Chapter Four
Grant
"McAllister, you're up!"
Captain Dawson's command snapped me to attention as I adjusted the straps of my fireproof jumpsuit. The midday sun beat down on the training field behind Ashwood's fire station, where a controlled burn scenario awaited. Six of us stood ready, gear checked and double-checked, while the others watched from a safe distance.
I nodded, adrenaline already flooding my system. This was where I thrived—not in awkward encounters with pretty girls bearing inedible cookies, but in the heat and danger of the flames. Where decisions mattered and instinct ruled.
"Rodriguez, Hardy—flank positions," I called to my team members. "Martinez, monitor wind direction. We go on my signal."
The training exercise wasn't a real jump, but the department had constructed a section of forest terrain with controlled flame generators that mimicked wildfire conditions. Even knowing they were simulated, the flames rising from the mock forest floor kicked my instincts into high gear.
I led my team forward, our communication crisp and minimal. The heat intensified as we approached the burn zone, sweat immediately beading under my gear. We utilized the containment techniques that had become second nature after years on the job—creating firebreaks, using suppressant tools, and working with the coordinated precision that kept smoke jumpers alive.
When a sudden surge of fire blocked Martinez's exit route, I reacted without thinking. Three long strides through rising smoke, one arm shielding my face mask, the other reaching out to pull him clear of a falling branch. We stumbled backward together as the branch crashed where he'd stood seconds before.
"Shit," he gasped, eyes wide behind his mask. "Thanks, man."
I nodded, my pulse steady despite the close call. This was the job—reading dangers before they became disasters, making split-second decisions to keep everyone safe. It was straightforward, unlike the way my mind had been drifting to green eyes and a soft laugh for days now.
When Captain Dawson called time, we retreated from the burn zone, completing the exercise with a near-perfect score. As we stripped off our outer gear, I felt the familiar satisfaction of doing exactly what I was trained for. This—not awkward conversations or unwanted attraction—was where I belonged.
"McAllister," Dawson approached, clipboard in hand. "Good call on that branch. Quick thinking like that is why you're giving the speech at the Fire & Ice Gala."
I grimaced, toweling sweat from my face. "About that, Cap—"
"Not negotiable," he cut me off with a knowing look. "The Ashwood Mountain Conservation Fund needs our department represented, and I'm not about to do it myself." He clapped me on the shoulder, a rare show of camaraderie. "Besides, you haven't worn your dress uniform since last year's review. It's gathering dust."
I scowled but kept further protests to myself. The fundraiser gala loomed just three days away, and I'd somehow become the face of forest fire prevention. Perfect.
After showering at the station, I checked my schedule for the rest of the day: equipment maintenance, paperwork, and a mandatory meeting about the weekend's event. I wasn't looking forward to any of it, but especially not the meeting. Public speaking ranked somewhere between root canal and extended family gatherings on my list of preferred activities.
The locker room had emptied out, most of the guys heading to lunch or back to their stations. I lingered, reluctant to face the day ahead. Leaning against the cool metal of my locker, I stared at the small photo taped inside—Travis and me after our first real jump as a team. His cocky grin, arms slung around my shoulders in easy camaraderie.
If the best friend I’d ever known were here, he'd be mercilessly mocking my anxiety about the fundraiser. It's just a bunch of rich people in fancy clothes, bro. Smile, tell ’em scary stuff about forest fires, and drink their free booze.
"You know they expect us to actually dance at these things?" Martinez's voice broke through my thoughts as he reappeared in the doorway. "Dawson just told me we're all expected to participate in at least one dance. Something about community engagement ."
"You're fucking kidding me," I muttered, slamming my locker shut.
"Yeah." He grinned.
I groaned in response, rolling my eyes. “Dude. Not funny.”
"Think I can convince that new bartender from The Outpost to be my date?” Martinez continued. “What about you? Taking anyone?"
I shot him a look that answered his question.
"Right," he chuckled. "Silly me. The mountain hermit flies solo."
"I'm not a hermit," I grumbled, grabbing my jacket. "I just prefer my own company."
Martinez fell into step beside me as we headed toward the parking lot. "So, you ready for your big speech at least? Heard Hank Masterson's turning this into Ashwood’s party of the century."
