Chapter 7 Buried Embers
Buried Embers
Mac's arm lies heavy across my waist, his breathing deep and even against my neck. I've been awake for an hour, watching shadows retreat from the corners, wondering how my life transformed so completely in just six days.
Six days. Six trails. And whatever this is between us.
I ease from beneath his arm, holding my breath when he stirs.
His face in sleep lacks the intensity that normally charges his features—softer somehow, vulnerable in a way he'd never allow while conscious.
For a moment, I almost reach out to trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his lower lip.
Instead, I slip from the bed and pad silently to the bathroom.
In the shower, hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away the physical evidence of last night but doing nothing for the memories etched into my skin.
Every muscle carries the pleasant ache of being thoroughly used.
My wrists bear faint marks from his grip, my inner thighs the shadow of beard burn.
I should be horrified by how quickly I've surrendered to this—to him—but all I feel is the low hum of satisfaction and the disturbing absence of regret.
This isn't me. I don't do this—fall into bed with arrogant men who call me by a name I don't use, who take control like it's their right, who somehow find the hidden switch that transforms my usual independence into willing submission.
I step from the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror. My reflection stares back, unchanged yet unrecognizable. Same eyes, same face, but something's different in the way I carry myself. Like my body knows a secret my mind isn't ready to acknowledge.
"Stop overthinking," I mutter to my reflection, wrapping a towel around my torso. "It's just sex."
Except it isn't, and lying to myself has never been a particular skill of mine.
When I emerge, the bed is empty, sheets thrown back. The scent of coffee reaches me, mingling with domestic sounds from my kitchen. Mac’s at my counter, moving through my space with an ease that suggests he belongs here. The presumption should irritate me.
It doesn't.
He belongs. Definitely belongs. Just as I belong to him now.
"Morning." Mac's voice is morning-rough, a lazy drawl that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. He stands shirtless in my kitchen, wearing only his tactical pants, feet bare against the hardwood. His hair is sleep-mussed, with stubble darker than it was yesterday.
"You made coffee." I adjust my towel, suddenly self-conscious in a way I wasn't when he had me bent over the kitchen table last night.
"Figured you'd need it." He slides a mug across the counter. Two sugars, no cream. Perfect. "You were restless last night."
I take the mug, careful that our fingers don't touch. "I don't sleep well with someone else in my bed."
The lie comes easily, but his raised eyebrow tells me he sees right through it. I've spent five nights sleeping soundly in his arms. Until last night, when the reality of what we've been doing, what we've become to each other, finally caught up with me.
"We should talk," he says, leaning against the counter.
"About what?" I blow on my coffee, avoiding his eyes.
"Don't play dumb, Josephine. It doesn't suit you."
There it is. That name again. The one that sounds like possession on his lips.
"I need to get to the visitor center." I move toward the bedroom. "There's a group of hikers coming through this morning, and I promised Eleanor—"
His hand catches my wrist as I pass, not roughly, but with enough intention to stop me in my tracks. The simple contact sends electricity skittering up my arm.
"We've verified all seven routes." His thumb brushes over my pulse point, a casual intimacy that feels anything but casual. "What happens now?"
What happens now?
I don’t know.
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us has voiced. We've spent five days fucking on mountainsides and in my bed, learning each other's bodies with single-minded thoroughness, but we've carefully avoided discussing what comes after the routes are verified.
"You go back to firefighting." I pull away, retreating to the bedroom. "I go back to my maps."
I dress quickly, choosing clothes like armor—functional hiking pants, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, despite the summer heat. When I return to the kitchen, Mac has pulled on his shirt and boots. His expression has shifted from morning softness to something more guarded.
"Is that what you want?" He studies me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
"It's what makes sense." I busy myself preparing a travel mug of coffee, needing the distraction. "We have jobs to do."
"Right." Mac drains his mug and sets it in the sink with deliberate care. "Jobs."
The silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken words. For a moment, I think he might push—might demand the conversation I'm so desperately avoiding. Instead, he grabs his jacket from the hook by the door.
