Chapter 2
Cody
When riding a horse, we borrow freedom.
~ Helen Thompson
The morning at the bakery fades like a distant memory as soon as we’re driving through town with our sirens blaring. Every time we get a call, a switch flips. It’s instinct now, the alarm rings and my body responds almost before my brain registers the details.
“No structures involved at this point,” Patrick relays from the driver’s seat. “Just a grass fire.”
We’re all buckled in, wriggling into our wildland gear while we roll past the shops on Main Street out toward the open land surrounding Waterford.
The ranches past the town limits are at least a mile apart from one another and set back from the main road.
It almost looks like no one lives out here, but a whole world of ranchers and farmers form a hidden community down these seemingly desolate roads.
We approach from the upwind side, steering clear of smoke and flame.
Captain’s on the radio from the grass rig. “We’re on our way,” he says in a voice that’s calm and confident.
Fires like this one are routine—just another day in the office. With fire, anything can happen, but we all know what we’re doing, and this one’s burning low on a dormant winter landscape.
My boots hit the dirt and Patrick unfurls the hose from the engine into my waiting hands.
I advance to the fire’s edge with Dustin flanking me.
Water whooshes through the hose, the line bulking and gaining weight in my grip.
Dry grass crackles as our spray meets the flames.
The smell of smoke and burning brush fills the air.
Dustin and I sweep the base of the flames, working around the perimeter. Captain and Greyson attack from the other side, water fanning out from the bumper nozzle on the grass rig. In less than twenty minutes, we’ve pinched the fire and effectively extinguished it.
I radio dispatch. “Engine one and brush truck. Grass fire contained. We’ll be in mop-up for a few minutes and then we’re heading back to the station.”
Gina at dispatch answers, “Engine One, dispatch copies. Let us know when you’re clear.” Then she adds, “Y’all be safe. I know Emberleigh and Daisy want their men in one piece for Valentine’s.”
I chuckle. She almost kept it professional.
“Copy,” I say to Gina. “We’ll get them back in one piece.”
Ash drifts skyward. We check for hot spots, breaking up residual embers with hoes and hand tools until the threat of a rekindle is gone. Thin grey plumes swirl toward the Buckners’ farm.
Heat still clings to my gear, but Carli slips in anyway—like smoke through a crack.
A private smile pulls at my mouth. Our morning at the bakery hits me again—icing spraying everywhere, the look she gave me when I offered to help.
I swallow the tightness in my throat. Thinking about her always feels like walking along the top of a fence—unsteady footing and no easy way to settle on one side or the other.
The crew loosens up on the ride back to the station. With the fire contained, our usual banter picks up.
“Valentine’s Day,” Dustin says, as if that’s a whole sentence.
“What are you doing?” Patrick asks.
“Dinner. I’m cooking for Emberleigh tomorrow night. And I got her a few things. We’re celebrating a day late since I’m on shift.” He pauses and smiles. “I’m definitely not baking.”
“That’s a gift,” Grey says under his breath.
“Grey?” Dustin says.
“Yeah,” Greyson answers.
“You got plans?”
“If I did, you’d be the last to know.”
Greyson’s not mean. He’s just private. And gruff when poked. But under all that stoicism is a quiet steadiness we all unknowingly rely on.
“Awww, Grey,” Dustin faux pouts. “You wound me.”
Greyson chuffs out a laugh. “You’ll live.”
“Grey’s love language is silence,” Dustin announces to all of us.
“From you, yes,” Greyson deadpans. The side of his mouth ticks up.
“Awwww.” Dustin blows an exaggerated kiss in Greyson’s direction. “You love me.”
“What’s for lunch?” I ask, shifting the subject before the guys turn their holiday interrogation in my direction.
Single people should be gifted overnight stays in bomb shelters on Valentine’s Day.
“How ’bout you, Cody?” Dustin says instead of answering my question.
“How about what I want for lunch?” I deflect.
“That too. But I’m talking about Valentine's Day. Any plans?”
“Nope.” I turn toward the window, hoping my one-word answer kills the subject.
Someday I’ll have to figure out how to shut down my inconvenient feelings for my sister’s best friend—who also happens to be my best friend’s sister.
Talk about a complication. I know I’m not getting any younger.
I should ask someone on a date. But the idea of approaching any other woman sounds about as fun as getting my wisdom teeth pulled without novocaine.
Dustin lets out a little huff, eyeing me with something just shy of pity—a goofy love-drunk smile plastered on his face.
I’m about thirty seconds away from spouting off a diatribe about the commercialism of a holiday devoted to romance—none of which I really believe—when we pull into the station.
My need to defend my singleness is thankfully replaced by our post-fire routines.
I lose myself in food prep once the engine is secured and the equipment is stowed.
It’s late for lunch and the donuts we had at the bakery were no real breakfast—not for men who eat at least thirty-five hundred calories a day.
I chop the potatoes into chunks and toss them with olive oil and seasoning.
Once they’re on the baking sheet, I sear the steaks hard—two minutes a side—then drop in butter, garlic, thyme, and baste until the crust hits that deep brown.
Meanwhile, Grey preps a salad, Patrick sautés asparagus, and Dustin sets the table.
“Smells like the brush fire,” Patrick teases, leaning over the pan of steaks.
Dustin inhales dramatically and says, “Smells like love.”
I wag my tongs at Patrick. “Smells like we’ll be eating cereal if you don’t give me a little elbow room here.”
