Chapter Thirteen – Rowan
The heat hangs thick in the air like something waiting to snap. I’m familiar with the feeling.
I’ve been dancing around Ivy all morning, both of us pretending we don’t feel it. She's been in and out of the barn since sunrise, feeding the goats like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be back here.
Like she never left.
But I haven’t forgotten the pictures. And I haven’t forgotten the silence that followed.
Still… when she passed me this morning with that tiny smile, a stray strand of hair caught on her bottom lip, and I had to stop myself from reaching out. From tucking it behind her ear. From dragging my thumb across the soft curve of her mouth.
Instead, I nodded. Silent. Guarded. Like always. It’s safer that way. Except it isn’t, and we both know it.
Especially not when her top sticks to her skin in this August heat, or when she hums under her breath while brushing one of the horses. She’s a walking dare. And I’m not known for backing down from a challenge.
But damn if she doesn’t scare the hell out of me. I don’t know how to be around her without feeling like I’m going to combust.
And judging by the flush in her cheeks every time our arms brush or her voice catches on my name… she feels it, too.
Hell.
I wipe a hand across my forehead and shove my gloves into the back pocket of my jeans. The sky is too blue. The clouds are too still.
Something’s coming. And I’m not just talking about her.
I head to the feed shed, grabbing the bolt cutter I’d meant to fix since May. Ivy perches on the fence across the pasture, legs swinging, that loose braid hanging over her shoulder like it’s taunting me.
She waves. I grunt.
Progress.
I turn away before I say something I’ll regret.
The radio crackles to life in the work truck, volume cranked low. At first, it’s just static, then a voice cuts through—urgent and clipped.
“...dry brush fire reported near the edge of Mrs. Danner’s property, off North Ridge Road. Volunteer responders requested. Fire crew is en route from Seabrook, ETA thirty minutes.”
Shit.
I bolt for the truck, heart hammering.
Mrs. Danner lives less than two miles from here. Her pasture butts right up against ours in spots, and this time of year, it’s bone-dry. All it would take is one spark—one careless flick of a cigarette—to light the place up.
I throw the door open and grab my gear—gloves, rope, shovel, and the old metal water buckets that rattle like hell in the truck bed.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” I mutter, tossing in two spare hoses I keep coiled under the back seat, then I’m tearing down the gravel drive, dust spitting behind me like exhaust.
I hit the turn for Mrs. Danner’s pasture doing forty, which is too fast for gravel, but not fast enough for what’s ahead.
The smoke's already visible from the rise—a long gray smear climbing into the sky like a signal flare. I can smell it before I even park. That dry, metallic bite of burning brush mixed with scorched earth and panic.
I slam the truck into park and throw open the door.
A handful of familiar trucks are pulled up crooked near the old fence line. Volunteers. Local boys and old-timers who know the drill by now. We’ve all fought a handful of these over the years. Usually small. Sometimes worse.
Today’s riding the edge.
Mrs. Danner stands off to the side, her hands fluttering uselessly as she paces in the tall grass. Her dog barks like it’s got something personal against the fire.
“Rowan!” she yells. “It started from the back corner. Might’ve been the faulty tractor we had out here yesterday.”
I nod, already dragging a hose from the back of my truck and uncoiling it toward the fence. “You get the animals out?”
“Goats and chickens are clear. But the wind’s shifting.”
Which is exactly what I don’t want to hear.
“Keep back from the fence line,” I call out, waving off her dog and jogging toward the edge where flames lick through dry grass like they’re starving.
The heat pulses in waves. Nothing too tall yet, but with enough wind, this could jump the ditch and head straight for the hay barn on our side of the ridge.
A few guys I recognize—Ben Carter, Derek from the hardware store—are already beating at the flames with wet feed sacks and shovels. It’s half chaos, half coordination.
We’ve done worse with less.
I anchor one hose to the water tank I keep in the truck bed and pass another to Derek. It’s warm. The pressure is weak, but it’s something.
“Concentrate on the west end,” I bark. “The wind’s heading south. We keep it boxed in before it jumps the creek.”
I’m soaked in sweat within minutes. Smoke fills my throat, my shirt sticks to my back, and the ground crackles under my boots like dry paper.
Someone yells about more buckets. Another voice calls out for gloves. It’s a hell of a dance. And we’re barely keeping ahead.
Then, out of the haze and heat, I hear her.
“I have towels!”
