Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
NASH
Four days.
Four days of Chief Deveraux and Ms. Blake.
Morning briefings where she sits at the opposite end of the table with her tablet, her data, her professional distance.
We discuss defensible space compliance like two people who haven't seen each other naked on a mountaintop.
She references fire ecology. I reference incident response.
Bobby sits between us eating donuts, texting Maria under the table, and looking like a man watching a car crash in slow motion.
On day two, Torres called in a brush fire on the east side of town. Small. Quarter acre, dead grass near a propane tank. We rolled Truck 1, knocked it down in forty minutes. She was there before us, already marking the ignition point for her report. Professional. Competent. Wouldn't look at me.
My cabin feels wrong. The second pillow still has her dent. The mug she used is clean in the cabinet because I washed it at midnight on night one, then stood in my kitchen staring at it for ten minutes trying to figure out why I washed it instead of throwing it at the wall.
My father's place is a twenty-minute drive up the ridge. Same cabin he's lived in since before I was born. Same porch. Same coffee mug from 1994 that he holds with both hands like it's the last artifact of a life that made sense.
"You look terrible," he says when I drop into the chair next to him.
"Thanks."
"You sleeping?"
"No."
He drinks his coffee. The mountains do their thing. Copper turning to purple, shadows pooling in the drainages below. Somewhere on the other side of this ridge, Autumn Blake is probably reviewing fuel load data in an apartment I can hear through the station walls.
"Met someone," I say.
My father's eyebrows don't move. He's been retired from the Forest Service for eight years, and his facial expressions retired about two years before that. "The state coordinator."
"Bobby told Maria. Maria told the post office. Post office told you."
"Patty Cole told me. Tuesday at the general store." He sips. "Said you were smiling. Figured it was either a woman or a head injury."
"She's leaving. Rotation notice came through. November third, Hawthorne District."
"And you did what?"
"Told her she was already looking at the exit."
He sets down the mug. The disappointment on his face is quiet, earned. This is a man who watched his own wife pack a car because he chose the department over everything else, and he's looking at his son making the same damn mistake from the other direction.
"Nash."
"I know."
"Do you?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
The sun catches the gray in his hair. "Your mother left because I gave her a reason to.
Worked every holiday. Missed every anniversary.
Made the job my whole identity. So when she said she was going, I stood in that doorway and let her walk because I didn't know how to give her a reason to stay. "
My jaw tightens. He's never talked about Mom this directly. The leaving was always a fact in our house, never a lesson.
"You giving this girl a reason to stay?" He picks up his mug again. "Or you giving her a reason to go?"
The question sits in my chest like a coal. Burning.
Back at the station, the engine bay is empty. Bobby's truck is gone. Evening light comes through the bay doors at a low angle, throwing long shadows across Truck 2. From upstairs, faint sounds. Floorboards. The tap running.
My laptop is in the bunk room. A department-issue ThinkPad that mostly collects dust because I do everything on the radio or in person.
But it has email. State email. The kind of email that reaches desks in Carson City where people make decisions about funding and personnel and whether a volunteer fire department in a mountain town deserves more than a seasonal coordinator who rotates out every October.
The email takes forty-five minutes to write. Rewrite. Delete. Rewrite again.
From: N. Deveraux, Fire Chief, Whisper Vale VFD To: State Forestry Commission, Personnel Division CC: District Coordinator, Prevention Programs RE: Request for Permanent Prevention Coordinator Position — Whisper Vale District
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing to formally request the creation of a permanent, year-round wildfire prevention coordinator position for the Whisper Vale District.
Since the assignment of our current seasonal coordinator, defensible space compliance has increased from 42% to 64% in three weeks.
A prescribed burn program has been developed with full cost projections and timeline.
The community notification system has been updated for the first time since 2019.
Fuel load assessments have been completed on the north ridge corridor using firsthand backcountry data collection, identifying critical vulnerabilities that previous seasonal rotations did not address.
These improvements cannot be sustained through seasonal assignments. The institutional knowledge required to maintain community relationships, coordinate with volunteer personnel, and implement long-term prevention strategies is lost every time a coordinator rotates out of the district.
Whisper Vale's fire risk profile — wildland urban interface structures, limited volunteer capacity, single-digit humidity fire seasons, high tourist traffic — requires year-round prevention management.
This position would be the first of its kind in the district and would serve as a model for similar rural volunteer departments statewide.
I have attached supporting documentation including the current coordinator's preliminary assessment, fuel load data, prescribed burn proposals, and compliance improvement metrics.
I am not requesting that any specific individual be assigned to this position. I am requesting that the state recognize this district's need for permanent prevention infrastructure and create the position accordingly.
Respectfully, Nash Deveraux Fire Chief, Whisper Vale Volunteer Fire Department
Print. Fold. The paper goes into a folder from the supply cabinet.
My hands are shaking, which is ridiculous because I've carried a chainsaw into a crown fire and never trembled.
But this is different. Fire I understand.
Walking upstairs to the woman I pushed away and handing her a reason to stay? That's a burn I haven't trained for.
The exterior staircase is twelve steps. I've counted them once. Right now, walking up to her apartment with a folder in my hand at eight PM on a Thursday, it feels like a hundred.
Her door is ajar. The lock I fixed works fine now, which means she left it open on purpose. Through the gap, she's sitting cross-legged on the bed in my old department shirt, the one she took from the doorknob four days ago. Tablet on her lap. Hair down. Face washed clean of trail dust.
She looks up. Sees me. Her expression goes guarded, then tired, then something raw underneath both.
"Door was open," I say.
"Noticed."
Stepping inside, I close it behind me. The apartment is small enough that we're already too close, and she hasn't moved from the bed. The duffel is at her feet. Still open. Still half-packed.
