Chapter 3 Into the Fire
Into the Fire
It’s three in the morning, and I'm staring at my cabin ceiling, watching moonlight cast pine-branch shadows across the wood beams.
Sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see Mac's face—that infuriating half-smile, the challenge in his blue eyes, the way he leaned over my maps like he was studying more than just terrain features.
"It's purely professional," I tell the empty room. "A simple trail verification with a visiting fire captain."
Scout lifts her head from her bed in the corner, her expression calling bullshit.
"Don't look at me like that." I roll onto my side, punching my pillow into submission. "You're the one who keeps abandoning me for him."
Her tail thumps against the floor once before she settles back down.
Professional. That's all this is. I'm simply showing evacuation routes to a firefighter who needs local knowledge. The fact that my skin buzzes whenever he stands too close is irrelevant.
By the time pink streaks appear on the horizon, I've convinced myself this day will be strictly business.
That conviction lasts until I stand before my closet at seven, agonizing over what to wear, as if it’s a date instead of a work obligation.
"Ridiculous." I yank out my standard hiking gear—performance pants, a moisture-wicking Henley, and a lightweight jacket.
I swap the Henley for one that brings out the color of my eyes, then change back, disgusted with myself.
Scout watches from the doorway, head tilted.
"What?" I glare at her. "The blue one breathes better."
She blinks slowly, unconvinced.
"Fine." I grab my hair, twisting it into a practical braid instead of the loose waves I'd considered. "Better?"
Scout yawns dramatically.
"Some help you are." I lace my hiking boots with unnecessary force. "You'd probably suggest I wear a cocktail dress if it meant your new best friend would be impressed."
The knock at my door comes at exactly eight. Of course, he's punctual.
I open the door to find Mac in hiking gear that looks custom-tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His dark hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges like he just showered.
The morning light catches the stubble along his jaw, highlighting cheekbones that belong on a sculptor's model rather than a firefighter.
This is going to be a long day.
"Morning, Mackenzie." He hands me a coffee cup, steam rising from the lid. "Two sugars, no cream."
"How did you—"
"Rodriguez mentioned it yesterday." He shrugs. "I've got a good memory for details."
Scout pushes past me to greet Mac, practically dancing with excitement.
"And good morning to you, too, girl." He crouches, rubbing her ears while she melts under his attention. "Ready for a hike?"
"She's supposed to be a working dog." I take a sip of coffee—perfect temperature, exactly how I like it. "Not a groupie."
"Dogs have excellent judgment." He straightens, taking in my cabin with curious eyes. "Nice place."
"Thanks." I grab my pack and map case, stepping onto the porch rather than inviting him inside. "We should get moving if we want to cover Lookout Point before the afternoon."
He follows me to his Forest Service-issued SUV, opening the back for Scout, who jumps in like she's been riding with him for years.
"Traitor," I mutter under my breath.
Mac's lips twitch. "Heard that."
The drive to the trailhead passes in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Mac handles the mountain roads with easy confidence, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other cradling his coffee. I focus on the passing scenery rather than the way his forearm flexes with each turn.
At the trailhead, we synchronize our radios and check our packs. Mac's movements are efficient—a man who's done this hundreds of times. Scout circles us impatiently, eager to hit the trail.
"Lead the way." Mac gestures forward. "I'm here to learn."
The morning air carries the scent of pine and wildflowers as we start up the trail. I keep a deliberate three feet between us, pointing out features and trail markers. Mac asks intelligent questions, jotting down notes in a small, waterproof notebook.
"So this junction here." I stop where the main trail splits. "Official maps show both paths reconnecting a mile ahead."
Mac consults his GPS. "That's what the satellite data shows."
"Except this route—" I point to the right fork, "—washed out last spring. There's a fifteen-foot drop-off around that bend now."
"No warning signs posted." His brow furrows.
"Park service budget cuts." I shrug. "I've submitted the paperwork three times. Meanwhile, I update my maps and warn visitors at the center."
He crouches, studying the ground. "No obvious indications of danger."
"That's the problem with these mountains. They don't advertise their hazards." I move forward, leading him down the left fork. "Three tourists had to be rescued here last month. One with a broken ankle."
"Show me."
I guide him to the washed-out section, now carefully staying on hands and knees as we approach the edge. The drop-off appears suddenly—a jagged gouge in the earth where rushing snowmelt carved away the trail.
