Chapter 4
PULLED BY SMOKE AND MEOWING SALVATION
~WENDOLYN~
The grocery list crumples slightly in my grip as I navigate the winding road toward town, windows down despite the October chill because fresh air helps clear the lingering anxiety that's become my constant companion since the fire.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days since Gregory tried to erase me from existence, and here I am, making mundane trips for horse feed and fence supplies like the world hasn't fundamentally shifted on its axis.
Willa and her pack left this morning—four cowboys and one very pregnant Omega heading toward the coast for what they're calling a "business trip" but what myself and a few close friends knows is their last chance at privacy before the baby arrives.
Smart of them to escape Sweetwater Falls' gossip mill.
This town dissects pregnancies like biology students with their first frog, picking apart every symptom and craving until there's nothing left but speculation and judgment.
The ranch feels different without them—quieter, heavier with responsibility.
Just me and the seasonal hands now, though Cole promised to check in from time to time the neighboring property.
Still, the weight of maintaining Cactus Rose sits square on my shoulders, familiar as breathing while I fathom the idea of not letting them down.
Ranch work never truly ends, just pauses between disasters.
My grandfather would have said that, probably while fixing something that should have been replaced years ago.
Stubborn man never met a lost cause he didn't want to salvage. Apparently, that trait runs in the family, considering I'm driving toward town in a truck held together by rust and wishful thinking, pretending I know what I'm doing.
A grand life to live in this small town compared to the big city that buzzes with chaos and ongoing misery.
The mental list scrolls through my mind; grain for the horses, mineral blocks for the cattle, new hinges for the gate that's been threatening to fall off since last winter.
Normal things. Safe things. Nothing that involves badges, investigations, or the idea of needing a temporary pack with each passing hour…
Also…stop thinking about Calder.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, the cracked leather warm under my palms, and try to reroute the mental traffic jam my brain has become whenever his name surfaces.
It isn’t just the obvious stuff—his lazy, devastating half-smile or the way his voice drops an octave lower when he’s saying goodbye, like he’s leaving a promise behind in the air for me to find later.
This would be easier if I could hate him. But you can’t hate a man who brings your favorite coffee unasked, who pretends not to see when you tear up at a foal’s first steps, who repairs the gate at midnight so you don’t have to ask twice.
A man who followed from the city as if being apart would have ruined both of us.
It would be more effortless to accomplish if his scent stopped clinging to my skin despite this morning's shower, when I can still feel the ghost of his hands—
Smoke.
The word registers before the sight does, some primal part of my brain that will forever be attuned to danger.
There—a column of black rising against the crystal blue sky, too dark for a burn pile, too concentrated for a wildfire. Structure fire, my training supplies automatically, already calculating distance and wind direction before I remember that's not my job anymore.
Mind your own business, Murphy.
The rational thought lasts approximately three seconds before I'm yanking the wheel hard left, tires protesting as I veer off the main road onto a dirt track that leads toward the smoke.
Duty doesn't care about resignation letters or vintage dresses or the fact that I'm currently armed with nothing but a half-empty water bottle and stubborn determination.
The track winds through land, past rusted fence posts and tumbleweeds that scatter at my approach. Each bump sends the truck airborne slightly, suspension groaning in protest, but I maintain speed because that smoke is getting thicker, darker, angrier.
Someone could be in there.
The possibility drives me forward even as my hands start trembling on the wheel, muscle memory conflicting with recent trauma.
Two weeks since I was the one trapped, since smoke filled my lungs while Gregory's laughter echoed through flames with his pack of men in tow. Mockery at the idea of my life ending…all because I wouldn’t bow down to their desperate neds of financial glory versus stripping me of any form of power I worked tedious to maintain.
The flashbacks hover at the edges of my consciousness, waiting for weakness to strike.
Not now. Someone needs help.
The structure comes into view—a massive shed or possibly an abandoned mechanic shop, judging by the collection of broken-down cars scattered across the property like mechanical tombstones.
Flames lick through the roof in several places, the fire well-established but not yet fully involved.
Salvageable, if the response time is quick enough.
Who would suddenly set something like this on fire though…
What stops me cold, makes my blood freeze despite the heat radiating from the building, is the golden retriever tied to a post twenty feet from the structure.
The dog is howling, barking with the kind of desperate distress that speaks of separation from someone beloved.
The rope is short enough to keep the animal safe from the flames but too short for escape.
Someone's inside.
No question now. No dog gets left tied up while their owner casually walks away from a burning building. Either someone's trapped, or something terrible has happened, and either way, I can't drive away.
Won't drive away, despite every self-preservation instinct screaming at me to flee.
I park at a safe distance, leaving the engine running because I'm not completely stupid, just selectively reckless.
The heat hits immediately as I exit the truck, that familiar wall of temperature that makes the air shimmer like water.
My body responds with trained precision even as my mind rebels—assess the structure, identify entry points, calculate the risk.
You're not equipped for this. No gear, no backup, no—
"Is anyone in there?" My voice carries over the crackling flames, hoarse already from memory more than smoke. "Call out if you can hear me!"
Nothing but the dog's continued distress and the sound of consumption—wood surrendering to chemistry, structure becoming ash. The main entrance gapes open, door long since burned away, revealing an orange-lit interior that looks exactly like every nightmare I've had for the past two weeks.
Turn around. Drive away. This isn't your responsibility.
But my feet carry me forward anyway, vintage dress completely inappropriate for the situation but determination overriding fashion concerns. The heat intensifies with each step, sweat already beading on my skin, lungs automatically shifting to shallow breathing to minimize smoke intake.
