Knotting the Firefighters (Cactus Rose Ranch: Cowboyverse #2)

Prologue What Burns, Remains

~WENDOLYN~

The first thing that hits me is gasoline.

Sharp. Chemical. Wrong.

Not the faint whiff you catch at a pump or the residual smell from a spill. This is concentrated, deliberate—the kind of chemical sharpness that makes your lungs seize before your brain catches up to what it means.

No. Not here. Not now.

My hands freeze over the industrial mixer, flour dust suspended in the air like ash waiting to fall. The community center's kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in as that petroleum stench winds through the warm scents of butter and rosemary I've been working with all afternoon.

I know this smell.

God, do I know this smell.

Fifteen years of running into burning buildings, and you learn to read accelerants like tea leaves. This isn't accidental. This isn't a leak or a maintenance issue. This is intention made liquid, destruction measured out in gallons.

Back then, fire had rules—even if you broke them, there was structure, a brotherhood, something sacred about the way we risked ourselves to save the world a little piece at a time.

But the sharp, oily perfume clawing its way through the kitchen wasn’t about heroics or redemption.

No one here was coming to be saved. No, this was about destruction.

About punishment, and message-sending, and the suffocation that came from knowing your enemies understood exactly what haunted you—because once, they’d lain beside you in the soot and the afterglow.

My jaw clenched.

My ex.

It could only be him.

The cherry-print apron I'm wearing—vintage, from a thrift shop in downtown, my armor since I fled to this nowhere town—suddenly feels like tissue paper. Like something that will burn faster than skin.

Gregory.

His name forms in my mind before I'm ready for it, bitter as bile. Six months of silence, six months of thinking maybe I'd finally slipped his notice, that the Ironwood Pack had bigger prey to hunt than one runaway Omega who wouldn't sign over her pension.

Stupid. So fucking stupid to think he'd let me go.

The casseroles I've been making—three dozen for tomorrow's charity dinner at Cactus Rose Ranch—sit in neat rows on the counter.

Such normal things. Such a normal afternoon.

Willa had asked if I could help, her voice still carrying that careful distance she maintains even after everything we've been through together.

"The ranch hands work so hard," she'd said. "Would be nice to give them something special."

And here I am, playing small-town volunteer, pretending the biggest danger in my life is burning the bechamel sauce.

My phone.

Where's my fucking phone?

Dead on the counter, black screen mocking me. I'd meant to charge it, had even brought the cord, but three hours of cooking and I'd forgotten. The kind of careless mistake that gets people killed.

The kind of mistake the old me never would have made.

Fire Chief Wendolyn Murphy would have had three backup plans, two exit strategies, and a charged phone at all times. But that woman trusted the wrong Alpha, believed pretty words over instinct, thought love could overcome nature.

That woman was an idiot.

Smoke now, threading under the door like fingers searching for purchase. Not wood smoke or electrical—this is accelerant and intent, the kind of fire that burns hot and fast and leaves nothing but teeth and regret.

"Gregory?"

My voice cracks on his name, the first time I've said it aloud since I ran. Even forming the syllables feels like surrender, but maybe that's what he wants. To hear me break before I burn.

The kitchen door slams shut with military precision.

The deadbolt clicks.

From the outside.

"Hello, little rose."

His voice through the door, smooth as aged whiskey, casual as Sunday morning coffee. The same tone he used when he'd hold me after sex, when he'd promise me the world, when he'd slowly, systematically isolated me from everyone who might have warned me what he really was.

That voice used to make me wet. Now it makes me want to vomit.

"Thought you could hide from me? From us?"

My hands shake as I grab for anything—a knife, a pan, something to fight with even though I know it's useless. You can't stab smoke. Can't beat back fire with a spatula.

Orange light flickers under the door gap now, dancing like it's alive. The temperature's already climbing, making my skin prickle with sweat that has nothing to do with the industrial ovens.

"Please."

The word tears out before I can stop it, pride be damned.

"Gregory, please—"

His laugh cuts through the door, through the smoke, through my chest like shrapnel. That same dark chuckle that used to follow his fist through drywall, that preceded every cruel thing he'd ever done while calling it love.

