the same time. At the brush of his cool fingers, I was reminded of many other touches, more intimate, at other times. Clay and I had been dancing around the notion of becoming lovers for several months.

 And just how do you feel about that, my mind asked dispassionately, registering the touch. Don’t know, I answered myself.
 Grimacing slightly at this inner dialogue—a habit of mine that I often wished I could shake—I turned my attention back to Clay. Granted that this handsome, personable man was pleasant to be with and I liked him a lot, I still felt surprisingly detached about him. I could acknowledge my attraction to Clay, but it wasn’t driving me.

 Another voice jarred me loose from my train of thought. “Is that it?” John Romero. Walking up to me with a characteristic expression and tone—sulky resentment.

 “Looks like it,” I said  as cheerfully as I could manage. “You can go,” I added. “And thanks.”

 To this John merely nodded, then turned and walked away. His surly behavior seemed to penetrate Clay’s fog.

 “Not really friendly is he?” Clay said.

 “He doesn’t like me.” I said. “I don’t know why.”

 Anything else I might have added was drowned out by Hans Schmidt’s voice. “So, Dr. McCarthy, I have a list here for you, of antibiotics I gave to your patients.” Hans’ teeth shone whitely in the still-smoky night air, his silver gray hair, neatly coifed, glowed with some inner moonlight. He looked clean, tidy, and unrumpled—a miracle considering the situation.

 I took his list. “Thanks, Hans,” I said briefly. Since John had arrived with drugs from our clinic, I hadn’t really needed Hans’ help. Nonetheless, I had asked, and was now obligated. “I’ll have the bookkeeper mail you a check on Monday.”

 “I thank you,” Hans said, sketching a bow. On him the gesture did not appear as ridiculous as one might expect—his courtly manner and flamboyant good looks made it seem natural. At roughly sixty, Hans was a body-builder and a triathelete; he was as aggressively fit as many much younger men. And he knew it.

 Hans put an arm around my shoulders. “And how are you doing my dear?”

 I wasn’t fooled by the pseudo-avuncular stance. Hans was about as avuncular as a great white shark.

 “I’m okay,” I said. “Rough night for all of us.”

 Hans squeezed my shoulders. “For a lady, especially.”

 I stepped quietly out of his arm, looked him in the eye and said again. “For all of us. But especially for Bart. It’s his barn.”

 Bart and Clay had been watching this exchange without a word. Now Hans met Bart’s eyes and I smiled a little to myself. It was no secret that Bart didn’t care for Hans Schmidt. Hans had been practicing in the area less than a year, and he had already convinced several of Bart’s boarders to take their horses elsewhere, on the grounds that “horses weren’t meant to live in confinement.” One couldn’t expect that Bart would be pleased.

 The two men held each other’s eyes for a long second; I was reminded of rival male dogs, or perhaps, banty roosters. Bart broke first. Half shrugging, he turned and walked away without a word.

 Hans spread his arms. “What can I say? This is what comes of keeping horses in this kind of unnatural confinement.”

 I’d had enough. “I’ve heard the speech,” I said. “Save it for someone who hasn’t.” I turned to Clay. “It’s been a long night, I think I’ll go home and get some sleep.”

 “You’d better do that,” he agreed. It seemed to me there was some underlying emotion in his quiet voice, something I couldn’t quite place. Grief? Bewilderment? Whatever it was, I was just too tired to sort it out.

 “I’ll call you,” I said. And left.