Ruin Me (Timberline Peak #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

EMMETT

The sting of sweat blurs my vision, and I wipe it away with my sleeve. There’s no time to stop and do more if I’m going to save this house. When the forest is burning around you, there’s no time to think, no time to stop.

It’s all gas, no breaks.

Just so happens I prefer it that way.

Beats the hell out of the alternative—alone with nothing to occupy me but my thoughts. That’s far more dangerous than a fire.

The yellow fabric comes away soaked, carrying the brownish tinge of a long season.

It gives me zero fucking relief from the heat bearing down on me.

Nothing to be done about it, though, so I lower my head and dig. This fire is screaming across a mountain range, putting me right in its crosshairs. Time to get the fuck out of here—hopefully in one piece.

I’m a miserable son of a bitch, but I don’t have a death wish.

Besides, it's not just me out here.

The raised voice of the red-faced homeowner arguing with the local Incident Commander carries across the yard. His stubbornness is the only thing keeping us from hauling ass down this mountain. And I’m about done with it.

My irritation grows with every protest from him.

Harlowe James, incident commander for Timberline Peak Search and Rescue, is as cool as a damn cucumber.

On the porch, she has another go at explaining the mandatory evacuation.

She doesn’t plead or bargain with him, even though he’s as irrational as a feral barn cat.

Remaining patient in a way she shouldn’t have to and laying out the way it is—calm, direct, like he’s got no other option be to comply with her.

I don’t dare step in.

I wouldn’t disrespect her like that and I don’t need to.

He, on the other hand, shakes his head.

This guy doesn’t give two fucks that it’s been one of the driest summers on record in the Teton’s in the last decade, or that the late-season heat Wyoming is experiencing are a catastrophic mix.

The entire county is nothing more than a matchbox.

He’s willing to put his life and ours on the line for the sake of being stubborn. In my ten years as a firefighter for the Coyote Creek Interagency Hotshots, I’ve met dozens like him. Fines and the threat of charges only make him dig his heels in.

Talking someone into leaving everything behind—their home, their memories—is one of the hardest parts of Harlowe’s job.

We’re here to keep the losses to a minimum. Harlowe deals with the human side, I deal with the structures.

We should have more boots on the ground, but the Stillwater Fire didn’t care about planning. It shifted toward this rural outcropping of houses outside of Timberline Peak and my crew was close, pulling me from the fire line to help with this evacuation was a last resort.

I’m seriously questioning my superintendent’s judgement.

Sure, I have a shit ton of experience and rock solid instincts, but I’m not the guy you want as the face of your team.

I’d rather have a sliver under my thumbnail every day for the rest of my life than deal with people the way Harlowe has to.

Give me the blaze.

Fire, I know.

People . . . not so much.

Too many people let their identities get wrapped up in belongings.

Homes become sanctuaries, and memories attach themselves to things that are replaceable.

Nature threatening to rip away that sense of safety forces people to face unimaginable loss head-on.

More times than not, they can’t handle it and end up coping by pretending the worst cannot happen to them.

But the worst can happen to anyone.

All I can do is keep digging and clearing brush, letting Harlowe do her thing until I’ve got no choice but to pull us back.

If she can’t convince him to leave, hopefully I’ll have done enough to hold the fire line and keep the blaze on the other side of the road and save Harlowe the job of returning for a recovery.

My head is on a swivel, sweat continuing to pour down my temple.

We’re almost out of time.

The sickly sweet smell of vanilla floods the forest as the ponderosa pines burn. The thick heat presses at my back and shifting winds kick up dust around my legs.

It’s now or never.

On the porch, it’s more of the same—Harlowe holds the line while the guy bellows more nonsense, still shaking his head like he gets a vote. My instincts roar to life as the branches sway behind the old guy’s house.

For once, I hate being right.

I open my mouth to tell the incident commander it’s time to move just as the gruff expression falters, making the homeowner look almost sensible.

Harlowe lifts her phone, holding it in front of his face.

I dig the arched end of my Pulaski into the dirt and lean on the handle.

The incident commander swipes a finger across the phone screen. He takes the phone, bringing it closer, and then, to my utter shock, he deflates, all his posturing turning to agreement.

Who the hell is this guy and where’s he been the whole time.

Harlowe’s hand grips his shoulder as she gives him instructions before he disappears into the house.

She hums as walks over to where I’m clearing the last of the vegetation, her thumb pointing behind her. “He’s just grabbing his bag and keys.”

“You’re awfully pleased,” I say without looking up from my work. “How’d you change his mind?”

“Sometimes all you need is the right motivation.”

I swipe my brow. “You threaten to carry him down yourself?”

“As fun as that would’ve been . . . no.” She’s lighter, even chuckling. “He became a grandfather this morning. My friend Aspen’s a nurse—she sent me a video with permission. That’s what got through to him.”

That garners my attention.

I stop, glancing back at the house and then to her.

Every other IC I’ve worked with would have just pushed harder, but she found the key and turned it.

My head shakes in disbelief.

Sometimes the simplest answer is the one everyone else is unwilling to try.

“That’ll do it.”

Relief leaks out of her in a short huff; her smile widens.

She loves this job. Like, really, loves it. It’s her purpose.

Envy creeps up on me.

Not the fucking time. Not the fucking place.

I lock down anything east or west of neutral.

“It seems small town gossip can be used for good.”

I imagine people have loud opinions on a woman as young as Harlowe leading search and rescue.

Fuck those people.

The incident commander clocks my approval, smirking back at me. “It almost seems like you want to compliment me.”

I run a hand over the stubble on my jaw. It’s too long, trapping heat against my skin, but I’ve barely had time to sleep and eat, let alone shave this season.“Do I look like I dole out praise?”

“No, but you look like you’ve seen enough to when it’s earned.”

