Chapter 8 Smoke Signals
Smoke Signals
Last night plays on repeat behind my eyes—the low rasp of Mac’s voice in the dark, the way his words didn’t just settle under my skin, they branded me.
“You’re mine, Josephine. Not just in bed. Not just in heat. I see you—all of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
It wasn’t a demand. It was a vow. One he sealed with slow, devastating possession. The kind of sex that rewires a woman.
Feral, filthy, reverent.
He worshipped me with his mouth, his hands, his body—then ruined me completely until all I could do was scream his name into the mattress and beg for more.
He didn’t just fuck me.
He claimed me.
And I let him.
Now, dawn breaks in shades of amber and rose as Mac’s team assembles at the trailhead. The air carries the scent of pine and possibility, dew clinging to every surface like tiny prisms. Under different circumstances, I might pause to appreciate the beauty.
Today, there’s no room for awe.
My focus narrows—hazard points, terrain changes, emergency egress routes, weather fronts closing in.
Everything that could go wrong.
Because out here, one misstep costs everything. And after last night… I have too much to lose.
I shift my pack higher on my shoulders, scan the perimeter, and force my breath to slow.
If any of them knew.
If they had the slightest idea what Mac did to me this morning—how he woke me with a grip in my hair and a command on his tongue.
Heat flares across my cheeks, my thighs clenching involuntarily.
I’m his.
And Mac? He’s going to make damn sure I never forget it.
He stands at the center of his crew, issuing final instructions.
He's transformed overnight from the man in my bed to Captain Sullivan, all crisp authority and tactical precision.
His team forms a semi-circle around him—twelve firefighters in yellow and green, loaded with observation equipment and survival gear.
The other half of his crew remains on standby at the station, ready to respond if the arsonist strikes again.
"Our priority is intelligence gathering," Mac tells them, voice carrying in the morning stillness. "We're looking for evidence of human activity, unusual patterns, anything that might help identify who's behind these fires."
I hang back, checking my pack for the third time.
Water purification tablets, emergency blanket, first aid kit, compass, topographical maps—everything in its place, just as I've packed a hundred times before.
Yet my hands won't stop their methodical inventory, driven by anxiety I can't quite suppress.
Scout sits beside me, her intelligent brown eyes tracking my nervous movements. She tilts her head as I check the same pocket for the fourth time, then nudges my hand with her wet nose—a gentle reminder that my anxiety is showing. I scratch behind her ears, finding comfort in her steady presence.
"At least one of us knows what we're doing," I murmur to her. She wags her tail once, confident and ready, the way she always is before we head into the mountains.
"Ms. Mackenzie will be our guide." Mac gestures toward me, and twelve pairs of eyes shift in my direction. "She knows these mountains, the terrain, the pitfalls and dangers. When she speaks, you listen. Clear?"
A chorus of affirmations ripples through the group. I straighten my shoulders, feeling the weight of their trust settle uncomfortably across my back.
"We'll divide into six teams of two," Mac continues, unfolding the map we prepared yesterday. "Each team will establish an observation post at these designated coordinates. Ms. Mackenzie and I will guide you to your positions, then maintain mobile patrol between posts."
Rodriguez raises a hand. "What kind of terrain are we looking at, Cap?"
Mac defers with a nod in my direction. "Ms. Mackenzie?"
I step forward, pushing down the flutter of nerves in my stomach.
"Mostly old mining territory. Steep slopes, loose shale in places.
Several unmarked caves and abandoned prospector camps.
The western ridge is unstable after last spring's landslide.
" I trace the area on the map. "Navigation is tricky—GPS signals bounce off rock faces, creating false readings.
Follow the markers I've indicated, not your devices. "
Parker studies the map, brow furrowed. "What about water sources?"
"Three reliable springs marked here, here, and here." I point to the blue X's on the map. "The northeastern stream runs high with snowmelt, but it's contaminated with old mining runoff. Don't drink from it, even with filtration."
The questions continue—terrain hazards, wildlife activity, and emergency extraction points. I answer each with growing confidence, my anxiety receding as I slip into the familiar role of mountain expert. This part I've always been good at—reading the land, understanding its moods and dangers.
