Slow Burn (Copper Ridge #1)

Chapter 1

Beck

"And then the T-Rex goes RAAAAWR and bites the triceratops RIGHT ON THE FACE and there's blood everywhere—probably—and the triceratops is like 'OH NO' and tries to stab him with the horns but the T-Rex is TOO FAST and—Daddy, are you even listening?"

The rearview mirror captures Ivy's indignant expression, plastic dinosaurs clutched in both hands like tiny weapons of mass destruction.

Her curls have exploded into a halo of chaos that perfectly matches the state of my life.

My hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The leather squeaks under my palms.

"Listening," I confirm, which is technically true even if my brain checked out somewhere around the third decapitation.

"Okay good because this is the IMPORTANT part." She smacks the T-Rex against the window. "The pterodactyl swoops down and is all like 'I'M GONNA GET YOU' but then the brachiosaurus—that's the really tall one with the long neck—"

"I know what a brachiosaurus is."

"Well SOME people don't, Daddy." The judgment in her voice belongs to someone who's spent significantly more time studying the Cretaceous period than managing a fire station.

"Anyway the brachiosaurus steps on the pterodactyl by ACCIDENT because it didn't see it and now the pterodactyl is FLAT like a pancake. "

The mountains rising around us look nothing like Seattle's skyline.

Copper Ridge sprawls across the valley below—a town small enough that the entire population could probably fit inside Pike Place Market.

Trees everywhere. Actual sky. Quiet that makes city noise feel like a fever dream.

My shoulders haven't unclenched since we crossed the state line.

I roll them back, trying to shake twelve years of Seattle off my spine.

My jaw aches from clenching. Fresh start. Right. The trees don't care about my baggage, and the mountains won't judge my failures. Ivy deserves a backyard. That's what matters.

"Is the pterodactyl dead?" The question escapes before survival instincts kick in.

Ivy gasps like I've suggested dinosaurs never existed. "Daddy, no. Pterodactyls have very strong bones. It just needs to go to the dinosaur hospital and get an X-ray and maybe some medicine and it'll be FINE."

Right. Dinosaur healthcare. Obviously.

The GPS announces our arrival in a tone that suggests even artificial intelligence has doubts about this decision.

Station 7 appears through the windshield—a modern building trying very hard to blend with mountain aesthetic.

Lots of wood. Lots of stone. My stomach knots.

The building looks solid. Professional. The kind of place where crews have each other's backs or freeze out the new guy who thinks his Seattle credentials matter.

I kill the engine. The silence rushes in.

Ivy's already unbuckling herself, dinosaurs clutched like credentials of her own.

"We're here, bug."

"Is this where you're gonna fight fires?" Ivy presses her face against the window, leaving nose prints that'll require industrial cleaner. "Do they have a POLE? Please say they have a pole. I NEED to see the pole."

"Probably have a pole."

"YESSSSS." She starts her victory wiggle, which in a booster seat looks like a possessed caterpillar. "Can I slide down it?"

"Absolutely not."

"But Daddy—"

"Fire poles are for firefighters, not six-year-olds who think velociraptors are an acceptable breakfast topic."

"They ARE though." Zero doubt in her voice. The kid has more confidence than my entire crew combined.

Stepping out of the truck feels like stepping into a different dimension.

My boots hit gravel. The mountain air bites cold against my face, sharper than Seattle's damp chill.

I breathe it in deep, hold it, let it burn my lungs clean.

The air smells like pine instead of exhaust. Birds make actual bird noises instead of car alarms pretending to be birds.

A wooden sign reading "Station 7 - Copper Ridge Fire Department" looks hand-carved and probably cost more than my first car.

And there it is. Right on schedule. The guilt.

Vanessa loved Seattle—the energy, the options, the life that didn't involve mountains and manual labor.

She wanted Thai food at midnight and art galleries on a whim.

She wanted a husband who came home for dinner instead of volunteering for double shifts because silence at the dinner table felt worse than smoke inhalation.

She found someone who gave her those things. The affair wasn't a surprise so much as confirmation of something already broken.

My fault. Mostly. The shutting down, the distance, the genetic gift from a father who treated emotions like structural weaknesses. Vanessa deserved better than a man carved from granite who couldn't figure out how to be warm.

"Daddy, you have your grumpy face."

