Page 6 of Burning for the Mountain Man

"Blake."

"Yeah." My voice is steadier than my pulse.

He's looking at my mouth. Quick. Then my eyes. Then my mouth again. The muscle in his jaw works. His hand is still on the doorframe near mine, fingers close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin without touching it.

Everything in my body is leaning toward this man. Every nerve ending cataloging the space between us, how little of it exists, how easy it would be to close it.

His eyes come back to mine. Dark. Focused. The same look he had on the fire line in that burn scar, when he was reading terrain. Only now he's reading me.

"Briefing's at five-thirty." His voice is lower than it was downstairs. Rougher.

"You mentioned that."

One more second. His fingers flex on the doorframe. Then he steps back. Drops his hand.

"Lock's fixed." He turns, takes the stairs without looking back.

The screwdriver is still on my kitchen counter.

Through the thin wall, I hear his boots hit the engine bay floor. The workbench drawer opens. Closes. His radio clicks once, testing the frequency, then silence.

My phone buzzes.

Owen:

so is the grumpy fire chief actually hot or were you just being cagey

I set the phone face down on the counter next to the screwdriver.

This is a seasonal assignment. Fix the district. File the report. Move on.

The screwdriver smells like wood smoke.

CHAPTER THREE

NASH

Day two on the north ridge, and Autumn Blake is ruining me.

She doesn't know it. Or maybe she does and doesn't care, which is worse. She's fifty yards ahead on the trail with a Pulaski over one shoulder, marking fuel loads on her tablet without breaking stride, and her braid came undone an hour ago. Dark blonde hair loose around her shoulders, catching the late afternoon light, and every time she turns to check a drainage or flag a dead snag, I get a full view of her profile. Sharp jaw, freckled cheekbones, lips pressed together in concentration.

My concentration is shot.

We've covered twelve miles since yesterday morning. Camped last night at the flat section where the north ridge levels into a granite shelf before dropping into the east drainage. Two tents, twenty feet apart. She zipped hers closed at nine, said good night, and I lay there staring at the stars for two hours listening to her breathe through the nylon walls.

Five years of sleeping alone in the bunk room during fire season. Five years of keeping my head down, running my crew, protecting my district. Then this woman shows up with her tablet and her forty-two percent and her calloused palms, and my brain decides to start cataloging things. How she tightens her bootlaces every three miles. How she hums when she's marking data points. How her tank top rides up when she reaches for a branch, showing a strip of sun-freckled skin above her waistband that I've now seen four times.

"Deveraux."

Blinking, I close the distance. She's stopped at an overlook where the ridge drops away to the valley floor. The view goes for miles. Mountains layered blue to purple, the town of Whisper Vale a scatter of rooftops far below.

"This drainage." She points east. "Six years of accumulated fuel. Dead timber, brush buildup, no thinning. One lightning strike in this corridor and you've got a crown fire running uphill before your crew can gear up."

She's right. Been right about every assessment she's made since we left the trailhead. That's the worst part. Not that she's critical. That she's accurate.

"Prescribed burn," I say. "Spring, when the moisture's up. Take out the understory, protect the old growth."

Her head turns. Those amber eyes on me, surprise and something warmer in them. "You've thought about this."