7. Harper
By six o’clock, Maple Peak looked like someone had shaken a snow globe and then added fairy lights for emotional damage.
The Firelight Festival glowed against the winter dark.
Lanterns lined the main path, every single one battery-operated because Harper Lane had no desire to be murdered by wax.
String lights looped between pine trees, their warm bulbs reflecting off fresh snow.
The cider station steamed beneath its red canopy.
The bonfire burned low and steady in its newly approved, tragically less atmospheric and annoyingly safe location.
Children ran carefully between booths with mittened hands and bright cheeks.
Couples stood shoulder to shoulder near the fire.
Mabel was telling a group of tourists that her cider had “family values and questionable intentions,” which meant Harper would need to inspect that station soon.
But overall, the festival was beautiful.
Worse than beautiful.
It was working.
Harper stood near the welcome arch, clipboard in hand, earpiece in one ear, and tried very hard not to look toward the fire department truck parked beside the south lane.
She failed every eight seconds.
Logan Pierce stood near the vendor row in his dark fire department jacket, broad-shouldered and unsmiling beneath the soft glow of the string lights. He looked official. Steady. Unmoved.
A mountain in a uniform.
A very handsome mountain who had kissed her like she was the only thing burning in the room and then spent the next morning trying to smother her career with caution.
Harper adjusted the scarf around her neck and looked away.
She had a festival to run.
She had no time for emotional arson.
“Harper!”
Tim rushed toward her carrying a stack of extra programs and wearing a headlamp he had not been issued.
Harper blinked at him. “Why are you glowing from the forehead?”
“Preparedness.”
“Take it off before you blind a toddler.”
He removed it immediately. “The photo arch line is getting long.”
“Move the extra stanchions from the craft booth and make a curved queue. Keep people off the west path. It’s slick.”
“Got it.”
“Tim.”
He stopped.
“No improvising with rope.”
His face fell. “How did you know?”
“Your soul is made of improvising with rope.”
He nodded solemnly and hurried off.
Harper marked the queue change on her clipboard.
A laugh floated from near the bonfire. She glanced over and saw Sophie Wilder tucked under Jace’s arm, her purple duck boot displayed proudly on a small decorative shelf beside the charity raffle table because, of course, it had become Maple Peak folklore.
Claire and Ethan were arguing amiably over whether trail maps counted as romantic gifts.
Lily was handing Mason something from the medical tent while Mason looked like a man trying very hard not to smile at whatever she had just said.
Everyone looked happy.
Harper let herself breathe.
Then the radio at her hip crackled.
“Harper, west path needs more salt,” Stella said. “Not urgent, but soon.”
Harper pressed the button. “Copy. Sending Eli with ice melt.”
Another crackle. “Also, Mabel is telling people the cider has medicinal value.”
Harper closed her eyes. “Copy. Sending myself.”
She crossed the snow toward the cider station, moving through the festival the way she always moved through events—eyes everywhere, smile ready, anxiety locked in a small interior basement where it could scream quietly without alarming the guests.
At least, that was the plan.
Then Logan stepped into her path. Not blocking her, but present enough that her body noticed before her pride could stop it.
“Sparks.”
The nickname landed now.
Unfair.
She kept her face pleasant. “Captain.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
Good.
Let him dislike the distance.
“West path is icing,” he said.
“I know.”
“I saw Eli heading that way with salt.”
“Then we are all experiencing teamwork.”
His eyes moved over her face. “Festival looks good.”
Harper almost laughed.
Not because it was funny, but because two nights ago, that would have warmed her straight through. However, tonight it only pressed against the bruise.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
“I assumed.”
“Harper.”
There it was.
Her name in that voice. The one that wanted to reach without asking permission.
She lifted the clipboard slightly between them, not dramatically enough for anyone else to notice.
A shield disguised as office supplies.
“I have a cider station to legally defend.”
His gaze dropped to the clipboard.
Then back to her.
“I’ll be nearby.”
“Professionally?”
The question escaped before she could stop it.
Something moved across his face.
Regret, maybe.
Or pain.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Professionally.”
She hated that answer.
She had asked for it.
She hated that, too.
“Good,” she said, and walked around him.
The cider station smelled like cinnamon, oranges, cloves and Mabel’s complete disregard for municipal boundaries.
Mabel stood behind the table in a red knit hat, ladling cider into paper cups with the confidence of a woman who had survived four husbands, two recessions, and one goat-related lawsuit.
“Mabel,” Harper said.
Mabel looked up. “Before you say anything, it’s alcohol-free.”