Ivy's hand finds mine, small and sticky from whatever she demolished in the truck. Those brown eyes—Vanessa's eyes—study my face like she's searching for clues.

"Just thinking, bug."

"About Mommy?"

The kid's observational skills belong in an interrogation room. "About lots of things."

"It's okay to miss her." Ivy swings our joined hands. "I miss her too. But she said this is gonna be a GREAT ADVENTURE and adventures are supposed to be scary at first."

When did my daughter become the emotionally intelligent one in this relationship?

"Smart mom."

"The SMARTEST." Fierce loyalty, no hesitation. "Except about velociraptors. She thinks they had feathers but the evidence is VERY UNCLEAR."

The station's main entrance leads into a lobby that manages to be both functional and aggressively welcoming.

Photos line the walls—crews at community events, kids trying on helmets, action shots that probably required someone to risk their life for a good angle.

Everything screams "we're part of the family" in a way that makes my Seattle reserve want to build a wall.

A woman emerges from the hallway beyond—late fifties, silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, uniform pressed sharp enough to cut glass. She moves like someone who's spent decades earning respect the hard way.

"Captain Beck Delano?" Her handshake could probably crush diamonds. "Chief Carmen Rodriguez. Welcome to Station 7."

"Chief. This is my daughter, Ivy."

Ivy executes what she probably thinks is a curtsy but looks more like a wobble. "Hi! Do you have a fire pole? My daddy says you probably do but I need CONFIRMATION."

Chief Rodriguez's mouth twitches. "We do have a pole. Though it's currently off-limits to visiting paleontologists."

"I'm not a paleontologist YET." Ivy's correction carries the weight of someone who's already planned their entire educational trajectory. "But I'm gonna be. After I'm a firefighter. Or maybe a astronaut. I haven't decided."

"Ambitious. I respect that." The Chief's attention shifts back to me, and the warmth cools to professional assessment. "Your file's impressive. Ten years with Seattle, multiple commendations, advanced certifications. We're lucky to have you."

Her eyes wait for the real answer. Everyone always wants the real answer. My jaw tightens. “Ready for a change of pace. Wanted Ivy to have more space to grow.” The words taste like the half-truths they are. She nods anyway, either believing me or deciding not to push. I'm grateful either way.

"Well, Copper Ridge certainly has space." She gestures down the hallway. "Let me show you around. Ivy, you're welcome to explore the day room—there's a coloring table set up."

"Do you have dinosaur coloring pages?"

"I'll make sure we get some."

Ivy's allegiance shifts instantly. Chief Rodriguez just became her new favorite person.

The tour reveals a station that's newer than my last posting but smaller.

Three bays, two engines, one ladder truck that looks fresh off the factory floor.

Equipment organized with the kind of precision that suggests someone here takes supply inventory very seriously. Everything clean, maintained, ready.

The crew appears in the apparatus bay—five firefighters in various stages of equipment check, conversations dying the moment they spot us. Professional faces slide into place. Polite. Wary. The new captain from the big city, here to shake things up.

"This is Captain Delano," Chief Rodriguez announces. "He'll be taking over B-shift starting next week. Captain Delano, this is your crew."

The handshakes blur together. Names that'll take days to stick.

Johnson—stocky, early forties, handshake firm but not aggressive.

Martinez—younger, nervous energy, grips like he's trying to prove something.

Webb—the only woman, cool assessment in her eyes that says she's been underestimated before and didn't appreciate it.

Thompson—older, weathered face from decades of smoke.

Whitaker—mid-thirties, easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

They're sizing me up. Fair enough. New leadership always brings uncertainty, and uncertainty in a firehouse can get people killed.

"Looking forward to working with all of you.” The words land wrong. Too formal. Vanessa used to say I talked to people like I was reading from a manual. Turns out divorce doesn't fix that.

Webb's expression doesn't change. The others nod, noncommittal. I've already lost the room. "I know change can be difficult. My priority is supporting this team and serving the community. Open door policy—if you have concerns, bring them directly to me."

Nods. Murmurs of acknowledgment. Webb's expression suggests she's reserving judgment. Smart.

"Beck!"

The voice carries across the apparatus bay with the kind of easy warmth that makes everyone turn.

A guy strides toward us—early thirties, dark hair, captain's bars on his collar, smile like he's perpetually on the verge of telling a joke.

Everything about him radiates natural charisma that usually makes me want to check for hidden cameras.