Scout moves to my side as I speak, her presence grounding me. She's been my partner on every trail survey; her nose detects wildlife signs before I spot them, and her ears alert me to changes in weather patterns through sounds I can't hear.
The crew notices her immediately—the way she positions herself, alert but calm, scanning the terrain with professional focus.
"Your dog always work with you?" Williams asks with genuine curiosity.
"Scout's saved more hikers than I have," I reply, one hand resting on her head. "She can track scent trails through terrain that would take me hours to navigate, and she knows the difference between normal wildlife activity and something wrong."
It's the human element that terrifies me.
"Move out in five," Mac announces, folding the map. The teams break formation to perform last-minute equipment checks.
Mac approaches, stopping close enough that only I can hear him. "You okay?"
His concern shouldn't warm me, but it does. "Fine."
"You've checked your pack four times."
"Three," I correct automatically, then bite my lip at his knowing look. "Just being thorough."
His eyes soften a fraction. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do." I adjust my pack straps, avoiding his gaze. "Just don't expect me to be happy about it."
"Noted." A hint of amusement colors his voice. "For what it's worth, they're impressed. Not everyone can silence a hotshot crew with mountain trivia."
"It's not trivia when it might save their lives." The words come out sharper than intended.
His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his features. "No. It isn't."
Before I can decipher his reaction, Parker approaches with a radio check request, and the moment passes.
We lead the first team—Martinez and Williams—up the eastern slope toward Thunder Ridge.
The trail starts easily enough, following an old logging road before branching onto a game path I've mapped but rarely traveled.
Martinez moves with surprising grace for his size, while Williams maintains a running commentary on the flora we pass.
"These are different from the ones in California," she says, pausing to examine a cluster of blue columbines. "Our wildflowers don't handle altitude well."
"State flower," I tell her. "They only bloom above 7,000 feet."
"Beautiful," she murmurs, then jogs to catch up.
Mac takes point, setting a steady pace that respects the terrain without wasting time. I bring up the rear, eyes constantly scanning for signs of danger—loose rocks, unstable ground, wildlife movement. Every snapped twig makes me flinch. Every rustle in the underbrush spikes my pulse.
Scout ranges ahead of me, staying within sight but using her superior senses to scout the trail. Her ears swivel constantly, cataloging sounds beyond human perception.
When she pauses and looks back at me with a soft whine, I know she's picked up something—a scent or sound that doesn't belong. I signal Mac, who holds up a hand to halt the team while Scout investigates a cluster of boulders off the main trail.
She returns with nothing more threatening than the lingering scent of elk, but her diligence reminds me why I trust her instincts more than my paranoia.
"Relax, Mackenzie." Mac drops back to walk beside me while his team navigates a narrow stretch ahead. "You're hypervigilant."
Out here, he calls me Mackenzie. Everyone in his crew uses each other’s last names when on the job. In person, when it’s just us, he switches to Josephine, the only person who calls me that. Makes it all the more special.
"That's my job." I step carefully around a jutting rock. "Someone has to be."
"Not to this degree." His voice drops lower. "You're going to burn out before we reach the first position."
"I'm fine."
"You've checked every foothold Martinez and Williams have used. Tested branches they've already tested. Recalculated distances I've already confirmed." His observation is too accurate for comfort. "Trust the process, Josephine."
"I trust facts, not processes." I scan the ridge line above us. "Processes fail. People make mistakes."
"Some mistakes can't be anticipated."
I glance at him sharply, but his expression reveals nothing beyond professional concern.
"All mistakes can be prevented with proper preparation." The words come out like a mantra, one I've repeated to myself a thousand times since Sarah's fall.
Mac studies me for a long moment, then simply says, "No. They can't."
Before I can argue, he moves ahead to rejoin his team, leaving me with an unsettled feeling that has nothing to do with the treacherous terrain.
The first observation post sits on a natural plateau halfway up Thunder Ridge. The position offers clear sightlines to two of the fire sites while remaining sheltered by a granite outcropping. A perfect vantage point—invisible from below but commanding views of the valley.
"This is ideal," Martinez says, already unpacking surveillance equipment. "We can monitor both the north and west approaches from here."