"Can't wait," I deadpanned, fishing my truck keys from my pocket.
"I know you hate this stuff, but look, it really is important for the department. Budget season's coming." Martinez shrugged. "Plus, I hear the food's gonna be worth putting on the penguin suit."
The mention of food reminded me I hadn't eaten since dawn. "Speaking of which, I'm grabbing lunch at the diner. Want anything?"
"Nah, meeting Alicia at Whiskey Creek." He grinned. "Unlike some people, I have a social life."
"Good for you," I muttered, climbing into my truck. Martinez waved as I pulled away, and I found myself envying his easy approach to life. Nothing seemed to faze him, not even a close call during training. Meanwhile, I was tying myself in knots over the upcoming fundraiser and a woman I'd met twice.
Sue’s Place was packed when I arrived, the lunch rush in full swing. I squeezed into the last stool at the counter, nodding at Susie when she glanced my way. She held up a finger, finished taking an order from a family of tourists, then made her way over.
"The usual, handsome?" she asked, already pouring coffee into a mug.
"Thanks, Susie."
The older woman leaned against the counter, studying me with narrowed eyes. "You look like you're carrying the weight of Fire Mountain on those shoulders. More than usual, I mean."
"Just tired." I took a grateful sip of coffee. "Dawson's making me give a speech at the event this weekend."
"Ah." She nodded sympathetically. "The Fire & Ice thing. Hank's been in here every morning this week, going over his lists. You'd think he was planning a royal wedding, not a fundraiser."
"That sounds like Hank."
"The whole town's buzzing about it." Susie refilled my mug though I'd barely made a dent. "First real community event of the season. It'll be nice to see Ashwood’s community center looking fancy for a change."
I made a noncommittal noise, hoping she wouldn't press for more conversation. Susie had known me since I was a teenager, but even she knew when to give me space. She patted my hand once before moving away to check on my order.
The diner hummed with activity around me—families chatting, silverware clinking, the sizzle of the grill behind the counter. Normally, I found comfort in the background noise, the normalcy of it all. Today, it felt overwhelming, every conversation seeming to drift toward mentions of the upcoming gala.
"...brought on some decorator from Seattle at the last minute..."
"...completely transforming the community center..."
"...black tie, can you believe it? In Ashwood!"
I focused on my coffee, trying to tune out the chatter. My mind drifted to Peyton again, wondering if she was somewhere in town right now, planning how to turn our modest community center into whatever winter-meets-fire theme Hank had described. Who else could this designer from Seattle be but her after all? The thought of seeing her again immediately caused my pulse to quicken.
Susie returned with my burger and fries, setting the plate down with a flourish. "Eat up, Grant. You're looking too thin."
I smirked. "You say that every time."
"Because it's always true." She wiped her hands on her apron. "You coming to my nephew's graduation party next month? Jameson would love to see you there."
"I'll try," I said noncommittally, knowing I probably wouldn't.
Susie shook her head knowingly but didn't push. She moved down the counter to help another customer, leaving me to my meal. I ate mechanically, my thoughts elsewhere. Three days until the gala. Three days to prepare for a speech I didn't want to give, wearing a uniform that held too many memories.
After lunch, I headed back to the station for the fundraiser meeting. The small conference room was already crowded when I arrived, most of the crew slouched in plastic chairs while Hank Masterson arranged papers at the front. He perked up when I entered, waving me toward an empty seat.
"McAllister! Perfect timing. We were just about to discuss the program."
I slid into a chair at the back, nodding at Rodriguez and Hardy. Captain Dawson stood near Hank, arms crossed, looking about as thrilled as the rest of us.
"As I was saying," Hank continued, "this year's Fire & Ice Gala is shaping up to be our most successful event yet. We've already sold out all tickets, and the silent auction items are pouring in." He beamed, as if this information should excite us. "The community center is undergoing a complete transformation as we speak."
"What exactly are we transforming it into?" Rodriguez asked, voicing what we were all wondering.
"A 'Forest Awakening' theme," Hank replied without a hint of irony. "Spring blooms meeting mountain majesty. The designer working on the lodge renovation is handling everything. She's creating a cohesive visual experience that'll take your breath away."
My stomach tightened hearing my suspicion that the designer was Peyton confirmed.
