Epilogue
AUTUMN
SIX MONTHS LATER
March in Whisper Vale is mud season. Snow melting off the ridges, creeks running high, the whole mountain exhaling after winter. The air smells clean in a way that six other towns never managed.
Six months since the state approved the permanent position. Three weeks after Nash's proposal hit their inbox, his boss called it "the most aggressively justified budget proposal" she'd ever received. Full approval by November. My name on the letterhead by December first.
Autumn Blake, Permanent Wildfire Prevention Coordinator, Whisper Vale District.
First one in the district's history. Nash framed the appointment letter. It's on the kitchen table at the station next to his fuel moisture reports because Nash Deveraux doesn't have a desk, he has a kitchen table and a system that drives me crazy and works perfectly.
The duffel is in the closet at his cabin.
Our cabin. Zipped shut, shoved behind his winter boots.
Haven't opened it since November, when Bobby and Maria helped carry boxes up from the apartment.
Bobby dropped a box of fire ecology textbooks on his foot and limped for a week.
Maria brought a casserole, told Nash he hadn't smiled this much in seven years.
She's right. He smiles now. Not often, not for strangers, but for me. Over coffee at five twenty-eight AM. When I steal his flannel off the hook by the door. When Bobby says something stupid on the radio, and Nash catches my eye across the engine bay with the corner of his mouth twitching.
The reading glasses live on the kitchen counter at home. Next to my tablet. His fuel moisture reports in a stack by the coffee maker, my GIS maps pinned to the hallway wall right beside his hotshot crew photos. Our histories on the same wall.
Defensible space compliance: sixty-eight percent and climbing.
Prescribed burn program approved for spring, east drainage first, working north.
Community notification system updated, functional, tested twice.
Mrs. Hernandez finally agreed to let Torres clear her brush pile after Maria showed up with empanadas and a convincing argument about bird relocation.
Bobby's still Bobby. Donuts, country music hummed off key, zero respect for professional boundaries. Torres proposed to Lucia last week. Nash told me to act surprised, which lasted about four seconds because Lucia screamed so loud we heard it from the station.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. Owen, right on schedule. Every other Tuesday.
Owen:
how's the town that finally caught you
Me:
muddy. beautiful. still here.
Owen:
wild. my sister staying put. never thought I'd see the day
Me:
me neither
The pregnancy test sits on the edge of the sink. Two pink lines, vivid against white plastic. Taken at six AM while Nash was at the station running morning equipment checks.
Seven weeks. Give or take.
My hands are steady. My breathing isn't. Standing in the bathroom of a cabin that belongs to both of us, looking at two pink lines, and the first thing my brain does is calculate.
Not timelines. Not rotation schedules. Nursery.
The second bedroom down the hall, the one Nash uses for storage.
Boxes of old incident reports, a broken camp stove he keeps meaning to fix, winter gear stacked against the wall.
That room has a south-facing window. Good light.
A second test is on the counter because the first one seemed too fast. Also two pink lines. Also vivid. Also making my knees do something unreliable.
Nash's truck pulls into the gravel drive at seven fifteen.
Right on schedule. Door slams. Boots on the porch steps.
The front door opens, and the cabin fills with him.
Wood smoke and coffee and the particular energy of a man who's been awake since four thirty running a fire department on three donuts.
"Blake." His voice carries from the kitchen. "Bobby ate the last of the eggs. I'm gonna have to go to the store before—"
He stops in the hallway. Because I'm standing in the bathroom doorway holding two pregnancy tests, one in each hand, wearing his department t-shirt with bare feet on the cold hardwood floor.
His eyes go to my face. Then to the tests. Then back to my face.
"Seven weeks," I say. "Give or take."
The sound he makes isn't a word. His keys hit the floor.
Two steps and he's in front of me, hands on my face, reading glasses falling out of his shirt pocket onto the hardwood where they land next to his keys.
His eyes are wet. Nash Deveraux, fire chief, burn survivor, the man who ran into crown fires without blinking, has tears on his face.
"We need a doctor." His thumbs move across my cheekbones.
"Doc Morrison. And prenatal vitamins. Bobby's sister is an OB in Reno, she's good, we should call her too.
The second bedroom—" He looks down the hall toward the storage room.
"I can have it cleared by this weekend. South-facing window. Good light."
A laugh breaks out of me. "You noticed the window."
"Of course I noticed the window." He pulls me against his chest. My arms wrap around his waist, face pressed into his shoulder. His heartbeat is racing. "Autumn. Jesus. We're gonna have a baby."
"We are."
His arms tighten. One hand cradles the back of my head. Through the front door he left open, March air drifts in carrying the smell of melting snow. Somewhere on the ridge, the last of winter is letting go.
"Fire season roster's gonna need restructuring," he says into my hair. "Bobby can take lead on the overnight patrols in August. Torres is ready for more responsibility. And the prescribed burn schedule, we should frontload it in case—"
"Nash."
"Yeah?"
"Can you stop planning for thirty seconds and just be happy?"
He pulls back enough to look at me. Brown eyes soft, reading glasses gone, tears drying on his cheeks. The burn scar on his forearm catches the hall light.
"I'm happy." His voice cracks on it. "Terrified and happy."
"Good. Me too." Rising on my toes, I kiss him. Soft. His mouth is warm, tasting like station coffee. "Now call Bobby. He'll be furious if Maria finds out first."
Nash picks up his phone from the counter. Types with one hand. The other stays on my hip, thumb moving in slow circles over the department shirt.
Me:
Autumn's eating for two.
The response is immediate. A string of texts so rapid the phone vibrates continuously for thirty seconds.
Bobby:
WHAT
WHAT
WHAT
ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW
NASH DEVERAUX
Maria is crying
I'm crying
Nash Deveraux is gonna be a dad. The mountain is shaking.
Nash sets the phone face down. Looks at me. The smile on his face is wide, unguarded, showing every tooth. No twitch. No almost. The real thing.
"Owen's gonna lose his mind," I say.
"Owen's gonna drive seven hours to threaten me again."
"Five. He moved to Sacramento."
"Five hours." Nash's hand moves from my hip to my stomach. Flat palm, warm through the cotton. Nothing to feel yet. Everything to feel. "We're gonna need a bigger kitchen."
Laughing, I cover his hand with mine. "We just moved in."
"Kid's gonna need space. Room to run. Maybe I'll build out east off the porch. Bigger kitchen, mudroom for gear." His eyes are already seeing it. The man who builds things, who took a ragtag volunteer crew and turned them into a functioning department, already blueprinting a home for three.
My phone buzzes.
Owen:
Autumn. Call me. Now. Immediately. Are you pregnant?? Bobby's wife just texted Tessa who texted me which is SIX DEGREES OF SMALL TOWN and I need to hear this from you.
Me:
I'm pregnant.
Owen:
I'M DRIVING THERE
I'M LEAVING RIGHT NOW
Tell the fire chief I'm coming for him
with CONGRATULATIONS
and also threats
it's about damn time you found somewhere worth staying, sis
My eyes blur. Pressing the phone to my chest, I lean into Nash. His chin rests on top of my head. His hand still on my stomach.
Through the open front door, the morning light hits the hallway wall where his hotshot crew photos hang next to my GIS maps. Two careers, two histories, pinned to the same wall in a cabin on a ridge above a town that finally caught me.
Six districts. Six duffels. Six times I almost stayed.
Seventh time's the charm.