Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
NASH
Day two on the north ridge, and Autumn Blake is ruining me.
She doesn't know it. Or maybe she does and doesn't care, which is worse.
She's fifty yards ahead on the trail with a Pulaski over one shoulder, marking fuel loads on her tablet without breaking stride, and her braid came undone an hour ago.
Dark blonde hair loose around her shoulders, catching the late afternoon light, and every time she turns to check a drainage or flag a dead snag, I get a full view of her profile.
Sharp jaw, freckled cheekbones, lips pressed together in concentration.
My concentration is shot.
We've covered twelve miles since yesterday morning.
Camped last night at the flat section where the north ridge levels into a granite shelf before dropping into the east drainage.
Two tents, twenty feet apart. She zipped hers closed at nine, said good night, and I lay there staring at the stars for two hours listening to her breathe through the nylon walls.
Five years of sleeping alone in the bunk room during fire season.
Five years of keeping my head down, running my crew, protecting my district.
Then this woman shows up with her tablet and her forty-two percent and her calloused palms, and my brain decides to start cataloging things.
How she tightens her bootlaces every three miles.
How she hums when she's marking data points.
How her tank top rides up when she reaches for a branch, showing a strip of sun-freckled skin above her waistband that I've now seen four times.
"Deveraux."
Blinking, I close the distance. She's stopped at an overlook where the ridge drops away to the valley floor. The view goes for miles. Mountains layered blue to purple, the town of Whisper Vale a scatter of rooftops far below.
"This drainage." She points east. "Six years of accumulated fuel. Dead timber, brush buildup, no thinning. One lightning strike in this corridor and you've got a crown fire running uphill before your crew can gear up."
She's right. Been right about every assessment she's made since we left the trailhead. That's the worst part. Not that she's critical. That she's accurate.
"Prescribed burn," I say. "Spring, when the moisture's up. Take out the understory, protect the old growth."
Her head turns. Those amber eyes on me, surprise and something warmer in them. "You've thought about this."
"I've submitted the request three years running. State denied it. Volunteer department, no capacity, not a priority."
"It's a priority now." She pulls up something on her tablet, types rapidly. "I can get this into the assessment as a formal recommendation with cost projections. State's more likely to approve if the prevention coordinator signs off."
We're standing close. The overlook is narrow, granite slab with a drop on the east side, and she hasn't moved back. Neither have I.
"You'd do that?"
"It's good fire management, Nash. Your instincts on this district aren't wrong." She pauses. "Your paperwork is wrong. Your notification system is ancient. Your compliance outreach is basically nonexistent. But your instincts about how to protect this land are solid."
Nobody's said that to me. Not the state, not the county, not the seasonal coordinators who've rotated through and written their reports without ever hiking the ridgeline.
She's looked at my territory with her scientist's brain and her data-driven assessment, and she's saying my gut was right the whole time.
My throat tightens.
"We should make camp." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Sun's gonna drop fast once it hits the ridge."
We set up at the same granite shelf as last night.
Two tents, though we both gravitate to the fire pit I built yesterday from loose stone.
She cooks dinner on a backpacking stove.
Freeze-dried something that tastes better than it should, or maybe I'm just hungry.
We eat sitting on a flat rock, boots almost touching.
"Six districts," she says, answering a question I didn't ask out loud. "Six years. Reno, Boise, Flagstaff, Redding, Hawthorne. Now here."
"That's a lot of moving."
"That's the rotation." She sets her bowl down, pulls her knees up. The campfire throws warm light across her face. "Season ends, assignment closes, I pack the duffel. Drive to the next town that needs someone to tell them their fire plan is garbage."
"You ever think about staying somewhere?"
The question lands different than I meant it to. Or exactly how I meant it to. Her eyes come to mine across the fire, and something in them goes still.
"Every time." She says it quietly. "Then October comes, and the rotation notice shows up in my inbox, and I tell myself this is what the job is. This is what I signed up for."
"That's not what I asked."
Her jaw tightens. My move, apparently. The fire crackles between us. Wind pushes smoke east, clearing the air. Stars dense in the sky.
"My dad was Forest Service," I tell her. "Worked this district before I was born. Gave everything to the job. My mom left for Phoenix when I was in high school because he chose the department over date nights. Over anniversaries. Over her."
Autumn's watching me. Full attention, no tablet, no assessment. Just her face in firelight.
"When I came back from the hotshot crews, he said I was running from fire.
I told him I was running toward something.
Took over the department one month later.
" Pausing, I look at the scar on my forearm.
"Been building this volunteer crew into something real.
Gave everything to the job, same as him.
Didn't realize I was making the same mistake until somebody showed up with opinions about my protocols and made me notice the silence. "
"Nash."
"You don't have to say anything. Just wanted you to know that I understand the rotation. Six districts, six duffels, six times you almost stayed. I get it."
