He reached the doors, the heat blistering his skin. He threw the latch and heaved the doors open. Smoke billowed out, black and choking. The horses, terrified and screaming, bolted out of the inferno, nearly trampling him. Eli dove to the side, rolling in the dirt.
The fire had climbed to the loft. The roof groaned. Eli scrambled up. He looked back at the yard. Pike had not escaped.
His horse had reared at the sudden roar of the fire, throwing him. He was scrambling in the dust, trying to reach his dropped pistol. Eli walked toward him. He did not run. He walked with a terrifying, slow purpose.
The heat of the burning barn was at his back, casting a long dancing shadow before him. Pike grabbed the gun. He rolled onto his back, aiming at Eli. "Stop! " the marshall shouted, raising his rifle, but Eli was closer. He reached Pike before the man could fire.
He kicked the gun out of Pike's hand. The pistol spun away into the weeds. Eli reached down and grabbed Pike by the lapels of his expensive coat. He hauled the older man to his feet as if he were made of straw. Eli pulled back his fist.
Every instinct in his blood, every memory of his father's rage, screamed at him to strike, to smash this man's face until it was nothing but ruin. To kill the threat. Pike flinched, closing his eyes, waiting for the blow. Eli held the fist in the air. His arm trembled.
The veins in his neck stood out like cords. The fire roared behind him, consuming the labor of his life, the barn his father built. Eli looked at Pike's pathetic, fear-tisted face. He looked at the marshall. He looked at Clara, who stood on the porch, her hands pressed to her mouth.
Eli lowered his hand. He shoved Pike backward hard. Pike stumbled and fell into the dirt at the marshall's feet. "I am not you," Eli said. His voice was quiet, but in the sudden silence of the yard, everyone heard it.
I do not kill for pride. Take him. The marshall stepped forward and hauled Pike up, slapping cuffs on his wrists. Sheriff Miller was already being tied up by the blacksmith. It was over, but the cost was high.
The barn was a skeleton of flame. The roof collapsed with a crash that shook the ground, sending a geyser of sparks into the white sky. The winter feed was gone. The tack was gone. Eli stood watching it burn.
His shoulders slumped. The adrenaline that had held him upright drained away, leaving him swaying on his feet. Clara ran to him. She did not care about the marshall or the town's folk or the smoke. She ran to him and slammed into his chest, wrapping her arms around him so tightly it hurt.