Whether I give or or not won’t change anything for her. She’s not asking for it, she knows she deserves it.

“Quick thinking, James.” Even an asshole like me can give credit when it’s due. “Now, let’s hope he hurries the hell up.”

She glances back at the house. “He will.”

I point to the smoke column looming at our back, dark and menacing as it curls toward the sky, filling it with a thick haze. “We should get ready to move out while we wait.”

She looks around, her nose crinkling at the coppery edge in the air. “Yeah. Let’s load up. I’m not interested in pushing our luck today.”

Metal clangs as my Pulaski skids across the bed of the truck.

Then I climb into the passenger seat beside Harlowe.

We wait, engine running, as the homeowner gets in his own vehicle.

Harlowe throws the truck into gear, dust kicking up as we lead him back down the dirt road and out of the path of the fire.

Halfway down the mountain, something catches my eye. Visibility is shit with the ash but I make out a house set back from the road that we didn’t clear on our way up.

“Stop.”

Harlowe jumps in her seat, startled by the command in my tone. She brakes hard, rubber clawing at gravel until we come to a jerky stop. She looks like she’s about to pull rank.

“Back up,” I say.

The rig jerks as she throws it in reverse, turning in her seat and backing up until we come to a narrow, poorly maintained driveway.

“Right here.”

I lurch in my seat as she stops then rolls down her window, waving the homeowner around and watching to make sure he continues on.

With him on his way to safety, I feel her stare burning into me, but I’m too focused to care.

The roof is covered in dropped needles and flanked by trees. Nothing beyond the anchor point has been cleared.

What a fucking nightmare. If anyone is inside they don’t stand a chance.

“What is it?” Harlowe asks, breaking the static buzzing in my ears.

I point to the house buried by overgrown brush.

“That house wasn’t on our list.”

“It should be empty,” she says, scanning the property. “I know this house. They’re snowbirds.”

The curtains sway. It’s all the proof I need.

“Well, it’s not.”

I grab my helmet and leap from the truck before she can stop me.

Her reprimands follow me up the driveway, my boots slipping on the pine needles. This place is a hazard.

Harlowe’s beyond pissed, yelling about going in blind and protocol. But I run faster, dread climbing my throat with every step toward the porch.

I know what I saw—someone is in there.

The fire is closing in fast, and I’m risking everything if I’m wrong.

Harlowe’s got every right to be worried. She doesn’t know me. I’m a hotshot from out of town. If something happens, this is her evacuation and her ass on the line.

I’m the backup.

The muscle.

And right now, I’m a fucking liability.

If I’m wrong.

But my gut tells me I’m not.

My fist shakes the door. “Emergency services! This is a mandatory evacuation. Get out now.”

The faded pink and green floral curtains flutter again.

It’s the same damn pattern—roses and leaves. Pale and yellowing with age.

The very same curtains my grandma had hanging behind her favorite chair on the ranch. I can still see them catching fire when the house went up. The three of us watching, helpless, as everything around us turned to ash.

The worst fucking moment of my life.

I stuff the memory down, forcing myself to focus on the present.

Dust shakes loose with every hit of my fist against the door, raining down faster and harder until pain blooms through my hand.

I’m not coming off this mountain until I know this house is empty.

The door opens, sending me toppling toward an elderly couple. I catch myself with a hand on the frame to keep me from plowing into them.

I knew it.

Relief sweeps over me, but it doesn’t last. Now we have two more people to evacuate.

One look at their faces confirms they’re confused and scared.

The wife has a hearing aid that looks like it predates me. Tears cloud her hazy eyes.

Beside her, the husband is hunched over, fumbling with pill bottles as he packs them into a bag.

They waited too long to leave. Or maybe they didn’t know.

My training doesn’t stop the tremble in my voice as I take the bag from him, stuffing the prescriptions in myself. “This is a mandatory evacuation. We need to go.” My voice barely sounds like mine.

They flinch.

Fuck.

I’m scaring them.

I blink, forcing myself to return fully to this moment.

It’s no use.

Smoke, heavy with pine, and the heat in the air overwhelms me. The wind picks up, flooding the area with ash. The grey flakes land in her white hair, and panic hooks into me before I can stop it.

My head whips around. Our window out of here is shrinking with every second I stand here paralyzed.

Heat cracks the dry branches and the sap pops, exploding in warning.

With a groan and a snap, a tree gives way, crashing in the distance.

I jerk my head toward the sound to find Harlowe sprinting toward us.

Her hand is on the radio at her shoulder, telling Command that we’re delayed as she leaps onto the porch.

It’s her presence that shakes the fog loose.

Each of us takes hold of one of the residents by the arm and guides them to the truck before helping them into the passenger side.

Her eyes cut to mine for a second—quick check-in.

“What’s our move, Hotshot?”

“We’ve got to go—fast, before it breaches the road.”

With that, we turn toward the driver’s side, primed to run.

Another gust of wind makes the branches groan, closer this time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one breaking loose, swinging toward the Incident Commander.

I dive, shoving Harlowe clear. The branch slams into my side and shoulder. A heartbeat later, I’m on the ground, air driven from my lungs. Pain sears through me instantly. Everything hurts so sharply that I can’t even pinpoint where it’s coming from.

Pebbles and dirt spray my face as Harolwe skids to a stop, falling to her knees at my side.

“Emmett.”

I try to speak, but it comes out as a grunt.

Her face flickers in and out, her voice cutting through the radio and then disappearing again as I fight for air.

Flames lick at the edge of the yard now. I can feel them, but I can’t get up to move us to safety.

“I need a medevac at the second ridge evac point—Hotshot down, blunt force trauma and burns. We have civilians on board.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” I mutter, only realizing I said it out loud when her eyes gleam with concern.