She stands up. Crosses to my side of the fire. Sits down next to me, close enough that her shoulder presses against my arm. Warm through the flannel.
"I'm gonna kiss you now," she says. "So if you've got an objection, this is the time."
"No objection here."
Her mouth finds mine.
The first contact is soft. Testing. Her lips are warm, slightly chapped from two days of ridge wind, and she tastes like campfire and the instant coffee she made at six AM.
Her hand comes up to my jaw, fingers spreading across my cheek.
My hand goes to the back of her neck, into her loose hair, and the sound she makes against my mouth sends heat straight through my chest into my stomach.
The kiss deepens. Her tongue slides against mine, tentative then demanding.
She turns into me, one hand fisting my shirt at the collar, the other bracing on my thigh.
My free hand finds her hip, pulls her closer.
She swings her leg over and settles into my lap facing me, knees on either side of my hips, and the weight of her pressing down against me makes my cock hard so fast my vision blurs.
"Autumn." Her name comes out rough. Her hips roll once, grinding against me through layers of fabric, and my fingers dig into her waist.
"Don't tell me to stop." She's already pulling at the hem of my shirt.
"Wasn't planning on it."
The shirt comes off. Cool mountain air hits my chest, then her hands, warm and calloused, sliding up my stomach to my pectorals. Her palms flatten over my heartbeat. Amber eyes on mine in the firelight, and whatever she sees makes her pull her own tank top over her head.
Sports bra. Black. Functional. The hottest thing I've ever seen because her breasts are full against the fabric, her stomach is taut with muscle, and freckles scatter across her collarbones down to the swell of her cleavage.
The bra comes off next. She reaches behind her back, unclips it, lets it drop. Her nipples tighten in the cold air, dark pink against her sun-kissed skin.
My mouth goes to her throat. Down to her collarbone. I trace the freckles with my tongue while her fingers grip the back of my head. When I reach her breast, I close my lips around her nipple and suck, tonguing the peak until she gasps.
"Tent," she breathes.
We barely make it. She's on my sleeping bag, jeans off, and I'm pulling her hiking pants down her legs while she kicks her boots free. Cotton underwear, dark blue. Soaked through. My thumb presses against the wet fabric over her clit, and her hips jerk up.
"Off." She lifts her hips. The underwear goes.
She's gorgeous. Long legs, full hips, a trail of freckles I want to map with my mouth. Her pussy is wet, flushed, and when I spread her thighs and drop my head between them, the sound she makes echoes off the granite ridge outside.
My tongue slides flat through her folds. Bottom to top, slow. Her thighs clamp against my ears. Circling her clit with the tip, I slide two fingers inside her, curling up toward the front wall. She's tight, hot, her hips already rocking against my hand.
"Fuck, Nash." Her fingers grip my hair. "Right there. Don't stop."
Sealing my mouth over her clit, I suck while my fingers work a steady rhythm, dragging against that spot until her back arches off the sleeping bag. She comes hard, thighs shaking, one hand over her mouth to muffle the sound that still carries across the empty ridge.
Before the aftershocks fade, I'm rolling on a condom from my wallet. She watches, chest heaving, hair spread across the sleeping bag.
One long thrust. Deep. Her back arches again, her nails digging into my shoulders. She's still pulsing around me from the first orgasm, every squeeze making my vision tunnel.
"Jesus." My forehead drops to hers. "You feel incredible."
Her legs wrap around my waist. I pull back, thrust deep again. Long strokes, slow at first, building. One hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down between us. My thumb finds her clit, already swollen, and circles in time with each thrust.
"Harder." She pulls me closer with her heels on my lower back.
Picking up the pace, I angle my hips to drag against her front wall with every stroke. Her nails rake down my back, over the burn scar on my shoulder, and she doesn't flinch. Doesn't hesitate. Touches the raised tissue the same way she touches the rest of me.
Something cracks open in my chest.
"Come for me, Autumn." Thumb pressing harder on her clit, I drive deep. "Let me feel it."
She breaks. Clenching around my cock, crying my name into the thin mountain air while her whole body arches against mine. Two more thrusts and I'm gone, buried deep, face in her neck, her pulse hammering against my lips.
We lie there. Breathing. Her fingers trace lazy circles on my chest while the campfire outside burns down to embers.
"I'm in trouble," she whispers.
Pulling her against my side, I press my mouth to the top of her head. Her hair smells like campfire. Her body fits against mine like she was built for this exact sleeping bag on this exact ridge.
"Yeah." My arm tightens around her. "Me too."
Outside, the wind shifts. An owl calls from the drainage below. The fire pops once, sending sparks up toward the stars.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds like my father's asks whether I'm giving this woman a reason to stay or a reason to go.
For the first time in five years, the answer scares me.