"The Ironwood Pack doesn't leave loose ends, sweetheart."

A different voice now—Marcus, his beta. The one who used to watch me dress with hungry eyes while Gregory wasn't looking. "Should've taken our offer when you had the chance."

The offer.

Sign over my settlement from Los Angeles. Hand them the fire chief pension I'd earned through fifteen years of service, of running into buildings everyone else ran from. Give them everything that made my escape possible, and maybe they'd let me live.

Maybe.

"We already took your house," Gregory continues, and I can picture his cold smile, those green eyes that fooled me into thinking they held warmth. "Your savings. Your reputation. Thought we'd leave you one last thing to remember us by."

Heat presses against the door now, real heat. The kind I'd spent years fighting, the kind that eats through buildings and dreams and poorly executed escape plans with equal hunger.

This is really happening.

He's really going to—

"Shame you couldn't even find a pack to protect you." Another voice—Dimitri, the sadistic one who liked to leave bruises where they wouldn't show. "Six months in this shithole town and you're still alone. Still worthless."

Their laughter mixes with the crackling flames, boots retreating down the hallway like this is just another Tuesday, just another Omega who needed to learn her place.

The smoke is black now, rolling under the door in waves that make my eyes stream. Muscle memory kicks in—grab a towel, soak it, press it to my face. Keep low, stay calm, find another exit.

But there is no other exit.

The walk-in freezer—locked from outside. The windows—too small, too high, industrial design at its finest. Even the service door is on the other side of the flames.

I sink to the floor where the air is marginally cleaner, my back against the cold steel of the prep counter. The cherry print on my apron blurs through tears I refuse to acknowledge.

This is how it ends?

After everything I've survived—my parents' death, the foster system, clawing my way up through the Los Angeles Fire Department despite every Alpha who said an Omega couldn't hack it—this is my ending? Dying in a community kitchen, killed by the man I'd once trusted with everything?

The smoke thickens, each breath burning like swallowing glass.

I should have fought back. Should have stayed who I was instead of running. Now look at my end? Becoming a shameful pile of ash with nothing but regrets.

Fire Chief Wendolyn Murphy wouldn't have hidden in a small town. She wouldn't have taken a volunteer position making casseroles, wouldn't have worn vintage dresses like camouflage. She would have stood her ground, badge gleaming, crew at her back.

But that woman had believed Gregory loved her.

That woman had been stupid enough to think an Alpha's pretty words meant more than biology.

That woman had to die for this one to survive.

The door explodes inward, fire and smoke billowing in like hell itself decided to visit. But through it—shapes. Moving with purpose, with training, with the kind of controlled urgency I recognize in my bones.

Firefighters.

Real ones, not the ghosts of those I used to command.

"We got her!"

A deep voice, all honey and eucalyptus cutting through the smoke. Gentle hands checking my pulse, my airways, moving with practiced efficiency.

"Ma'am, can you hear me?"

I try to answer but my lungs are full of smoke and memories and the bitter taste of irony—saved by firefighters, when I couldn't save myself.

The towel falls from my face, and that's when I smell him through everything else.

Pine and bourbon and smoke—but good smoke, campfire smoke, the kind that means safety and home and hands that have never hurt me.

Only one Alpha in the world smells like that.

"Calder?"

The name comes out as a wheeze, barely audible.

"Jesus Christ, Wendy."

My best friend's face appears through the haze—not in turnout gear because he wasn't on duty, but here anyway because of course he is. Because Calder Hayes has been saving me from myself since the day I showed up in Sweetwater Falls with a broken heart and a U-Haul full of vintage clothes.

"We need to move. Now."

Other scents swirl around me as strong arms lift me from the floor.

Cedar and black amber—authority and control.

Roasted chestnut and maple syrup—warmth and strength.

That honey-eucalyptus again—healing and hope.

"Kitchen's fully involved," someone says with the kind of calm that only comes from training. The captain, by his tone. "Bear, take point on the carry. Silas, maintain airway watch."

My body goes limp as they carry me, passed between careful hands like something worth saving. The vintage dress I'd worn under my apron—soft blue with tiny daisies—is definitely ruined.

Strange thing to think about while possibly dying.