I turn, blinking through the smoke.
And there she is.
Ivy.
She’s climbing out of her spaceship, balancing a plastic tote in her arms. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts over a white shirt, denim cutoffs, and scuffed boots that definitely aren’t designer.
She looks like a goddamn angel.
Or a hallucination.
My jaw clenches. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She pushes past me, dumping the tote near the truck. “Wet towels. First aid. Bottled water. That guy over there is limping and needs ice. Don’t argue with me.”
I don’t.
She disappears into the smoke before I can say another word, like she’s been doing this all her life. Just not with me.
By the time the first fire engine rolls up, the worst of it’s under control. Blackened patches smolder like dying coals, and the edge closest to the road is soaked through with bucket after bucket of water.
The Seabrook County crew steps in to finish containment and run a perimeter check. Their truck’s lights swirl red over the grass, casting an eerie glow that feels more like relief than warning.
I lean against the tailgate of my truck, my shirt sticking to my skin, every muscle aching. But I don’t feel it. Because she’s standing five feet away.
Ivy.
Hands on her hips, cheeks streaked with soot, lips parted as she catches her breath.
She meets my eyes like she’s daring me to say something. Anything.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say, voice hoarse.
She walks closer, slowly. “I had to.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You needed help.”
I shake my head. “I needed not to have to worry about you running headfirst into a damn brush fire.”
She lifts her chin, unfazed. “I’m not fragile, Rowan.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
“I—” I scrub a hand over my face, hating how her presence scrambles every part of me. “You just shouldn’t be here.”
She steps in, close enough I can smell the smoke tangled in her hair. “You mean here at the fire… or here at all?”
I can’t answer that.
I look at her. Really look. At the soot on her cheek. The stubborn set of her jaw. The way her hand twitches like she’s debating whether to touch me.
And God help me, I want her to. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just… wait. Then her fingers brush my wrist. Just a featherlight touch and the dam nearly breaks. My heart kicks in my chest. My throat tightens.
“Ivy—”
A voice behind us cuts through the moment.
“Danner’s fence line is good, but the north corner’s still steaming.”
We both turn away from each other like we weren’t about to fall into something dangerous.
She grabs a bottle of water and tosses it to me. “Try not to collapse before dinner.”
I catch it, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers as she smiles and walks away.
The drive back to the farm is quiet in the way two vehicles can be—her headlights pinned to my tailgate and my eyes flicking to the mirror every few seconds to make sure she’s still there.
Smoke rides home with us, caught in my shirt and in the crease where her neck met her collarbone when I saw her by the field—ash smeared there, a thin scrape above her knee.
I slow for the washboard ruts, throw my blinker on early at the lane so she doesn’t miss the turn, and keep the speed steady like a hand on the small of a back.
Gravel chatters under my tires as I pull into the drive and swing wide so she can tuck in by the cottage. We kill our engines within the same breath. Two doors thud open into the quiet, and we meet in the heat-hazed space between our vehicles. She’s got that brave face on—chin up, mouth set.
“You okay?” I ask, already scanning.
“Physically? Sure.” She huffs a laugh that’s more air than humor. “Emotionally? Ask me in an hour.”
“Come on.” I tip my head toward the porch. “Let’s get that cleaned.”
We fall into step. She keeps her arms folded, like she’s holding something inside in place. I keep my hands loose at my sides so I don’t reach for her too soon. The boards complain under our weight. A moth pings the porch light. We don’t say anything until the screen door sighs us into the kitchen.
“Sink,” I say, dragging a chair out with my boot. “First aid’s in the drawer.”
She perches, one knee bent, the other leg extended. Up close, the scrape looks worse—angry and embedded with fine grit. I set the kit on the table, wash my hands at the sink, then glance back. “Can I?”
She uncrosses her arms and nods. “Yeah.”
I kneel. The kitchen smells like smoke and dish soap and her. “This’ll sting.”
“When has that ever stopped me?”
I wet a clean cloth and start slow, swiping away ash and dirt in careful arcs. She flinches once, breath catching. My fingers are steady on either side of her knee until the reflex passes. Her skin is warm under the pads of my thumbs. My awareness of that is a problem I pretend I don’t have.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say, keeping my eyes on the scrape.
“I know.” Her voice softens. “I did anyway.”
“You scared me.” The words slip out before I can dress it up.
“Why?” she challenges, not unkind.