Tinder Embrace (Campfire Council #3)

Chapter 1

Sophie

"Crumb."

I squeezed the burner handle, hoping against hope that my hand had just slipped, and the worst hadn't happened.

Nothing.

I tapped my propane tank gauge with shaky hands. Plenty of fuel left. So why wouldn't my burner work?

My hot air balloon relied on a regular infusion of heat to stay aloft.

A bead of sweat dripped down my forehead as balloon fatality headlines danced through my memory, and I swiped it away with one leather-gloved hand.

I scanned the horizon, looking for safe places to land.

My landing zone would make the difference between a bumpy touchdown and serious injury.

I shivered, scared and trying to suppress the panic.

What had started as a gorgeous, still morning for hot air ballooning was swiftly becoming my worst nightmare. Without a functioning burner, I couldn't control the temperature in my balloon envelope. As my second graders would say, I was gonna crash.

I glanced at my radio, but there was little my friend Gwen could do for me at this point.

She'd volunteered as chase crew on my first solo flight of the season, tracking me in my ballooning rig after helping me get launched.

But I'd planned on a much longer flight, and wind direction meant I'd sent her on ahead to catch the nearest bridge over the Colville River.

The dips and valleys of farmland below me looked peaceful from above, but in an uncontrolled descent, I'd be uncomfortably close in a matter of minutes.

Forcing myself to focus on my burner, I examined it more carefully, hoping to spot an obvious issue that could be fixed. Like, before I crashed, preferably.

"Shirt balls," I muttered, tapping on my tank one last time, as if that would magically solve my problems.

Not forking likely.

I wrapped my hands around my shoulders, taking a deep breath to control my racing heart and consider my options.

My balloon sank slowly, losing altitude at a rate closer to elevator-going-down than falling-out-of-the-sky.

At least I could be thankful that the ground winds weren't strong.

Coming down without a chase crew to catch me wasn't the worst thing in the world, but heavy side winds that bounced me around could be. See also: power lines.

My chest tightened, making it difficult to draw breath. Electrocution was a nasty way to die, and every pilot knew the dangers of tangling with the lines.

I scanned the sky, glad that at least, in farm country, the biggest obstacles would probably be the barns and outbuildings.

In the section where I'd likely crash, there weren't even heavy tree lines to get caught up in.

I shuddered. More than one pilot had lost their life to a stray tree limb.

It wasn't the catch that killed you, it was the drop when the tree inevitably bowed under the balloon's weight.

Without passengers, my cargo was lighter than usual, but I'd still probably clock in at 800 pounds between my body weight, propane tanks, the envelope and basket. Not a light load.

Beneath me, the rolling hills outside Campfire formed a familiar tapestry of greens and browns.

I clicked my radio. "Bee-gonia Chase, this is Bee-gonia Actual. I've lost my burner, and I'm coming down east of town. I think I spot the Pruitt Farm. Please meet me near there."

My calm tone belied my underlying anxiety. Really, who was I pretending for? Gwen wouldn’t fault me for freaking out.

Static crackled. "You mean crashing? You're crashing, Sophie?"

"Unscheduled landing, Bee-gonia Chase."

Years of keeping calm in the face of rowdy second-graders came to my aid, sending a rush of confidence to bolster me.

"Fuck. I'll be there as fast as I can. You think you'll make it to the Pruitts’?" Gwen's concerned question sounded tinny over the radio.

"Affirmative, Bee-gonia Chase. But I’m not sure anyone is home. Jo is gone to the brewers’ conference. I'll be the bright yellow bumble bee on the ground when you get here."

I sighed heavily, watching the ground grow closer with every thumping heartbeat.

I scanned the Pruitt Farm, hoping against hope I'd make it to the small clearing near Jo and Davis's house to set down.

With no one to catch me, I'd have to be braced and ready to vent quickly to deflate and keep from dragging or bouncing into any serious obstacles.

Counting my heartbeats, I ignored how suspiciously fast they were. Thirty-five hours of pilot training didn't sound like a lot, but I'd been flying for years now. I'd landed without burners before, but not because I had to. And not without the support of a ground crew to catch me.

I rolled my shoulders, stretching my neck as I spotted what would likely be my spot to put down: the lawn between Jo's house and the outbuildings where she brewed their family's beer.

If the wind pushed me into the parking lot, it'd make an acceptable plan B, but I winced at the thought of how a hard landing on concrete might bruise more than my ego.