The crew bursts into laughter, and I smile—a familiar sense of home settles in my chest.
We settle in around the dining table. Conversation slows to a halt while we indulge in our meal. Eventually, the food kicks in and we start talking again.
Captain David usually talks shop when we’re gathered in a group. He saves his personal talks for one-to-ones, and today is no exception.
“They’re finalizing interviews for the new fire inspector this week,” he says.
Dustin smiles. “You think Carli’s gonna get the position?”
“Did she apply?” I ask, looking up from my plate to find all eyes on me.
I lower my gaze and focus on my steak as if cutting my next bite requires the sculpting prowess of Michelangelo.
“What?” I ask when no one answers.
I look around at the guys, who are all still fixated on me.
“How did you not know?” Dustin asks. “Carli’s practically your sister.”
And there you have it—our status might as well be chiseled somewhere. She is not practically my sister. McKenna is my sister. Carli is … Carli.
“She knows her stuff,” Captain says. “I think she’d throw herself into the job with everything she has.”
Grey studies me. I swear that man’s a psychic. His imperceptible nod tells me he doesn’t think Carli’s a sister to me either. I’m more grateful than ever for his limited use of the English language. He’s a human vault. Sometimes I wonder what else is locked inside.
The conversation shifts, but my mind remains fixed in a battle.
If Carli wants the inspector position, I want it for her.
But if she gets the job, that will be one more reason we can never be more than what we are to one another—our families, and soon our workplaces, inextricably interwoven.
The whole world seems dead set on keeping us in our lanes.
I don’t even know if she feels anything for me more than friendship and lifelong familiarity.
Sometimes I think I see a flicker of interest, but she shuts that down faster than my crew contains a brush fire.
It’s entirely possible I’m suffering from unrequited love—that kind where one person can’t stop thinking about the other while they wander through the world oblivious and detached.
Valentine’s Day should be outlawed.
This one day serves as a magnifying glass fixed on romance—or the lack of it.
When we were younger, Mom made heart cookies and gave us all something small to show her love for us. Dad sometimes took her out, but he’s not one for big shows of affection, so mostly we celebrated as a family.
February fourteenth betrayed me. What used to be a fun evening around the ranch dining table has turned into a day of uninvited introspection while most of my friends make plans to dote on the women they love. I’m happy for them. I wish I could leave it at that.
We clean up from our meal and head into the workout room a half hour later. The rest of the shift is uneventful. We even get a decent, uninterrupted sleep. Shift change goes quickly with little to report and then we’re all heading down the driveway to our respective cars and trucks.
The sun is up and the roads are pale with frost as I make my way out to the ranch. A truck approaches, heading the other direction—red, older. It’s her.
Carli sends me a small wave through the windshield and a smile breaks across her face.
The corner of my mouth pulls up and I wave back at her.
I’m a beggar, feasting on scraps and calling them a meal.
Pathetic. But one soft glance from her can feed me for days.
My smile lingers for several miles. She’s on her way to pick my sister up from the airport.
It feels like the whole town’s been waiting for my sister’s return.
So have I. She brings life and adventure wherever she goes.
The ranch is too quiet without her. My brothers focus on business.
Mom cooks, keeps the house and pitches in on bigger tasks.
When McKenna’s home, we joke around more.
She’s the first sign of spring after months of winter.
I pull into the ranch. The driveway’s already partly full. This evening, trucks and cars will line the fences all the way to the main road. Everyone’s coming over to welcome my sister back after two months away.
I drive to the spot next to the barn. It’s set a little way back from the main house. I park my truck and walk into the stables. The air smells of hay and the faint scent of manure.
“Hey, Jasper,” I say to my American Paint.
He makes his way to the stable door and lifts his head.
My hand rests on his forehead and slowly slides down the bridge of his nose.
My shoulders loosen and I let out a long breath the second my hand touches him.
We got Jasper when he was only a two-year-old foal, full of the energy typical of his Thoroughbred bloodline.
I loved shaping him, training on my off days, teaching him how to tolerate a saddle.
Now that he’s five, anyone can ride him and he’s even able to pull his weight around the ranch.
Mostly, he lives a life of leisure, unless I’m the one taking him out.
We’ve built a bond, Jasper and I.
“Feel like a ride?” I ask him, already moving to the tack on the wall so I can pull his blanket, bridle and saddle.
He whinnies and I smile.
Once Jasper is saddled up, I lead him out the back barn door and into the pasture.
Then I mount him and give him one nudge with my heel to his hindquarter.
We take off barely trotting before accelerating into a lope and then a full gallop.
The wind lifts my hair. My thighs grip Jasper’s sides and we roll as one through tall grass, past trees and creeks. We both needed this.
We ride the property line, my breathing matching Jasper’s rhythm, tension lifting into the cool late-winter air. My thoughts settle.
I stop at a wider creek on the way back to the barn, releasing the reins and dismounting so Jasper can drink.
“Happy Valentine’s, buddy,” I say to my horse. “A day late, but it looks like you’re the love of my life this year.”
He ignores me and draws cool sips of water before lifting his head and allowing me to rest my hand on his neck, stroking under the mane.
Our ride back is slower, neither of us eager for it to end. More cars fill the driveway—our friends and family all arriving for McKenna’s homecoming. I strip Jasper of his saddle and blanket, brushing him out and filling his bucket with special feed.
Then I take one of the quads to my cabin, shower and drive back to the main house.