Chapter Two
Grant
I steered my pickup away from the Fire Mountain trailhead, morning light dancing across the windshield. Usually, tourists I helped on the trails faded from memory as soon as they were out of sight. Patch them up, point them toward safety, move on. Simple.
But this woman with the brand-new boots and wide eyes stuck in my thoughts like a burr on denim.
Peyton. Even her name lingered on my tongue. She'd been so ridiculously unprepared that it was almost adorable. What really got under my skin, though, was how that spineless jackass had abandoned her the moment she scraped her leg. Who does that? As I'd loaded her into her car, I couldn't shake the urge to track down the coward and explain mountain etiquette with my fists.
Not my problem , I reminded myself, taking the turnoff toward my cabin. Years of keeping to myself had taught me the value of staying uninvolved. The last time I'd tried anything more than casual conversation, I'd ended up with a shattered peace I'd spent months rebuilding.
The familiar rumble of tires on rough terrain soothed my irritation as I navigated the single-lane path winding through dense pines. This solitude—this was what I'd chosen. The cabin perched halfway up the mountainside represented everything I needed: distance from complications, room to breathe, and blessed quiet after the adrenaline-fueled chaos of smokejumping.
I killed the engine in front of my modest timber home and sat for a moment, listening to the tick of the cooling motor. The silence that followed usually centered me. Today it felt strange, as if Peyton's breathless "thank you" still echoed in the air between trees.
"She's just another tourist," I muttered, slamming the truck door with more force than necessary.
The crisp air filled my lungs as I strode toward the cabin. A hint of lingering winter chill rode the breeze, a reminder that fire season would arrive soon enough. Plenty to focus on without dwelling on some city girl with the softest damn skin I'd accidentally brushed while bandaging her leg.
Inside, I tossed my pack onto the couch and rolled my shoulders. The place smelled of woodsmoke and yesterday's coffee—familiar and uncomplicated. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, downing half of it in one go. Work. Focus on work . Captain Dawson had been dropping hints about the upcoming Fire & Ice Fundraiser Gala. Some fancy event at the community center where we'd be expected to wear dress uniforms, schmooze with donors, and talk about forest safety.
My phone buzzed. The text from Dawson confirmed tomorrow's briefing at the station. I sent back a quick acknowledgment before dropping the phone on the kitchen counter. At least the job was straightforward: assess risks, contain fires, survive. No mixed signals or confused emotions.
But Peyton's face kept appearing in my mind—the flash of vulnerability when she tried to stand on her injured ankle, her attempt to mask embarrassment with bravado. She wasn't just some helpless hiker. There was something about her...
"Knock it off, McAllister," I growled, striding across the living room to check the generator out back. Busywork might chase away the memory of how perfectly her curvy frame had fit against mine as I'd half-carried her down the trail. Damn, it had obviously been way too long since I'd had a woman in my bed.
The generator hummed its mechanical song, in perfect working order despite my need for distraction. I circled the cabin, checking the foundation, the gutters, the firewood stack—anything to occupy my hands. But with each task completed, my mind circled back to her.
I couldn't pinpoint why she'd gotten under my skin so fast. Maybe it was the striking contrast between her obvious city polish and the wilderness setting. Or perhaps how quickly she'd tried to recover her dignity after being abandoned by that pathetic excuse for a hiking partner. Either way, I needed to forget her. This mountain had taught me exactly how painful attachments could become.
With nothing left to fix, I dragged a folding chair onto the porch and dropped into it, stretching my legs before me. The view never disappointed—endless green forest rolling toward distant peaks, the sky an impossible blue. I'd chosen this spot after losing Travis to the Timber Ridge fire. After watching my closest friend become nothing but a statistic in the annual firefighter memorial service, I'd retreated here to lick my wounds.
And then there was Naomi. My last attempt at romance had fizzled dramatically when she'd finally given up trying to breach my defenses. "You're like talking to a damn wall," she'd said before walking out. She wasn't wrong, but her departure had reinforced my determination to keep relationships superficial at best.