The folder lands on the counter between us. She stares at it.
"What is that?"
"Open it."
She unfolds herself from the bed. Bare feet on the cold floor, my shirt hitting her mid-thigh. The tablet stays behind. She picks up the folder, reads the email once. Then again, slower. Her lips move slightly on the second pass.
When she looks up, her eyes are wet.
"You sent this to the state."
"Forty-five minutes ago."
"Nash." Her voice cracks on my name. "You can't just create a position because—"
"I'm not asking you to take the job, Autumn." Closing the distance, I stop two feet away. Her hands grip the folder, knuckles pale. "I'm asking the state to create it. Whether you want it is up to you."
"You wrote this to keep me here."
"I wrote this because the district needs a permanent coordinator. The data supports it. Your own assessment supports it. The fact that I'm in love with the current coordinator is a separate issue."
The breath she takes is audible. Shaky. The folder lowers to her side. Those amber eyes are on mine, searching, terrified, wanting.
"You love me."
"Loved you since you showed up late with opinions about my protocols.
Loved you when you picked up a Pulaski on the fire line before I could ask.
" Stepping closer, I take the folder from her hand.
Set it on the counter. Her fingers are cold.
Mine cover them. "Loved you when you told me about your house burning and didn't cry, because you've spent nineteen years turning that pain into purpose. "
"I cried." She laughs, wet. "Thursday night. After you left. Ruined your shirt."
"Good. That's my shirt."
"Nash." She puts her hands on my chest. Palms flat over my heartbeat, the same way she touched me the first time in the tent.
"My dad gave everything to the job. My mom left.
Owen stayed with her. I stayed with him, and then he retired to an empty apartment in Sacramento, and I swore I would never let a place matter enough to break me when I had to leave. "
"You don't have to leave."
"I'm scared that I want that more than I've ever wanted anything."
"Good." My hands come up to her face. Thumbs on her cheekbones, fingers in her hair. "Be scared. Stay anyway."
She kisses me.
Nothing soft about it. Her mouth is open, tongue finding mine. Both hands fist in my shirt, pulling me against her. I walk her backward until her knees hit the bed, then she's pulling me down on top of her, legs wrapping around my waist.
"I love you," she says against my mouth. "I've been terrified of it since the fire line."
My shirt comes off. Then hers. No bra underneath because she was wearing my department shirt to bed, which sends a bolt of heat through me so fast my hands shake when they find her breasts. Nipples already hard under my palms. Her back arches when I roll them between my fingers.
Mouth on her throat. Her collarbone. Tracing freckles with my tongue, mapping the ones I missed on the ridge.
She strips my jeans while I work her underwear down her legs, and then we're skin to skin on the narrow bed where she's slept alone for three weeks because I was too proud to climb these stairs sooner.
Flipping her over, I pull her hips up. She braces on her forearms, looking over her shoulder at me with flushed cheeks and dark eyes. My hand slides down her spine to the curve of her ass.
"Nash." She pushes back against me. Impatient.
My fingers slide between her thighs. Already wet. Two fingers through her pussy, stroking forward, finding her clit with my thumb. Her head drops between her arms. A moan into the pillow.
Condom from my wallet on the nightstand. Rolling it on, I grip her hip with one hand. Guide myself in with the other. One slow thrust, deep.
"Fuck." Her fingers clench in the sheets. "God, yes."
Long strokes. Slow, deliberate. One hand on her hip, pulling her back into each thrust. The other reaches around, fingers finding her clit. Circles. Tight, firm, timed with the rhythm of my hips.
"Harder." She pushes up on her hands. Her ass pressed against me, taking every inch.
Picking up the pace, I grip her hip tighter. Drive deep. The headboard hits the wall, and neither of us cares about thin walls anymore. My fingers work her clit faster, pressing harder. She's clenching around me, getting close, breath coming in broken gasps.
"Come for me, Autumn." Driving in hard, I hold deep. Thumb pressing her clit. "Let me hear it."
She shatters. Crying out, back arching, her whole body shaking as she comes around my cock so hard my vision goes white at the edges. Two more strokes and I'm done, buried deep, both hands on her hips pulling her tight against me while my entire body empties.
We collapse. She rolls over, pulls me on top of her, wraps both arms around my neck. Her chest heaves against mine. Heartbeat hammering. My face finds the curve of her neck.
"Stay," I whisper against her pulse.
"Yeah." Her fingers trace the burn scar on my shoulder. No flinch. No hesitation. Same as the first time. Same as every time. "I'm staying."
My weight settles on top of her. Her legs tangle with mine. Through the thin wall, the station is quiet. No fires tonight. No emergencies. Just the engine bay sitting below us, solid as the bedrock this town was built on.
"The position might not get approved," she says.
"It will."
"You don't know that."
"I wrote a four-page proposal with an appendix."
She laughs. Bright, surprised, pressing against my chest. "An appendix."
"Full-page appendix. Charts."
"Charts." She kisses me. Slow, deep, tasting like salt and coffee and tomorrow morning. "You made charts for the state of Nevada."
"Autumn Blake, I would make charts for the entire western United States if it meant you'd stop packing that duffel."
Her hand finds mine. Laces our fingers together. His scarred, hers calloused. She holds on tight.
"I'm gonna call Owen."
"Right now?"
"He told me to call when I figured it out." She presses her forehead to mine. "I figured it out."
Through the thin apartment wall, the wind picks up outside.
September pressing on toward October, fire season pushing toward its peak.
There will be more fires. More early mornings.
More arguments about protocols and procedures and whether forty-two percent is acceptable when sixty percent is possible when ninety percent is the goal.
But right now, Autumn Blake is in my arms, wearing my shirt, staying in my town.
For the first time in five years, the station doesn't feel empty.