Chapter 3 #2
"I'm sure Chief Rodriguez already has someone in mind for the position."
Hazel's smirk returns, sharp and knowing.
"He might have had ideas, but your name's been buzzing through the grapevine like wildfire—pun intended. The way his crew talked about you after the rescue, with that particular mixture of awe and professional respect? Chief Rodriguez has been making inquiries."
"That can't be right." Nervous laughter bubbles up, the kind that happens when the universe offers something too good to be real. "I'm just—"
"Why do you think I specifically sought out your case?
" She turns fully to face me, expression serious.
"Rodriguez requested protection detail for you, body guard service until you're officially pack-affiliated.
He thinks highly enough of you to pull those kinds of strings.
That doesn't happen for random civilians, Wendolyn. "
"Wow." The word escapes on an exhale. "No pressure or anything."
"You couldn't be on the frontlines, though," I add quickly, the familiar excuses rising automatically. "Not as an Omega. The politics alone would—"
Her frown cuts deeper than any blade.
"Didn't stop you from being chief in Los Angeles. One of the youngest in the department's history, if my research is correct."
"That was different." The protest sounds weak even to my own ears. "I had drive then, had something to prove. Now..." I gesture vaguely at myself, at the vintage dress and the pie-delivery truck and the careful life I've built from running away.
"Now you have experience," Hazel counters firmly.
"Wisdom earned through surviving what would break lesser people.
Do you know how rare it is to find someone with your qualifications who also understands the unique challenges our designation faces?
Who could advocate for Omega firefighters, ensure they're treated fairly, given opportunities based on merit rather than biology? "
The vision she paints—a station where designation doesn't determine destiny—makes something long-dormant stir in my chest.
"Think about it," she urges, backing toward her cruiser. "Don't let this investigation, or Gregory Mason, or anyone else steal what you've earned. You survived the fire, Chief Murphy. Don't let them win by keeping you from what you love."
With quick goodbyes, she drives away, leaving me standing in the morning light with dust settling around me like possibilities. The ranch continues its rhythm—cattle lowing, horses nickering, the distant sound of Cole directing someone about fence repairs.
Normal life carrying on while mine tilts on its axis.
Station Fahrenheit.
The name rolls through my mind, tasting of potential and terror in equal measure.
A new station means new protocols, new chances to shape policy and culture. It means standing up instead of hiding, means reclaiming the title Gregory tried to burn away.
But it also means exposure.
Visibility.
Being a target not just for him but for every Alpha who thinks Omegas don't belong in positions of authority.
The LA department had been brutal enough, and that was with established credentials and years of proving myself.
"Wendy?"
Cole's voice pulls me from my spiral. He's standing by the barn, obviously giving me space but concerned enough to check. "Everything alright?"
"Fine," I call back, surprised to find it might actually be true. "Just got some unexpected news."
"Good news or bad news?"
I consider the question, weighing Hazel's visit against everything it implies.
The investigation moving forward. Needing a pack. The possibility of wearing a chief's badge again.
"Complicated news," I settle on, which makes him chuckle.
"That's the only kind worth getting," he says, philosophical in that way cowboys manage without trying. "You staying to help with the feeding, or heading back?"
The familiar routine of ranch work calls to me—simple, physical, nothing more complex than hay and water and keeping things alive. But there are more pies to bake, and now apparently pack arrangements to consider, and a future that suddenly looks less like hiding and more like fighting.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I promise. "Early shift before Willa leaves."
He nods, already turning back to his work, trusting that I'll keep my word because out here, your word is all that really matters.
The drive back to my rental feels different, charged with possibility I hadn't allowed myself to consider. Station Fahrenheit. Three months with a temporary pack. An investigation with an Omega chief who actually gives a damn.
Gregory thought he could reduce me to ash.
He forgot that phoenixes are born from burning.
My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I navigate the winding road, decision crystallizing with each mile. I won't let him win. Won't allow fear to keep me from what I've earned through years of dedication and sacrifice.
The familiar outline of my little rental house appears, and with it, an unexpected vehicle—Calder's truck, parked like it belongs there. He's sitting on my porch steps, elbows on his knees, looking like he's been waiting a while.
"Thought you had fence repairs," I say as I exit my truck, trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
"Finished early." He stands, his full height making me crane my neck to maintain eye contact. "Saw Hazel Martinez leaving the ranch. Everything okay?"
The concern in his voice, the way he's clearly been worried enough to abandon his work and wait for me—it does things to my carefully maintained walls that I can't afford.
"The investigation's moving forward," I tell him, climbing the porch steps until we're closer to eye level. "She's taking it seriously."
"Good." The word comes out fierce, protective. "About damn time someone did."
"There's a catch though." I fidget with my keys, not quite meeting his eyes. "She says I need a pack. Temporary protection while the case proceeds. Three months minimum."
The silence stretches, loaded with unspoken implications.
When I finally look up, his expression is unreadable, that particular stillness that means he's processing, calculating, arriving at conclusions I'm not ready to hear.
"Three months," he repeats slowly, like he's tasting the words.
"Just for legal standing," I clarify quickly. "Nothing permanent, nothing—"
"Wendy." The way he says my name stops me mid-ramble. "What if it wasn't just for legal standing?"
The question hangs between us, dangerous as any flame.
Because we both know what he's really asking, what door he's trying to open that I've kept desperately locked.
"I should check on those other pies," I say instead of answering, fumbling with the lock.
His hand covers mine on the doorknob, warm and steady.
"We need to talk about this eventually."
"I know." The admission comes out small, scared. "Just... not yet. Not until I figure out what happens next."
He steps back, giving me space even though every line of his body says he wants to do the opposite.
"When you're ready, I'll be here. For whatever you need. Pack, protection, or just someone to share the burden."
I escape inside before I can do something stupid like kiss him again or worse—tell him that I'm already considering it. Considering him. Wishfullly thinking of “us” that extends beyond stolen moments and careful boundaries.
Through my kitchen window, I watch him drive away, and then I'm alone with the ghost of possibilities and the echo of a name.
Station Fahrenheit.
Fire station. New beginnings. Second chances wrapped in department policies and regulation uniforms.
The ceramic mug in my hand—the one from Tulsa with the chip that makes it perfect—suddenly feels like a talisman.
Forty-seven pieces of a life built from running.
But what if I stopped? What if I planted myself here, in this complicated town with its complicated people, and grew something worth protecting?
What if I became Chief Murphy again, not in spite of being an Omega, but because of it?
The afternoon sun slants through my window, illuminating dust motes that dance like sparks, and I make a decision that feels like stepping into flames all over again.
Tomorrow, I'll call Tom Rodriguez.
I'll ask about Station Fahrenheit.
I'll stop running and start rebuilding.
But tonight, I'll bake more pies and pretend my hands aren't shaking with the weight of possibility, and pretend that the thought of wearing a badge again doesn't terrify and exhilarate in equal measure.
Station Fahrenheit.
The name tastes like redemption.