Chapter 9 New Fires #2
The father, mid-thirties, soft around the middle, clearly not an experienced hiker, keeps looking over his shoulder at the advancing fire.
Fear radiates from his movements, the kind of barely controlled panic that leads to poor decisions.
The mother carries the family pack, too heavy for her frame, while trying to encourage two kids who've reached their physical limits.
I intercept them at the trail junction, emerging from the tree line.
"I'm Jo Mackenzie, wilderness safety coordinator." I pitch my voice to carry reassurance. "I’m here to redirect you to a safer route."
"Thank God. We heard the fire wasn’t contained." The father stops so abruptly that his wife nearly collides with him.
I kneel to get down at the children's eye level—a girl, maybe six, a boy who can't be more than four. Both are flushed and breathing hard, tiny faces streaked with ash. "Hey there. I bet you guys are tired."
"Mommy said we have to walk fast because of the fire," the girl says solemnly. "But Tommy can't keep up."
"That's okay. I know a special trail that's easier for tired legs." I stand, addressing the parents. "The main evacuation route is compromised. I can guide you to the service road. It’s farther, but the grade is gentler and there’s no smoke."
"Is it safe?" Relief floods the mother's face.
"Safer than staying here." I gesture toward the approaching fire, now close enough that we can feel its heat on the wind. "But we need to move now."
The family follows without question, desperation overriding any concerns about trusting a stranger. I set a pace the children can maintain while keeping us ahead of the fire's advancing edge. The service road is abandoned, less maintained than the main trail, but it loops around the fire's path.
"You live here?" The father breathes hard as we climb.
"All my life." I duck under a low branch, holding it back for them to pass. "These mountains are my backyard."
"How bad is it? The fire?"
I consider lying. Instead, I choose truth tempered with hope. "It's serious, but professionals are handling it. This route gets us clear of the immediate danger."
We continue in silence, broken only by the children’s questions—why is the sky gray, where do the animals go when there’s fire, will their car be okay in the parking lot?
I answer each with patience born of genuine concern, watching their faces relax incrementally as we put distance between ourselves and the flames.
Twenty-two minutes later, we emerge at the service road junction. The family is tired but unharmed, the children's energy returning as cleaner air fills their lungs. Below us, the parking area is visible—cars departing in an orderly evacuation, no panic, no chaos.
"From here, just follow the road down," I tell the parents. "Park service personnel are directing traffic at the bottom."
"What about you?" the mother asks. "Aren't you coming?"
"I need to check in with the fire response team." I hand her my card with emergency contact numbers. "If you have any problems on the way down, call that number."
The father extends his hand. "Thank you. I don't know what would have happened if—"
"You would have figured it out." I shake his hand briefly. "People are more capable than they think in crises."
After they disappear around the first bend, I radio Mac. "Family secured and en route to staging area. Requesting status update."
"Good timing. We've got a problem." His voice comes through immediately, tight with controlled tension.
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind that suggests our arsonist isn't finished for the day. Meet me at coordinates..." He rattles off numbers that put him near the old mining claims, deep in the backcountry where yesterday's fires burned. "And Josephine? Bring your geological survey maps. All of them."
"On my way."
I change direction, climbing back into the high country where Mac's coordinates place him. The urgency in his voice sets my nerves on edge, but underneath the anxiety runs something else—satisfaction at a job completed successfully.
The family is safe. I guided them out without incident, without hesitation, without the paralyzing fear that's haunted me since Sarah's accident.
Maybe I'm not as broken as I thought.
The meeting coordinates are a forty-minute hike through terrain I know intimately. I make good time despite the elevation gain, adrenaline sustaining me through technical sections that would normally require careful planning.
By the time I reach Mac's position, the sun hangs low in the western sky, painting the surrounding peaks in shades of copper and gold.
Mac stands at the edge of what was once the Silver Creek Mine's processing facility—rusted equipment scattered among foundations overgrown with wildflowers and young aspens. Rodriguez and Martinez flank him, all three studying something that has their full attention.
Scout's behavior changes the moment we approach the old mining facility. Her nose goes to the ground, following scent trails with intense focus. She circles the area twice before stopping at a specific spot, looking back at me with the alert expression that means she's found something significant.
"What is it, girl?" I follow her lead, and that's when I see the signs of recent habitation that the men missed—disturbed vegetation and the faint depression where someone recently slept.
"What've you got?" I ask, slightly breathless from the climb.
Mac turns, relief flickering across his features before professional focus reasserts itself. "Evidence our fire-setter has been busy."
He leads me to what appears to be a hastily abandoned campsite. Sleeping bag still warm to the touch. Coffee dregs in a metal cup. And scattered across a flat rock, detailed maps of the entire Angel's Peak region—marked with locations that match perfectly with yesterday's fire sites.
"Whoever was here left in a hurry," Rodriguez explains. "We found this site maybe twenty minutes ago. Still smoldering embers in the fire ring."
"These are mine." I study the maps, recognition dawning cold in my stomach. "Older versions, but definitely mine."
"What?" Mac's voice sharpens.
"These maps. The style, the notations—I drew these." I pick up the topographical sheet showing Lookout Point, my precise pencil work visible in the margin notes. "But I've never seen these particular copies before."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know." My hands shake slightly as I examine each map. All mine. All unauthorized copies. All marked with fire locations I never designated. "Someone's been reproducing my work."
