Free Firelight at Mustang Ridge by Jesse Hayworth

of the kitchen’s center island, which she had avoided so far because it was sturdily built and not that badly burned.
    â€œOut with the old and in with the new!” she announced. And swung with all her might.
    *   *   *
    By the time the volunteers called it quits and straggled over to the picnic tables, the snacks had been demolished except for a couple of bruised apples and a radioactive-green, fruit-laden Jell-O mold that had survived the midsummer heat with terrifying tenacity. There was plenty of soda and beer, though, and pizza on the way, so the workers who didn’t need to be anywhere grabbed cold ones and found places to sit, most of them covering up groans and muttering about how ranching was damn hard work, but demolition and cleanup used a different set of muscles.
    Feeling just fine—prospecting and demo weren’t that far apart in the swing-and-smash department—Sam spooned some of the Jell-O thing into a bowl and went in search of Axyl and the others. He found them leaning against a plastic-wrapped pallet of construction material and dropped down, discovering that the shingles made a far more comfortable backrest than he would’veexpected. “You guys have fun Dumpster diving?” he said to Midas and Murphy, who had been going through the demolition mess, separating the recyclables and hazardous materials from the stuff that would have to go to the landfill.
    â€œLoads and loads,” said Midas. “Literally.”
    Murph eyed Sam’s Jell-O. “My great-aunt used to make that stuff. In fact, she might have made that batch. You never know—it’s like the Christmas Fruitcake Phenomenon. There’s really only six of them, and they rotate throughout the world forever in a cosmic cycle of regifting.”
    At Axyl’s guffaw, Sam shrugged. “I figure someone brought it. I didn’t want it to just sit there and make her feel bad.” He felt pretty safe assuming it was a
her
—no guy in his right mind was floating fruit in Jell-O unless there was alcohol involved. “Besides, me striking the first blow might encourage the others to dig in.”
    â€œIt might also encourage the Jell-O-and-fruit pusher to bring another one tomorrow,” Murph said darkly. “Or maybe drop it off at your place.”
    â€œIf that happens, I’ll be sure to leave it in the break room so we can share.”
    â€œOnly if you want to find it in your bed. Or worse.”
    â€œI’d better not see green Jell-O on the next supply list,” Sam warned.
    â€œYou’d prefer orange? Maybe cherry?”
    â€œI’d prefer a long-legged blonde who’s looking for a good time, but she’s not going on the list, either.”
    â€œBaloney,” Axyl said to his beer. “I saw you with the brunette. Krista’s friend. What’s her name—Annie?”
    â€œDanny. And it’s not like that.” Or maybe it was.Sam hadn’t entirely figured it out. He didn’t usually go for women with loner tendencies or a ton of baggage—mostly because he had plenty of his own—but there was something about her that had stuck in his head, under his skin.
    â€œUh-huh. So how did she get hold of your sledge?”
    Murph’s head came up. “You let her use the Terminator?”
    â€œFolks,” Gabe Sears called, saving Sam from having to explain why he’d handed over one of his favorite prototypes without a second thought. The rail-thin farmer, wearing denim and a Rockies cap over hair that seemed shot through with new streaks of gray, climbed up on one of the picnic tables. He offered a helping hand as Winny—plump and pretty, with her face scrubbed free of the soot the rest of her was wearing—came up beside him. Then, as the crowd quieted, he said, “I’m, um . . . I’m not much for public speaking. But Winny and the kids and I want you to know how much it