Chapter 2
TWO
BECKETT
Town meetings are the same kind of torture they’ve always been. Too many folding chairs. Too much small talk. Not nearly enough reasons for me to be here.
It’s a shame they’re not violating any fire codes. At least then I could shut this thing down.
My brother, Hank, bumps my shoulder as we angle toward two empty seats near the back. “This place is a time capsule. I almost expect the gym teacher to tell me to drop and given him twenty.”
“That’s because it is. People here don’t like change.” I drop into a chair. “I bet they had a grant to replace these bleachers, but somebody’s granny chained herself to them.”
“Hell, I’d chain myself to ’em. These squeaky floors are the soundtrack of my childhood.” He plops down. “Are you going to the festival kickoff Saturday?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I’ll be over at the hayrides. We could use another pair of hands—or someone to keep the kids from petting the tractor.”
“I’ll be making sure the carnival doesn’t wire a popcorn machine to a lamp cord again. I don’t have time to play.”
Hank snorts. “You said that last year, then I found you handing out stickers to kids like it was Halloween.”
“Fire safety stickers.”
“Yeah.”
“Stickers are education,” I deadpan. “Education is safety.”
He smirks. “Most people relax by, I don’t know, hanging out at a bar. Going on a date. Talking to humans about something other than fire.”
“I talk to you.”
“Barely.” He leans back, nodding toward the stage. “The mayor is on the move. Ah—and there she is.”
I glance up, expecting some committee head with a binder of complaints about trash cans. Instead, a woman I don’t recognize walks toward the podium—and every hair on my arms stands on end.
Curvy.
That’s my first unhelpful thought. Not just curvy—soft in all the places a man shouldn’t think about during a town meeting. Hair pulled back clean but still unruly, like it would escape the minute she laughed.
And her eyes… They’re bright and full of life. That’s to say nothing about her mouth. It’s full and plump. Lips like that could tempt a saint to sin.
She touches the podium like she’s grounding herself and smiles. The whole gym leans in.
“Who’s that?” I mutter.
Hank’s grin goes sharp. “Why? Interested?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s Willa. She was a few years behind us in school.”
Willa. The name’s familiar, but the face isn’t. It’s h to believe I’d forget a face like hers. I try to follow her words, but it’s a struggle. My eyes keep focusing on her lips instead of the words coming out of them.
I wonder if they’d feel as soft as they look. I wonder what they’d taste like.
Hank nudges me again.
I scowl and rub my ribs. “What?”
“Oh nothing.” He snorts. “I figured the fire marshal might have something to say about a bonfire in the woods.”
My spine stiffens.
A bonfire.
In this drought? With winds that seem to blow through every night?
Just add a spark, and you have yourself the start of a wildfire.
Applause rises. Hank leans close. “You look like you just remembered you left the stove on.”
“It’s not a stove.” I push myself to my feet. “It’s a fucking recipe for disaster.”
He tips his head. “You could wait till after to ruin her day.”
I give him a look. He sighs. “Fine. Do your job. Be the badge.”
I’d love to be anything else. Never more than when her face crumples after I say the words that shut her down. With my advice, the mayor begrudgingly declares that what I say goes.
The festival’s bonfire will remain snuffed out another year.
The mayor bangs the gavel, mumbling about committee review. Willa steps offstage on shaky legs and disappears toward the side door.
“I’m going to talk to her,” I tell Hank.
“Start with ‘I’m not Satan,’” he suggests.
I ignore him and weave my way through the chairs, nodding at a few townsfolk as I make my way.
The corridor smells like bleach and chalk. Willa stands with one hand braced on the cinderblock wall, the other strangling her note cards. She takes a shaky breath.
“Willa.”
She turns, eyes bright, jaw set. “If you came to enjoy the sound of my dreams cracking, you must have missed it happening on stage.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, surprising myself. “But I have to keep the town safe.”
Her mouth twists. “So I gathered.”
She looks me over the way I looked at her—boots, shirt, scar on my hand. She doesn’t like me. She also isn’t immune to whatever is sizzling between us. I catch it in the way her gaze lingers a fraction too long on my forearms.
“I know safety matters,” she says tightly. “I’m not trying to be reckless.”
“And I’m not trying to be cruel.” I scratch the whiskers on my jaw. “I’m trying to stop something before it starts.”
“At the expense of this.” She waves a card. “It’s not just an event. It’s my—” Her throat works. “It’s my mom. Elaine Martin was the kindest woman who ever lived.”
The word slams into me. “Your mom was Mrs. Martin?”
Her brow relaxes. “You knew her?”
“Knew her?” I huff out a laugh. “She was my favorite teacher in third and fourth grade.”
She also sent letters me when I enlisted. Care packages while I was on deployment. Peanut butter cookies I had to hide from a hundred grown men.
She emailed me often when I got certified for smokejumping and stopped by my office when I returned home a few years back.
My throat clenches for a moment and I clear it. “She once asked if I knew the difference between fear and caution.”
Willa tilts her head “What did you say?”
“That fear freezes you. Caution moves you smart. She told me I was ready then.”
“She would’ve loved that you remembered,” Willa whispers.
“How could I not?” I drag a hand over my beard. Then steady myself. “Look. About the bonfire.”
Her eyes widen. “Yes?”
“The answer can’t be yes right now. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be yes ever.”
Her hope is immediate—and dangerous.
I temper it.
“We track the weather for two weeks. Hard. We go by the data, not vibes. If humidity rises, winds stay under ten, gusts minimal… well, we can move forward.”
She nods so fast the cards bounce. “I can do that.”
“Good. Containment too. No pit with stones and prayers. We fabricate a steel ring, fifty feet clear. Portable water tanks, charged hoses.”
“Yes.” She steps closer, vanilla clinging to her skin.
“You and every volunteer complete a safety workshop. Hose handling, fire blankets, communications. Perimeter stays marked. Nobody crosses it. Not even for extra marshmallows.”
Her mouth twitches. “You’re funny for a man who just torched my plans.”
“I’m not funny. I’m a buzzkill with rules.”
Her laugh tilts her head back. I want to put my hand there. I don’t.
“And one more thing,” I add. “I’m involved in every step from now on.”
“Every step?”
“Every one. You don’t file a permit or schedule a vendor without me.”
“That’s very… controlling.”
“It’s very alive-at-the-end. If we do this right, your mom’s night won’t end with sirens.”
She inhales, closes her eyes, and when she opens them, it feels like the two of us are the only people in this hall.
“Okay,” she says. “Deal.”
I offer my hand. Hers is warm, small, strong. A current zips up my arm, settles under my ribs. She feels it too—I see it in the hitch of her breath.
“Tomorrow morning,” I say gruffly. “Nine a.m. My office. We start.”
“Nine a.m.” She nods. “I’ll be there.”