Chapter 5
Five
Sierra had spent ten years teaching herself not to need Rowan Wallace.
And one night, one split second, had obliterated that lie.
The volunteer fire department had arrived with sirens wailing and lights flashing, but by then the barn was beyond saving. Captain Murphy and his crew had focused on containing the blaze and protecting the house.
Now, an hour later, the acrid smell of smoke still clung to everything—her clothes, her hair, the air itself.
Sierra stood on the back deck with Rowan and Samantha Williams, one of the firefighters, watching the barn’s charred skeleton cool under the star-filled sky. Occasional sparks still glowed orange in the ruins where four generations of her family’s history had turned to ash.
“Captain Murphy asked me to give you the preliminary findings,” Sam said.
Petite with shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, she had the kind of no-nonsense demeanor that came from years of dealing with emergencies.
She still wore her helmet, her turnout gear. “How do you think the fire started?”
“I don’t know.” Sierra shook her head. “I came home and it was in flames.”
“Could’ve been faulty wiring,” Rowan suggested. “Old barns, rodents chewing through insulation.”
“Possible,” Sam said, but her tone suggested she wasn’t convinced. “Though the burn patterns are unusual. Fire seems to have started in multiple places, spread faster than it should have for natural causes.”
“Unusual how?” Rowan stood with his arms crossed, his attention focused entirely on Sam’s explanation.
And of course, Sierra’s attention was focused on Rowan—the angry red burn marks across his forearms where embers had caught his skin, the soot streaked across his cheekbones, the way his flannel shirt was singed at the shoulders.
And oh—she couldn’t stop seeing him the way he’d looked, a man practically on fire as he burst through those barn doors with flames licking at his back, Huck clutched against his chest.
Her entire life, packaged in the arms of the man she’d tried to forget.
Right.
And he’d had no idea—zip—that he was saving his own son.
“We found a burned patch in the back corner of the barn that doesn’t match the rest of the fire pattern,” Sam was saying.
“Could be where accelerant was used, but we’ll need to do a full investigation to be sure.
” Sam’s mouth pressed into a thin line as she watched the crew finish the mop up, wind the hoses back into the truck.
“I’ll be back tomorrow with the state fire investigator to run some tests. ”
“But someone might have deliberately burned down my barn.” Sierra’s voice sounded just angry enough to give her a little staying power. She wasn’t going to curl into a ball and weep. Not yet.
“That’s what we need to determine. Could be an electrical short, could be spontaneous combustion from hay, could be kids with matches, could be someone with a grudge.” Sam shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt you?”
Sierra’s jaw tightened. “More than I thought, apparently.”
“Captain wants me to recommend you stay somewhere else tonight. Hotel, friends, family. Just until we know more.”
“This is my home.” Sierra’s voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. “I’m not leaving.”
“Then you shouldn’t be alone. Anyone you can call?”
“She won’t be alone,” Rowan said quietly beside her. Except not quietly, because the words simply thundered through her, stripped away her words, her breath.
What?
Her mouth opened though, and maybe that was enough for him to round on her.
“I’m staying. Tonight, tomorrow, however long it takes to make sure you and Huck are safe.”
She didn’t ask how he’d learned his son’s name—probably from her screaming it as he ran into the burning barn. “I didn’t ask you to stay.”
“You didn’t ask me to pull your son out of a burning barn either, but I did it anyway.” His eyes met hers in the porch light. “Some things don’t require permission.”
Sam cleared her throat. “So. I’ll leave you folks to sort out the details. Need to get back and help Captain Murphy finish his report.”
She headed down the deck steps toward her truck but paused and turned back. “Sierra? Be careful. If this was arson, whoever did it might not be finished.”
Oh great. And there went any final scraps of argument to tell Superman to Stand. Down.
Apparently, she’d need to make up the guest room.
The truck’s engine started and red taillights disappeared down the gravel driveway. Sierra crossed her arms over her chest. “I need to call my insurance agent tomorrow. Grandpa had coverage, but I don’t know how much.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“We?” Hello. “There’s no ‘we’ here, Rowan. You made that clear ten years ago.”
“I…no, Sierra.” He turned to her. “There are reasons I didn’t come back—”
She held up her hand. “Save them.”
“Really? You’re not going to listen to anything I have to say?”
She’d headed off the porch to survey the damage. “I don’t need to. You made your choice.”
“I was in the military. We didn’t have choices.”