"Damn." He peers over the edge. "That's not a sprained ankle. That's a spinal injury waiting to happen."
"Exactly." I pull out my map, showing the marked hazard. "I document every trail change, regardless of whether official updates happen."
Mac looks from my map to the landscape, then back. His expression shifts from skeptical to impressed.
"Your attention to detail is... extraordinary."
"Just doing my job." I tuck the map away, ignoring the way his compliment warms my chest.
We continue along the trail, our conversation gradually shifting from professional assessment to more personal topics.
“How long have you been mapping these mountains, Mackenzie?” His voice is lazy and smooth, as if he already knows the answer but wants to hear me say it.
Mackenzie.
Again.
I’ve corrected him a dozen times. Maybe more. He knows my name. I know he knows. That’s precisely why he keeps saying it—poking at me, testing the perimeter, watching to see when I’ll snap.
I won’t.
Not today.
“Officially? Five years.” I hop over a twisted root, jaw tight. “Unofficially, since I could walk.”
I shove the tip of my trekking pole toward a narrow fissure in the granite. “See that? Spring bubbles up from between those rocks. Cleanest water on the south ridge.”
He makes an appreciative sound low in his throat, crouching to study it, all muscle and casual grace.
Don’t look at his arms.
Don’t look at the stretch of his back under that snug shirt.
Do not, under any circumstances, imagine what he’d look like without it.
Too late.
A flash of stubbled jaw, dark hair tousled from the wind, and a body that screams Thunder From Down Under, he’s walking kryptonite.
God. He even walks like he owns a stage. All slow swagger and sinful confidence, like he’d be just as comfortable holding a chainsaw as he would a woman against the wall.
Nope. No. Absolutely not. Do not think of him taking you against a wall. Thrusting hard. Hands bruising. Lips weaponized to undo me…
Shit. He’s in my head.
Stay professional.
Mac rises to his full, infuriating height, glancing at me with that trademark smirk—the one that says he sees right through the tight coil of control I’m clinging to.
“Your dad teach you how to read terrain that young?” he asks, tone deceptively casual.
I nod. Short. Sharp. Refusing to give him more than that.
He lets the silence stretch, eyes glittering beneath the brim of his cap.
Mackenzie.
He hasn’t said it again, but the word hangs there, pulsing between us like static before a lightning strike.
I won’t take the bait.
Won’t correct him.
Won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting under my skin.
Because he is.
Every inch of me feels flayed open beneath his gaze—and he knows it.
And the worst part?
Some traitorous part of me wants him to keep saying it.
Wants to hear what my name sounds like on his lips, rough and low in the dark as he unapologetically takes me.
No. Hell no.
Keep walking. Keep talking. Keep it together.
"Family business, then." Mac glances at me, completely oblivious to the thoughts racing through my head.
"Something like that." I glance back at him. "What about you? Firefighting in the blood?"
"Military first. Army Rangers." He ducks under a low-hanging branch. "Firefighting came after. Felt natural to keep running toward danger instead of away from it."
"Adrenaline junkie?"
His laughter echoes against the rock face. "More like purpose junkie. Need something that matters."
The conversation flows easily as the trail climbs.
I learn he takes his coffee black, has a younger sister in medical school, and can name every native tree in California.
He learns I've never been outside Colorado, prefer dogs to people, and make my own trail mix because store-bought never has enough chocolate.
By the time we reach the summit viewpoint, the careful professional distance has shrunk considerably.
“This is…” Mac turns in a slow arc, the wind teasing his hair as he takes in the jagged sweep of peaks and shadowed valleys bathed in late-afternoon gold. “Spectacular doesn’t cover it.”
“Worth the climb?” I ask, but my breath still stutters—not from the altitude.
From him.
He stands there like the mountain itself—solid, powerful, carved by elements I’ll never tame. Wind tugs at the dark strands of his hair. His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking beneath sun-warmed stubble. And his eyes—God, those eyes—burn with a heat that melts straight through the alpine chill.
One corner of his mouth lifts, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Every step.”
He lifts his water bottle, tilts it to his lips. His throat works as he swallows, slow and steady, and a single drop escapes, trailing down the column of his neck, carving a glistening path over sun-browned skin.
My mouth goes dry.
I should look away.
Too late.