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He wasn’t working a wildfire, and he wasn’t in the explosion with Crispin. He was in his bunk at jump base.
Booth scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the bristle of beard stubble on his jaw. He’d slept like the dead after working the wind-whipped forest fire all night. Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. Five hours of sleep wasn’t nearly enough to recover from the bone-deep exhaustion that came from countless days battling wilderness infernos.
He longed to burrow back under his blanket and catch a few more hours of oblivion, but the sunlight slanting through the room’s only window told him it was after noon already. He needed to get a move on. There were things to do in town today—important things. Like trying to find Crispin.
That thirty-second argument under a canoe during the firestorm wasn’t going to cut it.
“Go back to your life. I got this,” Crispin had said, shouting over the storm’s fury.
Like Booth could walk away now.
He’d slapped the water. “Hey, talk to me! We used to be partners. What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about!” Crispin’s face was stony as he whispered.
The canoe thrashed in the water. They clung to it while the wind pushed the fire over the lake.
Booth persisted. “If you’re in trouble, I can help?—”
“I’m trying to keep you out of this,” Crispin said.
Booth gritted his teeth and pressed closer to Crispin. “I don’t want to stay out of this. Henry sent me here to live this lie, and I’ve been keeping my head down, thinking Henry must be hiding here.” He lowered his voice even more. “But it’s been three years, man. I’m losing hope. This is my chance. My one chance to get my life back.”
Crispin considered his words. “Listen, Earl has a brother. Floyd. He’s dangerous, and he’s at the center of this whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
“Just…keep your head on a swivel. If I need you, I’ll let you know.”
Then the fire had fled and so had Crispin. Vanished after the firestorm without a trace.
Booth couldn’t sit idle while his friend faced danger alone. But Crispin had left a thread—Earl’s brother Floyd at the center of…what?
If Booth found Crispin first, maybe he could wring some answers from the man. Resolution beckoned—perhaps a chance to finally end this choking lie he lived.
Crispin was out there playing lone wolf. But he was only lying to himself that he didn’t need backup. Well, Booth refused to quit now—not when a reckoning approached, promising long-awaited freedom from this fake life he was living.
He’d track down his stubborn friend and watch his six whether Crispin agreed or not.
Earl Blackwell was dead, but the war wasn’t over.
With a resigned sigh, Booth levered himself out of bed.
Finn’s bunk, opposite his, was already neatly made. The rest of the long, open room was empty, the other jumpers on the fire threatening to overrun a town.
After making his bed with military precision, Booth headed for the restroom. Down the hall near the back stairwell, the shared bathroom smelled of menthol shaving cream. He splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror.
Three years ago, Booth Wilder hadn’t existed.
He’d been born under a different name. Born to fight crime, not fires.
Yet here he was. Biding his time until he could fix everything that had gone wrong and finally get back to his real life.
But he was done playing the waiting game.
He was going to find Crispin and find answers.
Booth ran through his hygiene routine and made his way downstairs. Nova’s voice echoed down the hallway.
