Page 1 of Burning for the Mountain Man

CHAPTER ONE

NASH

September in Whisper Vale smells like dry pine and bad decisions.

The humidity hit single digits three days ago. Wind's been pushing northeast since Tuesday. Every dead tree on the east ridge is a matchstick waiting for a tourist with a campfire fetish, and my volunteer crew is down to nine bodies because Remón picked up extra shifts at the mine and Jackson's wife is due any day.

Bobby Garcia, my lieutenant and the only man alive who can annoy me before sunrise, leans against Truck 1 with a donut in each hand. "State's sending someone."

"State can send whoever they want." I tighten the coupling on the intake hose, test the seal with my palm. "Long as they stay out of my way."

"Prevention coordinator. For the whole season." Bobby takes a bite of chocolate glazed. Powdered sugar hits his department shirt. He doesn't notice. He never notices. "Some kind of audit thing. Your prevention ratings tanked after the east ridge fire."

"My prevention ratings." The wrench slips. My knuckle catches the edge of the coupling, and a thin line of blood opens across the back of my hand. I don't flinch. "Forty acres burned because a tourist left a campfire going. That's not a prevention failure, that's a stupidity problem."

"I'm just telling you what the email said."

"What else did the email say?"

Bobby scrolls his phone with one sugar-dusted thumb. "Arriving today. Will require station housing for the duration of the assignment. Please ensure the upstairs apartment is accessible."

The apartment. The one above the engine bay with the lock that sticks, the two-burner stove that takes three tries to light, and walls thin enough to hear someone breathing from the bunk room down the hall.

"Great." I wipe the blood on my jeans. "So some clipboard jockey from Carson City is gonna camp out in my station and tell me everything I'm doing wrong."

"Could be worse." Bobby grins. "Could be a man."

"Why would that be worse?"

"Because you'd fight a man. A woman, you'll just sulk." He shoves the rest of the donut in his mouth. "Maria says you need to get laid."

"Maria needs to stop talking about my sex life."

"She says that'd be easier if you had one."

My radio crackles. Dispatch, nothing urgent. Weather update. Wind advisory through Thursday. Humidity forecast staying in single digits. Fire weather watch for the northeast corridor.

Same report I've been reading every September for five years, since I came home from the hotshot crews with a burn scar the length of my left forearm and two names I carry like stones in my chest. Michaels. Cortez. Good men who trusted me to read the fire right. The fire didn't care.

Bobby's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at the parking lot, then back at me with an expression I don't like. "She's here."

A white state forestry SUV pulls into the gravel lot too fast, kicking rocks against the chain-link fence around the equipment yard. The driver parks crooked. More from impatience than incompetence. The door opens before the engine fully dies.

Legs first. Long ones, in hiking pants that fit close through the thigh. Then the rest of her unfolds from the driver's seat, and my brain does something it hasn't done during working hours in five years.

It stops.

She's tall. Five eight, maybe, with a build that says she's been out in the field or a fancy gym. Athletic through the arms and shoulders, curved everywhere else. Dark blonde hair pulled back in a French braid that's already losing the fight against the heat. Amber brown eyes behind sunglasses she pushes up onto her head as she surveys the station like she's cataloging every code violation from the parking lot.

Sun freckles across her cheekbones. Sharp jaw. No makeup. Radio clipped to her belt next to a multi-tool, and she's wearing hiking boots that have actually seen trail.

She pulls a tablet from the passenger seat and walks toward us with the stride of someone who has seventeen things to say and plans to start with the most inconvenient one.

Bobby elbows me. I ignore him.

"Chief Deveraux?" She stops three feet away. Extends her hand. Professional. Firm grip when I take it. Calloused palms. "Autumn Blake. I'm your new prevention coordinator."

"You're late."