The interior is chaos—visibility limited to maybe ten feet, smoke banking down from the ceiling in rolling waves. Industrial shelving has collapsed in places, creating obstacles that force me to duck and weave through the maze of destruction.
My eyes water immediately, tears streaming as I navigate by instinct more than sight.
"Hello? Anyone here?" The words come out rough, competing with the roar of flames overhead. "Fire department! Call out!"
Former fire department, my mind supplies unhelpfully. Currently just an Omega in a dress playing hero.
A beam crashes somewhere to my left, sending sparks cascading like deadly snow.
The similarities to two weeks ago are overwhelming—the taste of smoke, the pressing heat, the knowledge that structures don't burn forever before they collapse.
Gregory's voice echoes in memory, mixing with the crackling flames until I can't distinguish between past and present.
"The Ironwood Pack doesn't leave loose ends, sweetheart."
My knees buckle slightly, hand shooting out to steady myself against what turns out to be a scorching metal shelf. Pain lances through my palm, shocking me back to the present.
Not Gregory's fire.
Not that kitchen.
Different building, different day, different—
Meow.
The sound is so tiny, so impossibly small against the roar of destruction, that I almost dismiss it as imagination.
But there—again.
High-pitched, desperate, absolutely real.
Kittens.
The realization punches with the force as it begins to sink in like a rush of tingling panic. Not a person trapped but something equally innocent — deserving of rescue. My feet move before my brain catches up, following that thin thread of sound through smoke and heat and mounting panic.
The source is a corner where the smoke hasn't fully penetrated, a pocket of cleaner air that's allowed survival just a little longer. Four of them, huddled together in a cardboard box like someone's discarded inconvenience.
Tiny bodies pressed close for warmth and comfort, eyes barely open, maybe three weeks old at most.
"Who does this?" The words tear from my throat, anger momentarily overriding fear. "Who abandons babies in a place like this?"
But anger won't save them, and the building groans overhead in a way that speaks of imminent structural failure.
I shed my coat—one of my favorites, vintage wool with pearl buttons—and bundle the kittens inside, their weight negligible but their value immeasurable.
Four tiny heartbeats against my chest as I turn back toward what I hope is the exit.
The smoke has thickened in just those few moments, visibility dropping to almost nothing. My internal compass spins wildly, landmarks obscured by the dancing orange light and billowing black clouds.
Each breath burns despite my attempts at shallow breathing, lungs protesting the abuse with increasing vehemence.
Left. The entrance was left.
But left from where? The corner could have been anywhere in the structure, and I've lost track of my turns, my steps, my relationship to the outside world. Panic rises like bile, memories of being trapped flooding back with vengeance.
Not again. Please, not again.
I stumble forward, free hand outstretched to feel for obstacles, when my foot catches on debris.
The world tilts, gravity asserting dominance, and I crash hard into what turns out to be a burning section of wall.
Fire races up my back, immediate and excruciating, forcing a scream from my throat that emerges as more of a strangled gasp.
Drop and roll. Basic training. Drop and roll.
My body responds automatically, hitting the ground hard and rolling frantically until the immediate fire is extinguished. But the damage is done—I can feel the burn across my back, skin screaming in protest, adding another layer of agony to an already impossible situation.
"Fuck," I gasp, struggling back to my feet while still cradling the kittens protectively. They're mewling now, distressed by the motion and heat, and I whisper nonsense reassurances that we both know are lies.
"It's okay, babies. We're getting out. We're—"
The smoke is denser near the floor now, inversion layers be damned. Each breath is like swallowing glass, sharp and destructive. My vision starts to tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges like spilled ink.
The exit has to be close. Has to be—
There.
A rectangle of lighter smoke that might be doorway or might be hallucination but represents the only hope available. I stumble toward it, legs increasingly uncooperative, the world spinning in nauseating circles that have nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with oxygen deprivation.
Ten more steps. Just ten more—
My knees give out completely, body deciding it's done with this particular adventure. I brace for impact with the unforgiving ground, already calculating how to protect the kittens from the fall, when strong arms catch me.
The world shifts, perspective changing as I'm lifted, and suddenly I'm looking up into storm-gray eyes that I recognize from two weeks ago.
The captain—Aidric, was it? — my memory supplies through the fog. This close, his features are sharp with concern, jaw clenched with determination that speaks of someone who's made a career of impossible rescues.
The cowboy hat sitting on his head matched with the typical fannel attire is far different from the man bedazzled with fire gear and a protective urgency to get his victim out.
His expression really is no different from before, only it seems wilder with possessiveness, as he takes me in with wide eyes.
But it's his scent that devastates me completely.
Cedar and black amber crash over me like a wave, immediately recognizable from that night but intensified by proximity.
Without the smoke and chaos between us, his pheromones hit every receptor I possess, speaking directly to primitive parts of my brain that don't care about independence or complications or the fact that I can't breathe.
Alpha. Protector. Safe.
My knees finish their complete betrayal, turning to water as his scent wraps around me like sanctuary.
He adjusts seamlessly, one arm sliding under my knees while the other supports my back—careful of the burns I don't remember mentioning but he's noticed anyway. The princess carry should be embarrassing, would be under any other circumstances, but right now it just feels like salvation.
"I've got you," he says, voice calm despite the chaos surrounding us.
Professional.
Controlled.
Everything I'm not in this moment.
"Keep those kittens secure."
I try to respond, to maintain consciousness through pure stubbornness, but my body has reached its limit.
The dancing spots of darkness that have been threatening finally coalesce into something overwhelming. His scent—cedar, amber, and absolute safety—is the last thing I process as my eyes roll back.
Should have minded my own business.