“Why do you sound disappointed?”
“Because honesty limits art.”
“Please stop describing cider as medicinal.”
“It warms the blood.”
“So does embarrassment. We don’t sell that in cups.”
Mabel leaned closer. “You and the fire captain fighting?”
Harper’s smile froze.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s been looking at you like a man who misplaced his common sense and knows exactly which woman took it.”
“Mabel.”
“What? I have eyes.”
“Use them to monitor cider distribution.”
“I can do both.”
Harper took a slow breath. “The festival is going beautifully. Let’s focus on that.”
Mabel’s face softened, which was somehow worse than nosiness.
“It is going beautifully, honey.”
The words touched a place Harper had not realized was waiting.
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
“Didn’t happen by accident.”
“No,” Harper said, looking out over the glowing field. “It really didn’t.”
For the next hour, the festival moved like music.
Not perfect music.
Event music.
A little chaotic. Occasionally off-key. Held together by panic, planning and attractive signage.
The photo arch line curved correctly. The west path got salted.
The astronomy booth drew a crowd, with Adrian Blackwood explaining constellations while Stella translated his academic intensity into language children could understand.
The marshmallow station remained supervised, despite several children attempting emotional manipulation. Tim did not touch anything electrical.
Harper almost trusted the night.
Almost.
Then she smelled it.
Not bonfire smoke.
Not wood.
Not cider steam.
Hot plastic.
Sharp.
Wrong.
Her head turned before the radio crackled.
“Harper,” Stella’s voice snapped through. “Vendor row. Food truck generator.”
Harper was already moving.
The crowd thickened near the south lane, where three food trucks sat angled exactly as Logan had required. Behind the middle truck, near the generator zone, orange sparks spat from an overloaded power strip beneath a half-collapsed tarp.
A fabric banner had slipped loose from the truck awning, sagging dangerously toward the sparks.
For one breath, the world narrowed.
Hotel ballroom.
Lighting rig.
Smoke.
Voices shouting.
Harper was responsible.
Harper should have pushed harder.
Harper should have known.
No.
Not this time.
She lifted the radio. “All stations, hold positions. Stella, move guests from vendor row to the north seating area. Tim, close the south lane. Eli, kill power to vendor row at the marked shutoff. Medical tent, standby. Do not send guests this direction.”
Her voice was calm.
Blessedly calm.
A guest nearby said, “Is everything okay?”
Harper smiled. “Absolutely. We’re just redirecting traffic for a smoother line.”
Then she looked at the vendor who was trying to duck behind the truck.
“No,” Harper said sharply.
The man froze.
“Do not touch that.”
“I can unplug–”
“You will step away from the equipment and move to the front of your truck.”
“But–”
“Now.”
Something in her voice worked.
He moved.
The banner dipped lower.
Harper grabbed a nearby volunteer. “Clear this section. Calmly. Say we’re opening the north cocoa line.”
The volunteer nodded and began redirecting guests.
Harper moved closer, scanning fast.
Sparks contained to strip.
No active flame yet.
Tarp close.
Banner closer.
Generator still running.
Where was Eli?
“Power’s stuck,” Eli’s voice crackled over the radio. “Shutoff panel is iced.”
Great.
Harper’s pulse slammed, but her mind stayed clear.
“Copy. Do not force it. Logan?”
No answer.
For half a second, panic clawed up her throat.
Then his voice came over the radio, low and steady.
“On my way. Keep people back.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
Two words.
I know.
Not I hope.
Not you better.
I know.
The stupid, battered thing inside her chest nearly broke.
She pushed it down because the banner had begun to smoke at one corner.
Harper looked left.
Snow shovel beside the maintenance barrel.
She grabbed it, lunged forward, and used the flat edge to lift the sagging banner away from the spark zone, keeping her body as far back as possible.
“Do not come closer!” she called to the vendor, who looked ready to become a liability with shoes.
Behind her, guests moved away. Volunteers formed a calm human barrier. The music still played from the north speakers, absurdly cheerful against the crackle of sparks.
The first fire department crew arrived within seconds.
Then Logan was there.
Not panicked.
Not shouting.
Commanding.
“Cut the generator,” he ordered.
Marco moved fast around the back. Nate pulled an extinguisher. Logan came to Harper’s side, eyes on the banner, the sparks, the spacing, the guests.
Then his gaze flicked to her.
“You good?”
Not move.
Not stop.
Not I’ll take over.
Harper tightened her grip on the shovel.
“Yes.”
He nodded once. “Hold it there.”
That did it.
That nearly undid her, but there was no time.