"The schedule is straightforward," Hank continued, passing out printed agendas. "Cocktail hour at six, dinner at seven, speeches and presentations at eight, followed by dancing and continued socializing until eleven." He turned to me. "McAllister, you'll deliver a ten-minute address on wildfire prevention, focusing on everyday carelessness and potential consequences. We want to highlight the dangers without terrifying the donors."
Great. Talk about deadly fires but make it palatable for people eating chocolate mousse. Just what I needed.
"We'll need all of you there by five for a quick walk-through," Hank added, checking his notes. "The designer wants to ensure the lighting is correct for maximum impact during the presentations."
The meeting dragged on for another twenty minutes, with Hank outlining parking arrangements, seating charts, and fundraising goals. I heard almost none of it, my mind stuck on the realization that Peyton would be there, watching me give a speech about the very thing that had claimed Travis.
When we finally broke, I headed straight for the equipment room, needing to lose myself in the familiar routine of gear maintenance. I spent the next three hours meticulously checking harnesses, replacing worn straps, and testing buckles. The methodical work usually calmed me, but today my thoughts kept straying.
"Earth to McAllister," Hardy's voice broke through my concentration. "Captain's looking for you. Something about your speech?"
I sighed, setting aside the harness I'd been inspecting. "Thanks."
Dawson was in his office, hunched over paperwork when I knocked. He glanced up, gesturing me in.
"Sit down, Grant." He pushed a folder across his desk. "Talking points for your speech. Nothing complicated—I don’t expect you to bring up what happened at Timber Ridge. Just give them the basics about fire prevention, some statistics, and a call to action for donations."
I flipped through the pages, scanning the bullet points. "I've got this, Cap."
"I know you do." He leaned back, studying me. "You're the best man for this job, though I know you'd rather jump into an actual fire than speak in public."
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. "That obvious?"
"Only to anyone with eyes." He sighed. "Look, I know these events aren't your thing in the first place. But this department needs the community's support, especially after last season's budget cuts. Your speech matters."
"No pressure," I muttered.
"Just be yourself. These people respect what we do. They want to hear from someone they admire, someone who's been on the front lines." He paused. "Though maybe leave out the more gruesome details. We want them opening their checkbooks, not having nightmares."
I nodded, tucking the folder under my arm. "Anything else?"
"Yeah." He fixed me with a stern look. "Get your dress uniform cleaned. Last thing we need is you showing up looking like you slept in it."
"Yes, sir," I replied dryly, earning a dismissive wave from Dawson.
By the time I left the station, dusk was settling over Ashwood. I turned into the parking lot of Mountain Valley Market to pick up something for dinner. After tossing a rotisserie chicken and a couple of baked potatoes into my cart, I grabbed a few more essentials before heading to checkout. My mind was already back at my cabin, away from all this gala talk.
The drive up the mountain was exactly what I needed—each mile putting more distance between me and the obligations waiting in town. By the time I pulled up to my cabin, some of the tension had eased from my shoulders.
Inside, I put away groceries and spotted the empty cookie tin on my counter. I'd finally tossed Peyton's rock-hard chocolate chip cookies into the compost bin yesterday, though not before attempting one last bite that nearly chipped a tooth. The memory pulled an unexpected smile from me. She was confident enough to admit they were terrible, which somehow made them better.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge and Dawson's folder of speech notes. The basics were simple enough: fire prevention tips, safety guidelines, ask for money. Twenty minutes of talking, tops, then freedom. I could handle that.
Settling on the porch with my beer, I tried to focus on the notes, but my mind kept drifting to the woman who'd shown up at my door with that tin of inedible cookies. Would she be watching from the audience as I gave my speech? The thought sent an unexpected surge of heat through me, and I couldn't help wondering what Peyton might wear to a black-tie event. Would she look as good in formal wear as she had in that blue sweater, standing in my doorway with a determined smile?
Three days until the gala. Three days to remember that no matter how much I'd enjoyed the sparkle in her eyes when she started talking about ideas to fix up my place properly, getting involved with someone who'd leave Ashwood when her project ended wasn't in my plans.
I tipped my beer toward the compost bin visible at the edge of my clearing. Here's to best-laid plans—and terrible baking.
So why did I have the feeling that nothing about Saturday night would be simple at all?