Chapter 1 #2
"Aiden Gentry." His handshake is enthusiastic without being obnoxious. "C-shift. Heard you were coming in. Welcome to Copper Ridge."
"Thanks." The word comes out flat. Distant. Everything Vanessa used to complain about.
If Aiden notices, he doesn't show it. "You're gonna love it here. Town takes some getting used to—everyone knows everyone, which means everyone knows your business—but the people are good. Crew's solid." He nods to the assembled firefighters. "These guys will have your back."
"Good to know."
"Chief Rodriguez runs a tight ship, but she's fair. Best boss I've had." He leans in slightly, lowering his voice to conspiratorial levels. "Pro tip: Micah at Peak Grounds makes the best coffee in the state. Do not accept the station coffee unless you want your stomach lining to file for divorce."
Webb snorts. "Station coffee's not that bad."
"Webb, I've seen that coffee eat through a foam cup."
"That was ONE time."
The easy banter between them makes my chest tight. That used to be me with my crew. Before I became the captain who prioritized protocols over people, regulations over relationships. Before my crew started treating me like a necessary evil instead of a leader.
"Captain Delano?"
Chief Rodriguez rescues me from my spiral. "Your radio and gear are ready in the office. Let's get you set up."
Aiden offers a casual salute. "See you around, Beck. We should grab a beer sometime—there's a place called The Watershed that does a decent burger."
"Sure." Noncommittal. Safe. The kind of response that doesn't promise anything I can't deliver.
His smile doesn't falter, but something flickers in his eyes.
Recognition, maybe. Of someone who keeps the world at arm's length because closer feels dangerous.
He's met guys like me before—the ones who keep everyone at arm's length because getting close means getting hurt.
Or he thinks I'm an asshole. Both could be true.
The office Chief Rodriguez leads me to is standard issue—desk, computer, filing cabinets, a window overlooking the mountains that probably inspired someone's moving brochure.
Everything functional and impersonal, waiting for whoever occupies it to add the human touches that make a space feel lived-in.
"You'll share this with Gentry," she explains. "Different shift rotations, so scheduling conflicts should be minimal. Supply requests go through the department system, but I'm cc'd on everything. Questions?"
About a thousand, none of which have anything to do with fire suppression.
"I'm good."
"Excellent." She hands over a radio, surprisingly heavy with responsibility.
"Your first shift starts next week. Until then, get settled.
Learn the town. Let Ivy get comfortable.
" Her expression softens slightly. "Single parenting and a new job isn't easy.
Station 7's family-oriented—we support each other. Don't hesitate to ask for help."
The kindness catches me off guard, lands somewhere uncomfortable. Asking for help requires admitting you need it, and admitting you need it requires acknowledging you're not fine.
Much easier to pretend everything's under control.
"Appreciated, Chief."
Back in the day room, Ivy has claimed an entire coloring table and created what appears to be a dinosaur battle scene across three separate pages.
A very patient firefighter—Thompson, based on the gray at his temples—sits across from her, nodding seriously as she explains the tactical advantages of the ankylosaurus's tail club.
"And THAT'S why the stegosaurus is actually kind of overrated," Ivy concludes. "Everyone thinks the plates are cool but they're basically useless in combat."
"Never thought about it that way," Thompson admits. "You make a compelling argument."
Ivy beams. Converting people to her dinosaur theories—that's her favorite game.
"Time to go, bug."
"But Daddy, I'm explaining the IMPORTANT stuff about the Cretaceous period—"
"Mr. Thompson probably has work to do."
Thompson stands, joints creaking in a way that speaks to years of physical labor. "Anytime you want to talk dinosaurs, Ivy, you know where to find me."
"REALLY?" Her volume could shatter glass. "Did you hear that, Daddy? I have a dinosaur friend now!"
Thompson's smile reaches his eyes. Real, not just polite. My chest loosens fractionally—first person in Copper Ridge besides the realtor who's looked at Ivy like she's a kid, not a problem to manage. "That's great, bug." I extend my hand to Thompson. "Thanks for keeping her entertained."
His handshake is firm. Assessing. Years of reading people in crisis situations. "Welcome to Copper Ridge, Captain. We're glad you're here."
The sincerity in his voice doesn't match the wariness I saw earlier. Maybe he means it. Maybe it's the professional courtesy everyone extends to new leadership before deciding if they're worth the effort.
Either way, the weight of expectation settles across my shoulders like turnout gear.
The house waits at the end of a quiet street—two-story, craftsman style, the kind of place real estate agents describe as "charming" when they mean "needs work." But it has a yard. Space for Ivy to run. A bedroom that isn't separated from mine by a thin apartment wall.
This house is supposed to represent stability. New beginnings. All the things I'm trying to build from the wreckage of a marriage that failed because I forgot how to be present.
"Is this OURS?" Ivy presses against the truck window hard enough to leave permanent nose prints. "For REAL?"
"For real."
"Do we have NEIGHBORS? Can I make friends? Are there kids? Do they like dinosaurs? What if they don't like dinosaurs, Daddy, that would be a PROBLEM—"
"Bug. Breathe."
She inhales dramatically, holds it, releases in a whoosh that fogs the window. "Okay. I'm ready. Let's see the HOUSE."
An older lady from next door appears on her porch, waving. "You must be the new captain! I'm Rosa Delgado. If you ever need someone to watch that little one..." She smiles at Ivy. "I have grandchildren her age."
I file that away as potentially useful, wave, and nod to her.