Mac and Rodriguez exchange glances laden with implications I’d rather not consider.
"Who has access to your original maps?" Mac asks carefully.
"Official copies are on file at the visitor center, the sheriff's office, and park service headquarters.
" I set the maps down with deliberate care.
"But I update my copies constantly. Anyone could have photographed my maps at the visitor center, or anywhere else I've displayed them publicly.
The detail and accuracy suggest someone had extended access to study my work. "
What chills me isn't the accessibility of my work, but the sophistication of the operation. This isn't some amateur with a grudge. This is someone who understands both fire behavior and my mapping techniques well enough to weaponize my expertise against the mountains I love.
My radio crackles. Parker's voice cuts through the charged silence: "All teams, be advised. Fourth fire reported at Crystal Falls. Estimated start time thirty minutes ago. This is now a coordinated arson investigation."
"We need to get back," Mac says quietly.
The return hike passes in focused silence.
Mac leads, setting a punishing pace through terrain that blurs past in shadow and fading light.
I follow, mind churning through possibilities—who had access to my maps, when they could have been copied, how long someone might have been planning this coordinated attack.
By the time we reach base camp, full dark has settled over Angel's Peak. Emergency vehicles fill the parking area—fire trucks, sheriff's deputies, state investigators. The coordinated response suggests this is no longer being treated as random vandalism.
Back at base, the chaos hums around us—radio static, clipped orders, the sharp scent of smoke riding the wind.
Mac stands near the command tent, legs braced wide, arms crossed over his chest as he listens to another report from dispatch. All control and steel and that unreadable calm that only makes me want to tear into him and demand he lose it—just once—with me.
Parker meets us at the staging area, expression grim. "Cap, we've got problems."
"Report."
"The Crystal Falls fire was set with an accelerant. Professional job—multiple ignition points, strategically placed for maximum spread."
Mac's jaw tightens. "Someone with serious expertise."
"Has to be," Parker says. "The fire placement shows an intimate understanding of both terrain and firefighting protocols."
"Find out who's behind it." Mac in command has never looked sexier.
"Trying, Cap." Parker glances over at me, then back at Mac. Something shines in her eyes, and a slight chuckle escapes her.
I step closer, Mac’s presence solid and reassuring, while my mind replays our last conversation, about words I’ll feel and titles I’ll use. Instead of addressing that, I force myself to focus on the fires.
"Someone weaponized my work against these mountains. But they made one mistake."
"What's that?"
"They picked the wrong fight." My voice hardens with resolve. "These are my mountains. My maps. My responsibility to protect them."
“Then let’s hunt this bastard down.” Mac’s voice is low and certain, but his eyes aren’t on the fireline. They’re on me. Pinning me with the kind of look that strips away my layers until I’m bare beneath it.
He steps closer. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But I feel it.
The shift. The pull.
“You were thinking something just now,” he murmurs, voice pitched for my ears alone. “Back when you said those were your mountains. Your maps.”
I straighten, trying to be professional. “I was just—”
“Don’t lie.” His head tilts, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re too honest in your eyes. Try again.”
Heat crawls up my throat. I glance past him, anywhere but those knowing eyes.
“I was thinking about what you said,” I admit finally. “Back at the ridge.”
His smile turns lethal. “Be more specific.”
“I was thinking about…” I swallow. “What it would feel like…"
"Be very specific." His gaze turns molten hot, and his fingers graze the back of my neck—just a whisper of touch.
Still, I tremble.
Not from fear. From want.
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. They catch somewhere in my throat, heavy and hot, too tangled to speak aloud.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Can’t answer?” A slow smirk curves his mouth, all heat and dark promise.
I shake my head, barely.
His voice drops to a growl. “Tell me, Josephine. Are you thinking about calling me Sir… or about being punished for the way your voice shakes when you do?”
My breath leaves me in a rush, knees suddenly weaker than I want to admit.
He leans in, brushing his lips along my jaw like he’s tasting the answer. “Because either way, sweetheart… I will find out.”
His palm splays low on my back, anchoring me there. And I can’t move. Don’t want to.
“When this fire’s out, you’re mine." He leans in, mouth brushing just beside my ear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I plan to discover every one of your fantasies. And then I’ll make damn sure you feel them.
All of them.” His fingers graze the back of my neck—just a whisper of contact, and yet I tremble.
“Soon.” He pulls back before I can speak, his expression unreadable, voice sharp again as he turns to Parker. “Send a recon drone to the north flank. I want eyes on the old forest service road.”
And just like that, Captain Mac is back.
But I’m still standing in the wreckage of his words, my body lit up like a lightning strike…
Aching to obey.
Around us, the controlled chaos of incident command continues—radios crackling, personnel moving with urgent purpose, the machinery of crisis response grinding into action. But between Mac and me, something solidifies.
Partnership. Purpose. Passion.
Somewhere in the darkness above us, another fire blooms against the mountainside—a fifth ignition point in what's an escalating campaign of destruction.
As I watch the orange glow reflect off low-hanging clouds, one thought fills my mind.
The arsonist isn't finished. They have a goal.
Find that and we can anticipate rather than react.