The barn stood like a blackened skeleton against the night sky, the wooden roof beams charred, the ribs of some massive fallen beast. The stone foundation remained intact, but everything above it had been consumed—century-old timber posts reduced to charcoal stumps, the hay loft nothing but empty air, and the smell of smoke that would linger for months.
Rowan stepped up behind her. “Okay, maybe I did make choices. But I’d call them mistakes. Terrible mistakes.”
She closed her eyes. Sighed. “You can’t just walk back into my life and fix everything, Row.”
“Sierra. Someone tried to burn down your barn tonight, and I’m not leaving you and your son to face that alone.”
Words, the terrible words that could dig through her, find root. Oh, she didn’t want to need this man—
“Mom!” The kitchen door opened, and Huck appeared in the doorway, still clutching Bandit against his chest. The puppy had finally stopped trembling, but Huck’s hair was damp from a quick bath and his face still showed streaks where tears had washed away soot.
His pajamas stuck to his body, still wet in places.
“Mom? I’m hungry.”
She shook her head. “Of course you are. There’s leftover spaghetti—”
“I can get it.”
She shot a look at Rowan. “I don’t need another fire.” She headed inside.
Rowan followed her.
Huck had filled a water bowl for the dog and now set it on the floor. The pup went over to drink, its whip tail wagging.
She took the container of spaghetti from the fridge, put it onto a plate to microwave.
“You did a dangerous thing, going after that dog,” Rowan said softly behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The man had gotten on the floor next to the dog. And Huck.
She turned away.
“Mom says I shouldn’t have. Says I could’ve died.”
“Your mom’s right. But I understand why you did it.”
She opened the microwave. Spotted Rowan patting the dog with his big hand. “Sometimes we take risks for the things we love. The trick is making sure the risk is worth it.”
“Was Bandit worth it?”
“What do you think?”
Huck’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I think maybe I should have asked for help instead of going alone.”
Sierra braced her hands on the counter, her jaw tight. Don’t cry. Don’t—
“That’s very wise. Asking for help isn’t giving up. It’s being smart.”
Aw. Now he was talking to her. Jerk.
She glanced at him.
He smiled at her.
Jerk!
“Hey, what happened to your hand?” Rowan had noticed a cut on Huck’s palm, partially hidden by the boy’s pajama sleeve.
“Fell on a rake when I was running in. It’s not bad.”
“Let me take a look.” Rowan examined it. “Yeah, it needs a Band-Aid.” He got up, moved toward the cabinets. “First aid kit?”
“Above the sink.”
He found the first aid kit and spread its contents on the table, then gently took Huck’s hand in his. The cut was shallow but still seeping blood, the edges ragged from the rake’s teeth.
“This might sting a little,” Rowan warned, opening an alcohol wipe.
“I’m tough.” Huck’s chin came up.
“I can see that. But tough guys are allowed to say ‘ouch’ when something hurts. Being brave doesn’t mean pretending things don’t hurt.”
And now she had to avert her eyes to the way Rowan so gently, terribly gently, doctored Huck’s hand.
She remembered the touch, from years ago, and—
Nope. Nope. The barn was gone—it was a sign. Those days were gone with it.
“Are you a firefighter?” Huck asked.
Seemed like a logical question, and to her surprise, Rowan nodded. “I was. I was a hotshot. You know what that is?”
Huck shook his head.
“We fight wilderness fires. I worked in Montana, and then Alaska.”
“Cool,” Huck said.
She stared at him. “When was this?”
He glanced over at her. “The last…um, three years.” He gave her a thin smile, then turned back to Huck.
Since he died?
“Do you have any scars?” This from Huck.
Rowan’s hands paused for just a moment. “A few.”
“Can I see them?”
“Huck,” Sierra started, but Rowan was already rolling up his left sleeve to reveal a jagged scar that ran from his wrist halfway to his elbow.
“Whoa. How’d you get that?”
“This was when I was a soldier. Can’t really talk about the details, but it involved some unfriendly people and a piece of metal that was sharper than it looked.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore. Took a while to heal, but now it’s just part of me.” Rowan applied antibiotic ointment to Huck’s cut. “My buddy Saxon says scars make you look tough. Girls think they’re cool.”
“Really?”
“Really. But the best part about scars is that they remind you that you survived something difficult. They’re proof that you’re stronger than whatever tried to hurt you.”
Huck stared at his bandaged hand with new appreciation. “So this makes me tough?”
“This makes you a survivor. There’s a difference.”
Sierra’s breath caught as she watched Rowan secure the bandage with medical tape, his dark head bent close to Huck’s lighter one.