Bonfire with Beckett (Mountain Men Fall Harder #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

WILLA

The high school gym smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and nerves.

Mostly mine.

I clutch the stack of index cards in my hands tighter. I won’t need them. I have my speech memorized. All the facts are neatly laid out with just enough nostalgia and humor woven in to tug at people’s heartstrings and, hopefully, bring them around to my plan.

But right now, the cards are my anchor. They’re keeping me focused on what I came here to do instead of becoming distracted. Even as the voices of townspeople buzz around me and echo off the impossibly high ceilings as they find their seats for the monthly Maple Ridge Town Meeting.

Craning my neck, I glance toward the makeshift podium and catch Mrs. Foster’s eye. My old art teacher offers a sympathetic smile and presses a palm to her chest.

It’s a look I’ve become all too used to seeing since I moved back over the summer to be closer to my dad. After mom died unexpectedly.

My throat thickens, and a wave of grief flows through me. It’s every bit as heavy, every bit as fresh, as the day Dad called to give me the news.

But right now, I can’t give into the temptation to let it drag me down.

Clearing my throat, I give a polite nod. Blinking back tears, I turn my attention somewhere—anywhere—else.

I can’t cry. Not now.

The gym hasn’t changed much in the decade since I was last here.

The day I walked across that podium in my cap and gown while my parents beamed in the bleachers.

It has the same fading championship banners hanging from the rafters.

The same orange and black mascot painted on the floor. Even the same creaky folding chairs.

It’s the same, but—somehow—it feels smaller.

Everything feels smaller after spending ten years living in Nashville.

I tap my foot restlessly on the polished floor. “I’m surprised they can fit this many chairs in here.”

Dad lowers his newspaper and cocks an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Oh, nothing.” I give a thin smile. “I just… don’t remember this many people coming to the town meetings in the past.”

There’s a bigger crowd than I expected. That means more people to convince. More people to judge the girl who left them all behind only to come back when her world crumbled.

And now that girl wants to ask them all for a favor. As if I have any right.

“You don’t need to worry,” Dad says, turning back to his paper. “You’ve always been an ace at public speaking.”

He’s not wrong. There’s a Debate Team plaque with my name on it in one of the school’s trophy cases.

“I’m not worried,” I say.

He clucks his tongue lightly. That says more than any words could. He doesn’t believe me.

“I’m not.” I pull back my shoulders and straighten my spine. “I’m just, surprised.”

Dad just flips the paper over as if to say, “Sure, Willa.”

Whatever. He can think I’m nervous. But I’m not. Most definitely.

Right?

As the mayor steps up to the podium? My pulse quickens. There’s no denying it.

Okay. I am. A little nervous. But that’s only because this means so much to him. To me. To us. I don’t want to blow it. I can’t.

While the mayor calls the town meeting into order and reviews the last meeting’s minutes, I take a moment to contain my nerves as best as I can. I think about why I’m doing this. I think about who I’m doing this for.

Mom. I’m doing this for my mom. And while she may not be sitting next to me physically, I know she is here with Dad and me.

When the mayor finally calls my name, my legs wobble like they did the first time I tried to walk in Mom’s heels. I smooth my skirt, stand, and force myself toward the podium.

The microphone squeals before settling into a low hum. Perfect. Just what I need—everyone’s attention locked on me.

I clear my throat, willing my voice not to wobble. “Most of you know me. I’m Willa. Tom the Mechanic’s daughter. I grew up right here in Maple Ridge. I spent more nights than I can count in this gym. Usually losing at volleyball and sometimes winning at debate.”

A few chuckles ripple through the bleachers. Good. Laughter loosens the knot in my chest.

“But what I remember most from growing up here wasn’t what happened inside these walls. It was what happened outside—on the last night of the fall festival. The bonfire.”

A hum runs through the room. Heads tilt. People remember.

“It was more than just flames and smoke. It was a place where the whole town came together. Where you’d stand shoulder to shoulder with your neighbors, wrapped in blankets, sipping cider, eating S’mores, and telling stories. For some of us, it was even the start of something bigger.”

