Page 1 of Channeling the Flannel with the Mountain Man

one

John

“You’re lucky the locker can’t file a complaint.” Fire Chief Donaldson pours himself a cup of coffee and sits at the table.

I stand in the station kitchen, gripping a mug, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. The adrenaline from the Temptation Hallow rescue is still in my system. Twelve hours ago, a drunk tourist ignored a trail closure, slipped off an embankment, and almost pulled my rookie down with them. We got them both out—nobody died. Everyone else thinks that means I should be calm. But I’m not wired like most people.

“Haugh could’ve gone over that ledge,” I say, the memory still fresh.

“But he didn’t.” Donaldson places his hand on my shoulder. “You pulled him back. Then you yelled at our patient until the poor guy shook more from you than from hypothermia.”

“He put my crew at risk.” I think back to the look on Haugh’s face as I pulled him and the tourist from the embankment, and my anger rises again.

“And you scared your own team.” Donaldson looks at me—his words hit me harder than I expected.

I’m thirty-three, six-foot-four, with muscles built hauling hoses, splitting wood in winter, and climbing the mountain behind my cabin when I need to clear my head. In Temptation Ridge, people say I’m dependable and quiet. Kids who visit the firehouse call me the giant in flannel. No one calls me scary unless something’s gone wrong, and lately, things have gone wrong too often.

I know it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to admit. Anger has always felt useful—hot, clear, and strong enough to keep helplessness at bay. If I let go, what’s left?

The memory of Haugh’s boot sliding toward empty air brought back the old feeling I had when I got the phone call that my father had died. I squeeze the mug tighter, telling myself it’s better to be angry than afraid, but lately I’m not sure I believe it.

Donaldson slides a sheet of paper across the table. “The department counselor wants you to attend anger management for eight weeks.” He taps the table.

“Fine.” I grit my teeth, which definitely doesn't help my case.

“And a stress-management class,” Donaldson adds.

At his words, I finally look down at the paper on the table, and the words Sage o’ the Times Yoga Studio stare back at me. “Hell no.” I’m a mountain man—I don’t do yoga.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Send me to boxing.” I plead my case, only to have it ignored.

“The point is to stop hitting things.” Donaldson taps the table again to drive his point home.

“I hike,” I say, reaching for anything to get me out of going to the yoga class.

“You brood while hiking. That’s not the same.”

“Chief,” I start to say, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

“Three classes to start. Paisley Parker will sign your attendance card. If you miss one, you’re off active rescue duty until the counselor clears you.” Donaldson raises an eyebrow, daring me to argue further.

My chair scrapes the floor as I stand. Donaldson doesn’t flinch. He’s known me since I was a furious sixteen-year-old who thought anger could keep grief away. He also knows the one thing I can’t ignore is losing this job.

“Paisley Parker?” I ask, already annoyed by the name. It’s bad enough that my last name is Prince—now I have to deal with someone named Paisley Parker.

“Best instructor in town.” His mouth twitches. “Very cheerful.” Donaldson tries to hide his smile behind his mug, but I can still see the smirk on his face.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.” This time, he doesn’t even try to hide his smile.

“Fine. I’ll do it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”

“Never said you had to like it.” He turns and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me to stare at the yoga flyer, with purple paisleys decorating it.

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