But maybe that's what we do—focus on the small losses so the big ones don't swallow us whole.

"Stay with us, darlin'."

The maple-syrup voice, close to my ear, steady as a heartbeat. "Almost out."

Fresh air hits my lungs like salvation, like resurrection, like every second chance I never thought I'd get. Stars wheel overhead, clear and bright in the Montana sky. Someone's setting up oxygen, someone else calling for ambulance backup, but all I can focus on is the circle of faces above me.

Calder's familiar amber eyes, wild with fear and something else—rage, maybe, or recognition of what this means.

Three strangers in Station Fahrenheit turnout gear, their faces lit by the orange glow of the building burning behind us.

"The Ironwood Pack," I gasp between coughs that taste like copper. "Gregory Marco. Dimitri. They—"

"We know."

The captain's voice is granite, unforgiving as mountains. Storm-gray eyes that miss nothing, that have already catalogued every detail.

"We saw them leave."

"Laughing."

The big one—Bear?—adds, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "They were fucking laughing."

I close my eyes, feeling tears finally spill over, hot as the smoke still in my lungs.

Six months of running, six months of hiding, six months of pretending I could disappear into vintage dresses and small-town anonymity.

They'd found me anyway.

Tried to end me anyway.

But I'm still breathing. Still alive. Still here despite Gregory's best efforts to erase me like a mistake he could burn away.

And somewhere between the oxygen mask being placed over my face and the gentle hands checking me for burns, between Calder's familiar presence and these strangers who pulled me from flames, I make a decision.

No more running.

No more hiding who I used to be.

If Gregory and his pack wanted to play with fire, they'd forgotten one crucial detail.

I know how to fight it better than anyone.

I just need to remember how to be her again. The woman who'd worn chief's bars. The woman who'd run into flames instead of away from them. The woman who'd saved lives and commanded respect and never, ever backed down.

The woman who'd never needed an Alpha's protection because she was too busy protecting everyone else.

As the EMTs load me onto a gurney, I catch the captain's storm-gray eyes.

"Ma'am?"

His voice is carefully professional, but something flickers in his expression—recognition maybe, or professional curiosity.

"Chief."

The word comes out rough from smoke, raw from disuse, but firm as bedrock. "It's Chief Murphy."

He starts to open his mouth, probably to argue that I'm a civilian now, that I don't hold that rank anymore, that I'm just another victim in a vintage dress. But another voice cuts through the chaos like a blade through smoke.

"Murphy?"

An older voice, full of authority and sudden understanding. "Wendolyn Murphy? LA Fire Chief Murphy?"

The captain—Aidric, someone calls him—turns to face his superior, and I see the exact moment comprehension dawns in those gray eyes. The moment I transform from victim to colleague, from rescued to peer.

"That's right."

The older chief moves closer, and I recognize him now—Tom Rodriguez, head of Station Fahrenheit's district. We'd met once at a conference years ago, back when I still wore the uniform instead of cherry-print aprons.

"I heard you'd moved up here. Figured you'd want your privacy." He looks at the building still burning behind us, professional assessment mixing with personal concern. "You rest now, Chief Murphy. We'll handle this."

Relief floods through me so fast it makes the world spin.

Not alone. Not forgotten. Not just another Omega who made bad choices with the wrong Alpha.

Chief Murphy.

Calder's there suddenly, gathering me against his chest as the EMTs step back to give him room. His familiar bourbon and pine scent wraps around me like armor, like home, like every safe thing Gregory tried to take from me.

"I've got you, Wendy," he whispers against my hair, and I can feel him trembling with the effort of staying calm. "You're safe now."

Safe.

The word follows me down into darkness as exhaustion finally wins, as my body decides it's done fighting for today. But even as consciousness slips away, even as the voices fade and the world goes soft around the edges, those two words echo in my mind like a battle cry.

Chief Murphy.

Not victim. Not prey. Not Gregory's discarded Omega.

Chief Murphy.

And when I wake up—because I will survive this like I've survived everything else—the Ironwood Pack is going to learn what happens when you try to burn someone who's made a career out of walking through flames.

They want to play with fire?

Fine.

Let's see how they handle the inferno.