Marco shut down the generator. The sparks died into an ugly hiss. Nate sprayed the power strip and tarp edge with clean precision. Logan pulled the banner fully clear and dropped it onto the snow, where it smoldered pathetically before going out.
The whole incident lasted less than two minutes, but felt like a lifetime.
Silence settled in the immediate area. Then, from the far side of the crowd, Mabel called, “Cider’s half price for anyone who didn’t scream!”
A few nervous laughs broke the tension.
Harper lowered the shovel slowly.
Her hands shook once. She gripped the handle tighter until they stopped.
Logan saw.
Of course he saw.
He stepped closer, voice pitched for her alone. “Breathe.”
“I am.”
“Again.”
“I know how breathing works.”
“Then prove it.”
She hated that it helped.
She took a breath.
Then another.
Around them, his crew checked the generator, the truck connection, the tarp, the surrounding snow. Guests remained safely redirected. Volunteers held the new flow line. The emergency plan had worked.
Her plan had worked.
Harper looked toward the vendor whose face had gone pale.
“That power strip,” she said.
He swallowed. “It’s mine. I didn’t think–”
“No,” Logan said.
The single word cracked through the space.
Everyone looked at him.
His expression was calm, but his voice carried the kind of authority that made even the bonfire seem to sit up straighter.
“You were given electrical requirements,” Logan said. “You ignored them.”
The vendor opened his mouth.
Logan continued. “You overloaded your setup, concealed it under a tarp and created a hazard in a public event.”
The town committee had arrived at the edge of the cleared area. Mayor Whitcomb stood with one hand pressed to her chest, eyes moving between the generator and Harper.
Harper braced.
She hated that she braced.
Old habits survived long after they became useless.
Logan turned toward the mayor.
“The reason this stayed minor,” he said, loud enough for the nearby committee, volunteers, and several nosy citizens to hear, “is because Harper had a working emergency plan, trained volunteers, clear shutoff procedures, and crowd control in place.”
Harper’s throat closed.
Logan did not look at her.
If he had, she might not have survived it.
“She caught it fast,” he continued. “She moved people before panic spread. She kept the vendor from making it worse. Her planning did exactly what it was supposed to do.”
The mayor’s face softened with relief.
“Well,” she said, voice slightly shaky. “Thank God for that. Harper, excellent work.”
Mrs. Bell began clapping.
It was ridiculous.
Completely inappropriate.
Very Maple Peak.
Then someone else joined.
Then Tim, glowing again from the illegal headlamp he had somehow put back on, clapped so hard he nearly dropped the programs.
Harper stood beside a dead generator holding a snow shovel like a medieval weapon while the town applauded her for not letting the festival become a headline.
Her eyes burned.
Absolutely not.
She would not cry in front of a food truck.
She turned away slightly and set down the shovel.
Logan moved beside her.
Not touching.
Just there.
This time, there was no safe distance that felt like punishment.
There was only space he was letting her choose.
“You okay?” he asked.
Harper looked at the glowing festival beyond the cleared lane.
People were returning to cider. Children were laughing again. The bonfire burned steadily in its boring, safe, perfect location. Volunteers were resetting the flow. Stella caught Harper’s eye from across the path and gave her a smile that said, You did it.
Harper exhaled.
“I’m okay.”
Logan nodded.
She looked at him then.
Really looked.
The regret was still there. The restraint. The fear. The want.
But something else had shifted too.
Trust.
Not in theory.
Not in private.
Here, in the snow, in front of the town, with smoke still curling from a tarp.
“You backed me,” she said quietly.
His eyes held hers. “You earned it.”
The words hurt.
Beautifully.
Harper swallowed. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”
“It was a fact.”
“Your favorite disguise.”
His mouth almost curved.
Then he looked past her, getting back to his professional self again. “We need to shut down that truck for the night and inspect the others.”
“Already planned.”
“I know.”
There it was again.
I know.
This time, Harper smiled.
Not the event smile. Not the armor. Something real enough to scare her.
“Good,” she said. “Then help me save the rest of my festival, Captain.”
Logan’s gaze softened.
“With pleasure, Sparks.”
The nickname no longer sounded like accusation. It sounded like a promise he was trying very hard not to make.
Harper turned back toward the festival lights, heart still racing, hands finally steady.
The night was not ruined.
The emergency had not broken her.
The town was safe.
Her plan had worked.
And Logan Pierce, impossible, protective, infuriating Logan Pierce, had trusted her when it mattered.
Professionally, that was enough.
Personally, she was beginning to suspect it would not be.
***