I glance toward Dad. Another lump threatens to lodge in my throat.

“It’s where my parents met. One spark in the fire, one spark between them. Every year after, they came back. It was their tradition.”

I clear my throat and push through. “When Mom passed away this summer, I knew I wanted to find a way to honor her. To honor them. Bringing back the bonfire seemed like the perfect tribute to them and our town.”

I spread my hands, palms open. “I know times have changed. Rules have changed. Budgets have changed. But I’ve already spoken with a couple of local sponsors who are willing to help cover the costs. And I’ll personally take responsibility for organizing volunteers, supplies, cleanup—you name it.”

Taking one more deep breath, I finish strong. “The town deserves to have this tradition again. The festival deserves to end with firelight and celebration instead of a quiet fizzle out.”

I let that settle, then smile just enough to lighten it. “And let’s be honest—it wouldn’t hurt our tourism either. Instagram loves a good bonfire.”

That earns a few more laughs. Relief bubbles up in me.

“So, please,” I finish, my voice softening, “let’s bring it back. Let’s give our kids the memories we had. Let’s give our town the heart of fall again.”

Hands shoot up the second I finish.

Joy, from the General Store, stands first. “What about the cost, dear? It takes money to haul wood and hire musicians and such.”

I nod quickly. “Already taken care of. Two local businesses have agreed to sponsor. And I’m not asking for town funds—I’ll fundraise and coordinate volunteers. The town won’t be out a dime.”

That earns an approving murmur.

The hardware store owner clears his throat. “Who’s gonna clean it up after? Last time we had a bonfire, I spent three days hauling ash and trash from the lake.”

“I’ll handle cleanup,” I say, steady. “I’ll organize a team to sweep the area before and after. You’ll be able to eat off that shoreline by the time we’re done.”

That earns a smattering of laughter and a reluctant grin from the questioner.

Another voice pipes up from the back. “Where’ve you been, Willa? You left town for a long time. Why come back now?”

The question hits harder than the others, but I don’t flinch.

“You’re right. I left after high school.

Nashville became home for a while. But Maple Ridge has always been where my roots are.

And when my mom passed… I realized it’s where I belonged.

This is where I want to be. Where I want to celebrate old traditions and make new memories. ”

The room softens. Even the mayor leans forward, nodding along.

The chair of the festival committee lifts her pen. “Well, if there are no objections, I think we’d all be glad to see the bonfire return.”

Applause breaks out. Relief surges through me so fast my knees nearly buckle.

The mayor clears his throat. “I agree. I see no reason we can’t move forward with your plans.”

Relief swells through me—until a chair scrapes against the floor.

A tall man rises from the back row. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A beard that makes him look more mountain than man. Heat prickles along my skin, like the temperature in the room jumped ten degrees. His presence alone hushes the crowd, commanding silence without a word.

And when he finally speaks… Oh. My. Stars.

“I’ve got a few more questions.” His voice is deep. Firm. Unshakable. A low rumble that seems to vibrate through my ribcage.

My pulse quickens. Not only from nerves. Something about him snags my attention, sharp and inconvenient, like a spark catching dry tinder.

He nods toward me. “Where do you plan to hold this bonfire?”

“The lake,” I answer, forcing my chin high when my insides feel like jelly.

His eyes narrow, dark and assessing. The kind of look that strips away pretense and makes me want to fidget under his gaze. “How do you plan to contain it?”

I falter. “With, um… barriers. Volunteers. Buckets of water?—”

“And are you aware we’re in the middle of one of the driest falls this county has seen in years? That we’re under a red flag warning this very weekend?”

Red flag? The words thud in my chest. I blink, trying not to squirm. “I… don’t know what that means.”

He nods once, decisive. Like a judge delivering a verdict. “Then I’m afraid I won’t be able to sign off on this.”

My heart plunges. The same man who just made every nerve ending in my body sit up and take notice has turned into a brick wall in my path.

“Seriously” My voice cracks sharper than I intend. “What gives you the right?”

He meets my gaze head-on, expression carved from stone, and holds up a badge.

“I’m the fire marshal.”