Chapter Four | FLINT
Chapter Four
FLINT
I buried the last ember with a shovel while the production van rattled down the access road.
Ed had packed his camera. Joelle had counted the bins twice. Caprice had climbed into the van with her headset still on. “Round Two momentum,” she’d said into it, which sounded like producer code for everyone had earned a migraine.
That left me with cooling coals, a red-orange sunset over Fire Mountain, and Sunny watching me from beside her camper like she’d decided patience was a condiment and she’d run out.
Her white apron was streaked with mustard near the hem.
The red bandana in her coppery curls had slipped crooked sometime after the kids cleaned their plates and before Ed gave the dish the kind of grudging cameraman respect he usually reserved for a battery that died on schedule.
Her glossy low wedges had dirt on the sides, which meant she’d adapted to the terrain just enough to annoy me.
She’d won clean.
I tamped sand over the last dark seam in the fire ring, set the shovel aside, and peeled off my gloves. The wind had gone soft, the kind that moved grass without laying smoke flat. We were done for the day, and nobody had set anything on fire except my concentration.
Sunny lifted the mustard bottle an inch. “Are you doing a dramatic silence, or is this a smokejumper mourning ritual?”
“Former smokejumper.”
“Former smokejumper dramatic silence, then.”
I crossed the clearing toward her. The closer I got, the harder it was to ignore the yellow streak on her apron, the stubborn lift of her chin, and the way she seemed ready to enjoy making me admit defeat.
“You won that round,” I said.
Her eyebrows climbed. “Say it again. I want to hear if the mountain echoes.”
“You won that round.”
A smile broke across her face before she could stop it. Fast. Bright. Gone almost as quickly, tucked behind suspicion.
“Did that hurt?” she asked.
“Some.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I beat you and robbed you of personal growth.”
“You made a hot dog with smoked gouda and slaw.”
“Bison dog.”
“You made a bison dog with smoked gouda and slaw,” I corrected. “The kids liked it. The adults liked it. It fit the round.”
Sunny stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You said that like it had teeth pulled out of it, but I’m choosing to receive it as praise.”
“It was praise.”
“Careful, Sparks. A woman could get used to this.”
I looked at the mustard bottle still in her hand. “A man could get concerned about that condiment.”
She glanced down as if she’d forgotten she was armed. “This? This is for emotional support.”
“Mustard?”
“Don’t judge my process.”
“I judged the process two hours ago. It won.”
The smile came back, smaller this time. It caught in the last light and pulled low under my ribs.
Sunny set the bottle on the camper’s little foldout shelf. “Now I’m worried. You’re being gracious. Is this a trap? Are you about to lure me into the woods and make me identify safe wind direction for extra credit?”
“You already know how.”
“I know smoke running sideways is bad. I don’t know if that earns me a merit badge.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you wear shoes with tread tomorrow.”
She gasped. “My shoes have grown as people. Give them space.”
I glanced down at the cobalt wedges. They were still ridiculous, glossy as candy, and only marginally practical. They were also planted on dirt like she’d made a point of learning the ground instead of fighting it.
I wanted my hands on her.
The thought had been getting less quiet all afternoon.
The meadow had emptied around us. No crew. No kids. No Caprice turning every spark between us into a bullet point for the sponsor. Just Sunny, the cooling cook site, and the private ridge road that led up to my cabin.
I should’ve told her goodnight.
Instead, I said, “I’ve got a fire ring at the cabin.”
One brow arched. “That sounds like a very specific flex.”
“It’s safer than this one. Stone base, cleared perimeter, water on hand, no cameras, no Caprice.”
“No Caprice is a powerful selling point.”
“I’ve also got a private creek.”
Sunny went still.
“And if you want to bring some of that chocolate you hid from Caprice,” I said, “I won’t report it.”
“I hid emergency chocolate. That’s not the same thing.”
“Looks like chocolate.”
“Emotionally different.”
“I’ve got marshmallows.”
“Naturally.”
“Ice too, if you bring it from your cooler.”
Her attention flicked down, then came back up. “Are you inviting me up to your cabin for a private s’more rematch?”
“Not a rematch.” I nodded toward the scoreboard sign still leaning against the prep table. Flint 1. Sunny 1. Final Round Tomorrow. “Score’s tied.”
“So what is it?”
The answer sat heavy under my tongue. A bad idea. A good idea. The only thing I’d been thinking about since she’d looked over her shoulder at me after Round Two and smiled like she knew exactly how badly she’d gotten under my skin.
