I squinted, trying to see through the smoke.

Someone was in there, someone trying to get out.

A burst of adrenaline shot through me. I wanted to scream, call for help, but that would only alert the man who set the fire. He had to have known someone was in there. Probably Spuds, the missing ranch hand.

There was no way I’d be able to break and climb through this window. My cabin, however, had a small opening where someone could place logs next to the fireplace without coming inside the building. The door was about two feet square. If the same contractor built this building . . .

Dropping to my hands and knees, I eased off the wood pile to the ground and hopped to the other side of the fireplace. No small door.

I frantically searched for a way into the building. More windows were on my left, but that end of the structure was already engulfed in flame.

On a hunch, I started grabbing the stack of firewood and throwing it behind me. The top edge of the opening came into view. “Yes!” I breathed. I yanked the wood away faster.

The fire had grown so large I could clearly see what I was doing now. Just a few more chunks of wood—

The door was nailed shut.

Biting back a scream of anguish, I pounded on the surface.

The wood moved slightly.

I got as close as I could, lay down on my back, and kicked at the door. Kicked again. And again. On the fourth blow, the wood splintered.

Smoke and heat poured from the opening.

I didn’t wait, didn’t stop and think. I ripped the last of the wood free and dove through.

The heat was furnace-hot, the smoke almost overwhelming. I stayed on hands and knees, feeling for the person I’d seen. Could anyone still be alive in here?

Encountering my prosthetic leg, I tried to retrieve it, but it was too hot to handle. I kicked it behind me toward the opening and kept crawling.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. My exposed skin was raw. I wouldn’t be able to save anyone. I needed to turn back now—

Turning around, my leg touched something. I reached around. A body. I briefly touched the head. Short hair. A day’s growth of beard.

A gag in his mouth.

No time to remove it. Hooking an arm around his arm, I tugged. He was heavy. A deadweight. Tug. Was he dead? Tug. No time to check. Tug. The heat was unbearable. Smoke saturated the air and clogged my throat. Panic coiled around my brain.

The flames shot up the wall by the door and lapped at the beams.

Crying openly now, I pulled the prone figure farther, just a little farther. Please, God! Again I found my artificial limb. I picked it up and threw it toward the opening, burning my hands. I prayed it made it through.