"I've got crew evaluations this morning. I'll be at the station if anything comes up."
And just like that, he's gone, the door clicking softly behind him. Something that feels suspiciously like disappointment settles in my chest. I push it away, whistling for Scout, who emerges reluctantly from the bedroom, looking as disappointed in me as I feel in myself.
"Don't you start," I tell her, clipping on her leash. "It's for the best."
She doesn't look convinced.
The visitor center is quiet when I arrive—too early for tourists, too late for the pre-dawn hikers.
I settle at my desk, spreading out the maps Mac and I verified.
Despite everything, our work was thorough.
Each route has been walked, assessed, and updated with both my notations and his GPS coordinates.
A true collaboration, despite our different approaches.
I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of mapmaking, transferring field notes to master copies, and updating trail conditions with fresh colored ink. The work has always centered me, given me purpose. Today it feels hollow, mechanical.
My phone buzzes with a text from Eleanor: Did you hear about the fires?
I frown, typing back: What fires?
Her response comes quickly: Three new spot fires reported overnight. All in remote areas. Sheriff's concerned. Deliberate, they think.
My stomach tightens. Early-season fires aren't unusual in Colorado, but deliberate ones are. And three in remote locations suggests something more sinister than careless campers.
Before I can respond, the visitor center door swings open.
Mac strides in, looking every inch the captain in his yellow uniform shirt and green tactical pants.
The casual intimacy of this morning has vanished, replaced by focused professionalism that makes him even more magnetic.
Parker follows behind him, carrying a rolled map tube.
"Ms. Mackenzie." His tone is all business, but his eyes tell a different story. "Got a minute?"
"Captain Sullivan." I match his formality, aware of Parker's presence and the subtle shift in dynamics. "What can I do for you?"
Parker unrolls a satellite map across my desk, securing the corners with paperweights. Red X marks dot the terrain in a distinctive pattern.
"Three new fires," Mac explains, pointing to each X. "All started within a four-hour window last night. All in remote locations without trail access."
I study the map, recognition dawning. "These are all in the northwest sector. Near the old mining claims."
"That mean something to you?" Mac watches my face with the intensity I've come to expect.
"Maybe." I pull out my own map of the area. "This sector has been abandoned since the Silver Creek Mine shut down in the 90s. No official trails, minimal access. You'd need serious backcountry skills to reach these spots."
"And intimate knowledge of the terrain," Parker adds, eyes sharp.
I trace the pattern with my finger. "These aren't random. They form a perimeter around this valley." I tap the center of the triangle created by the fire locations. "Old prospector territory. Dozens of abandoned claims."
"Any idea why someone would target that area?" Mac leans closer, his arm brushing mine as he studies the map.
The contact, however brief, sends warmth cascading through me. I step back slightly, needing distance to think clearly.
"Not immediately, no. It's remote, rarely visited. No valuable structures or resources." I frown at the pattern. "But the placement feels deliberate. There’s been no lightning in the area to account for one fire, let alone three."
"That's our assessment, too." Mac straightens, all captain now. "Fortunately, they were quick to put out the fires, and they’re no longer a threat, but we’re concerned about reoccurrences."
"You think whoever set those will set more?"
"Can’t risk ruling it out, which is why I want to position observation teams at strategic points surrounding this valley. Eyes on all potential access routes, monitoring for further activity."
"Sheriff Donovan can help with that. Or Jackson Hart. He’s a local guide who knows those mountains almost as well as I do."
"Sheriff's coordinating with state authorities." Mac's eyes lock with mine. "Jackson’s already out with clients and unavailable. We need someone who knows the unofficial routes. The game trails, the old mining paths—the ones that don't appear on any official map."
Understanding dawns. "You need a guide."
"We need you," he says.
"No." Ice slides through my veins, my heart rate spiking.
"Josephine—"
"I said no." My voice comes out harder than intended. "I don't guide people. Not anymore."
Parker glances between us, sensing the sudden tension. "I'll check in with Rodriguez on the equipment status," she says, tactfully retreating to the far end of the visitor center.
Mac waits until she's out of earshot.
"You guided me."