“A victory dessert,” I said. “For you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “With your marshmallows?”
“With my fire ring.”
“My chocolate.”
“My cabin.”
She checked the ridge road, then my face. “And no cameras.”
“No cameras.”
“No crew.”
“No crew.”
“No sudden hose attacks.”
“Depends on what you do with open flame.”
She pointed at me. “Romantic.”
“I’m practical.”
“I noticed. It’s deeply inconvenient.”
I waited. She had to choose this. I wasn’t going to push her, not with the permit mess behind us, not with competition money still on the table, and not with enough heat between us to turn a small mistake into something neither of us could take back.
Sunny looked toward the camper. “Give me five minutes to change and collect supplies.”
My hand flexed once at my side before I made it still. “Only if you want to.”
She stepped closer. Close enough that I could see a tiny smear of mustard near her wrist and a dusting of freckles across her nose.
“Flint, I’ve spent two days being hosed, judged, filmed, and taste-tested by children who considered my bison dogs more trustworthy than most adults. I know what I want.”
My pulse hit hard.
“Five minutes,” she said.
“Take six. I’ve got to load the safety gear.”
“Be still my heart.”
She disappeared into the camper before I could make a bad decision right there beside a bucket of sand.
I loaded the last of my gear into the truck. Fire gloves. Extinguisher. Water can. One pan that had somehow become more controversial than cookware had a right to be. The work helped. It gave my hands something to do besides remember the way Sunny had smiled before stepping into the camper.
The camper door opened.
Sunny stepped out in cuffed denim shorts and a soft red sleeveless top tied at her waist. She’d washed the mustard off her wrist, but her hair was mostly loose now, copper curls falling around her shoulders with the red bandana knotted around one wrist. She carried a canvas tote that clinked faintly, probably with jars, chocolate, utensils, and half the contents of a gourmet supply truck.
She’d changed shoes too.
This pair was still bright: flat yellow sandals with a strap around her ankle and a sole that looked like it could survive six feet of honest dirt.
I looked at them.
She lifted her chin. “Don’t make me regret being teachable.”
“I wasn’t going to say a word.”
“You were thinking several.”
“I respected the tread in silence.”
“That’s growth.”
I took the tote from her before it pulled her shoulder down. “You pack rocks?”
“Chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers, caramel, flaky salt, a jar of emergency fudge sauce, and enough ice to maintain my dignity.”
“That’s a lot of dignity.”
“I’m a professional.”
I put the tote in the truck. “You always bring emergency fudge sauce?”
“Only when the situation requires courage.”
The drive up to my cabin took ten minutes, maybe twelve with the ruts.
Sunny sat beside me with one hand braced on the door and the other keeping the tote steady between her feet.
The ridge road climbed out of the meadow, past the production glare and into lodgepole shadow, where evening came faster and the temperature dropped by a few degrees.
She didn’t fill every second with words.
Now and then she looked out the window at the pines, the rough slope, the hard cuts of the access road.
The red bandana at her wrist brushed the tote whenever the truck bounced, and her fingers went still against the canvas when the cabin ridge came into view.
She fit the quiet differently than I’d expected.
Still warm enough to pull a man’s attention if he let it.
I didn’t let it for more than two seconds at a time.
The cabin came into view as we turned the last bend, tucked against the ridge with the porch facing west. The private firepit sat in the clearing to the side, ringed in stone, ten feet from bare dirt and thirty from brush.
Beyond the cabin, the narrow footpath dropped toward the creek.
In the hush after the engine died, water moved below us over rock, steady and cold.
Sunny climbed out and stood still.
Her mouth curved once, then she looked back at the cabin instead of filling the quiet.
I rounded the truck with the tote in one hand. “You expected a bunker?”
“I expected practical,” she said. “I didn’t expect pretty.”
“It’s not pretty.”
“Sure. The hand-built cabin with the sunset view and the secret creek is ruggedly hideous. My mistake.”
I looked at the porch, the stacked wood, the fire tools lined where I could grab them fast. “It’s just where I live.”
“That’s probably why it works.”
My grip shifted on the tote.
I carried the tote to the firepit and set it on the flat stump I used as a side table. “Fire stays small.”
Sunny followed me. “I know.”
“Water can is here. Sand is there. Wind’s coming light from the west, so smoke should lift.”
“I know.”
“If it changes—”
“We pause.” She stepped into my line of sight. “I listen sometimes.”
“I noticed.”
One dimple showed. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Praise. It’s unsettling.”