My phone chimed again. This time it was a group text from Hank Masterson about the Fire & Ice Fundraiser Gala. As a board member of the Ashwood Mountain Conservation Fund and this year's event coordinator, Hank was relentless about making the gala ‘the social event of the season.’ The message informed me that Captain Dawson had volunteered me to give a short speech on wildfire prevention. Just great . Nothing I loved more than standing in front of Ashwood's elite in a stiff dress uniform, talking about how quickly a cigarette butt or untended campfire could destroy thousands of acres, not to mention risking lives in the process.
I tapped back a reluctant confirmation, then tossed the phone aside. My gaze strayed to the photograph visible through the window—me and Travis after tackling a controlled burn, grinning like idiots who thought we were invincible. The memory squeezed my chest, but not as sharply as it once had. Time was doing its work, I supposed.
Sighing, I headed inside to fix something resembling dinner. The beef stew from the can wasn't exactly gourmet, but it would do. As I stirred it on the stove, I realized my appetite had vanished, replaced by a restlessness I couldn't shake.
Peyton probably wouldn't even stay in Ashwood long. She'd heal up, finish whatever brought her to town, and head back to her life. And I'd stay here, exactly where I belonged.
So why couldn't I stop wondering what she was doing right now?
I forced down the lukewarm stew, then rinsed the bowl. The walls of the cabin felt suddenly confining, pushing in on me from all sides. I needed to move, to burn off this strange energy.
Minutes later, I hit the trail behind my place, jogging at a punishing pace up the incline. Sweat quickly soaked my shirt as my boots pounded dirt and pine needles. Usually, running cleared my head, the physical exertion driving out intrusive thoughts. But today, the harder I pushed, the more vividly I recalled the way Peyton's face had lit with relief when I'd appeared on that slope.
"Damn it," I panted, pushing harder until my lungs burned and my thighs screamed in protest.
After thirty minutes of self-torture, I circled back to the cabin, chest heaving. I braced my hands on my knees, gulping air and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Five minutes of helping a stranger shouldn't be affecting me like this.
I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower, cranking the water hot enough to steam up the small bathroom. As the spray pounded my shoulders, I closed my eyes and immediately regretted it. Yep, there she was again—Peyton with her wide eyes and soft "thank you" that somehow sounded more intimate than it had any right to.
Heat surged through me that had nothing to do with the water temperature. I twisted the knob to cold, gritting my teeth as icy water shocked my system. This was ridiculous. I hadn't been this distracted over a woman since... well, maybe ever.
After toweling off, I tugged on clean clothes and checked my phone. Another text from the station about tomorrow's schedule. I confirmed my availability, though my mind was already wandering back to wondering if Peyton was icing her ankle properly.
The remainder of daylight slipped away as I puttered around the cabin, trying to focus on practical matters. The living room window framed Fire Mountain's slope, a view that usually brought me peace. Tonight, I found myself scanning the trails visible from here, half expecting to glimpse a flash of her windbreaker among the trees.
"This is insane," I muttered, switching off the lamp. The cabin fell into darkness, silvered only by moonlight filtering through the windows.
I stretched out on my bed, folding my arms behind my head and staring at the ceiling. Through the open window came the gentle murmur of wind through pines—usually my favorite lullaby. Tonight it sounded like whispers, as if the forest itself was mocking my sudden fixation on a woman I'd known for all of ten minutes.
She's not for you , I reminded myself. City girl with her fancy clothes and innocent eyes. She probably has some corporate job waiting back home, a sleek apartment, a life that would never mesh with my mountain existence. And even if she didn't—even if by some bizarre chance I'd actually see her again—I'd learned my lesson about letting people get close.
When Travis died, part of me went with him. Watching that fire claim him had carved something essential from my chest. And Naomi's departure, while less tragic, confirmed what I already suspected: I wasn't built for the give-and-take that lasting relationships required.
Better to accept that some men weren't meant for happy endings. Some of us worked better alone, focused on the job, on the mountain, on the next rescue. That was enough. It had to be.
But as sleep finally dragged me under, my last thought wasn't of past losses or solitary contentment. It was of Peyton's smile when I'd helped her into her car—grateful, yes, but with something else sparking behind it. Something that looked dangerously like interest.
And God help me, I wanted to see that look again.