No two ways about it, crashing was gonna suck.

I held my breath, counting in my head as I floated over Jo's house.

With more time, maybe I could have managed an impromptu crew, but I had to focus on landing.

Calling in the cavalry would have to wait.

Hopefully, Jo wouldn't find out I'd crash-landed in her yard because I did something super colorful, like taking out her roof.

Mouth dry, I swallowed down a flare of helplessness. Piloting a hot air balloon was a curious mix of anal-retentive safety measures and going with the flow. The time for safety inspections had passed; now I had to live with the consequences of my burners' failure. Emphasis on live.

A familiar figure stalked out from under the porch roof of the Pruitt house, and I couldn't hold back my groan.

Davis.

Jo's older brother already hated my hot air balloon.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared up at me. Astronauts could probably see his frown from space. I had no trouble at only one hundred feet of altitude.

If gravity and my cooling balloon envelope weren't already bringing me down, Davis might have done it from the force of his disapproval alone.

"No burner!" I shouted down. "Uncontrolled landing," I warned.

Any hopes I'd had that Davis would understand my predicament and help faded. His only response was a deeper frown. I didn't think such a thing was possible, but his whole face scrunched in displeasure.

Fork. Me.

He stood there like a centurion, all broad shoulders and scowl in a navy-blue flannel and jeans. His dark hair was swept back from his face, exposing the firm jut of his jaw and chiseled lips.

I drifted closer, as if drawn by the force of his disapproval.

Davis had nothing on tractor beams. His icy blue eyes seemed to be reeling me and Bee-gonia in.

He cupped his hands and yelled, “You can’t land here.”

I closed my eyes. As if I had a choice. Clearly, he hadn’t heard me earlier.

I projected as best I could, forcing more volume from my tight vocal cords, “No choice, Davis.”

He flinched, comprehension dawning. I ignored the petty bit of satisfaction that he wasn’t going to get his way. This wasn’t exactly a battle I wanted to win.

He sprinted from the shadow of the porch, covering the ground between us in record time.

His long legs ate up the distance in a flash.

I’d never seen the big man move so fast. Had no idea he could.

He was so stoic; he gave the impression he was more mountain than man.

I’d never seen him panic, and for a moment, his alarm made me forget my own fears.

A sudden gust of wind hit me from the west, speeding my descent. From the momentary flash of panic on Davis's face, he was aware that even he couldn't control the wind.

Frantically, I yanked on my line, trying to vent before I collided with the stubborn man. At the same time, he yielded to the urge to try to catch me, as if a single person could stop the crushing weight of the balloon.

With burners, I could have mitigated my impact, slowing myself, but the combination of his attempts to catch me and the ground wind cast me into him.

Davis grunted, throwing his bulk over the side of my basket, adding his weight as I vented for all I was worth, trying to expel as much hot air as possible to keep us on the ground.

If Davis hated me crashing, he'd absolutely lose it over an unsanctioned ride on the side of my basket.

My arms burned as I reeled in my line, Bee-gonia collapsing on top of me without someone on the crown line to control the envelope. In a matter of seconds, Davis and I were entrapped in Bee-gonia's black and yellow nylon.

I would have excused a hail of cussing. Davis's silence scared me more.

"Davis? Davis? Are you okay?" I called, frantically trying to paw the nylon away and find him amid the fabric.

A low, masculine groan roiled my stomach, making vomit a possibility.

Please, don't let him be hurt.

"Davis? Answer me," I barked, scared that Bee-gonia and I had done real damage.

"Bee, you really need to take better care of yourself," he grumbled.

"I'm so sorry, Davis. Bee-gonia and I didn't mean to hurt you," I said, relieved to hear his voice. It was strained, but at least he was conscious.

I threw one leg over the side of Bee-gonia's basket, using my weight to tip it to the ground, grunting when my left ankle took the brunt of the impact. Slowly, I crawled out from under my balloon, shoving swathes of nylon out of my way until I emerged into fresh air.

Davis sat on the grass nearby, scowling. My heart sank at the protective way he clutched his left hand to his chest.

"You're hurt."

Davis grunted, and I squinted at him, crawling closer. Underneath his farmer's tan, he looked unnaturally pale. Remorse filled me. I hadn’t asked for his help, but he’d sprinted to my rescue just the same. I felt responsible.