The key feels heavier than it should in my palm.
New house. New job. New chance to be the father Ivy deserves instead of the one I've been.
The door opens on silent hinges. Fresh paint smell.
Hardwood floors that don't creak. Space that doesn't echo with twelve years of Seattle and everything I left behind.
The interior smells like fresh paint and possibility—updated kitchen, windows that actually open without requiring a crowbar. The realtor left a welcome basket on the counter, complete with local treats and a note about "small-town hospitality" that probably came from a template.
Ivy explodes through the space like a tiny tornado, narrating her approval of each room at volumes that definitely violate noise ordinances.
The stairs lead to bedrooms bigger than our entire Seattle apartment, a bathroom that doesn't require strategic maneuvering, space to actually exist without constant negotiation.
"This one's MINE." Ivy claims the room with the window overlooking the backyard.
Afternoon light slants across bare floors.
Dust motes float in the beam. The room smells like paint and possibility—or maybe just paint.
I'm not great with metaphors. "I'm gonna put my bed RIGHT here and my dinosaurs on ALL the shelves and maybe we can paint it green like a forest where dinosaurs would live—"
"We'll talk about paint colors."
"Or blue like the ocean! Plesiosaurs lived in the ocean, Daddy. They weren't actually dinosaurs but they were AROUND during dinosaur times so it counts—"
My phone buzzes. Unknown local number.
"Beck Delano."
"Mr. Delano! This is Jennifer from Mountain Realty." Enthusiasm levels suggest either exceptional coffee or concerning medication. "Just wanted to confirm—did you get moved in okay? Is the house everything you hoped?"
"Just arrived. House looks good."
"Wonderful! I'm so glad. Now, there's one tiny detail we need to discuss—nothing major, just a small administrative item—"
Administrative items are never small.
"What detail?"
"Well, you see, the in-law suite attached to the main house?
The one with the separate entrance?" Her voice climbs an octave, the verbal equivalent of backing toward an exit.
"It was listed before you arrived—standard practice, we always market all available units—and someone jumped on it immediately.
Paid the deposit before we could pull the listing. Already signed the lease."
My hand tightens on the phone. “You rented part of my house. Without telling me.”
“Well, technically it's a separate unit---”
“On my property. That I'm paying for.”
A beat of silence. “I understand this is frustrating---"
I stare at the phone. Blood pounds in my ears. Replay what she just said.
Nope—still makes no sense.
"But it's wonderful news, really—they're a lovely person, very quiet, works as a paramedic so excellent references—"
"I didn't agree to rent out any part of my property." My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that makes Ivy nervous and made Vanessa furious.
"Oh, well, technically the suite was marketed as a rental unit before closing, and Copper Ridge has very strict tenant protection laws—once someone has a signed lease and paid deposit, we can't evict without cause, and simply not wanting a tenant doesn't qualify as cause—"
The phone suddenly requires significant grip strength to avoid launching across the room.
"You're telling me I have a tenant I never agreed to, in a space I didn't know was being rented, and there's nothing I can do about it.
" My knuckles go white. The mountains blur.
I breathe through my nose---in for four, hold for four, out for four.
The anger management technique the divorce counselor taught me. It doesn't work. It never works.
"They're really very nice! And the lease is only for a few months initially—"
"A few months."
"With option to extend! But I'm sure you'll get along wonderfully. Small-town living is all about community, and having someone in the in-law suite is actually quite common—"
"When does this tenant move in?"
A pause that speaks volumes.
"Today or this evening."
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
The call ends with Jennifer's overly cheerful reassurances echoing in my skull. Ivy appears in the doorway, plastic T-Rex in hand, reading my expression with the accuracy of someone who's spent years decoding parental moods.
"What's wrong, Daddy?"
"Nothing, bug. Just adult stuff."
"Is it bad adult stuff or boring adult stuff?"
"Somewhere in between."
She crosses the room and wraps her arms around my leg. The hug says she knows things aren't okay but loves me anyway. The T-Rex presses into my thigh.
"It's gonna be okay." Absolute conviction in her voice. "This house is PERFECT and we're gonna make so many good memories here and maybe the neighbors have kids who like dinosaurs and even if they DON'T, I can TEACH them—"
"That's very optimistic of you."
"Mommy says I get it from her." Pride and grief mixed together in a way that makes my chest ache. "Daddy, can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Do you think the new person likes dinosaurs?"
The question hangs in the air. Innocent. Hopeful. Completely unaware that my fresh start just became a disaster.
My throat tightens. Ivy's looking at me with Vanessa's eyes, believing everything will work out because that's what six-year-olds do. They believe in happy endings and neighbors who like dinosaurs and fathers who don't screw everything up. “I don't know if they like dinosaurs, bug.”
She considers this, then shrugs. “That's okay. If they don't, I'll just have to fix that.” She skips back to her room, already planning conversion strategies. I stand in the kitchen gripping my phone, staring at nothing.
Outside the window, Copper Ridge spreads across the valley in the fading light. Mountains rise like sentinels. The sky burns orange and pink in ways Seattle's marine layer never allowed. Everything quiet and still and nothing like the chaos currently detonating my carefully planned new beginning.
Somewhere in this town, a stranger is moving into my house. Tonight. With legal protection I can't fight and a lease I never authorized.
The mountains glow orange through the window. Perfect. Beautiful. Completely indifferent to the disaster unfolding in my kitchen.
My jaw aches from clenching. I force it to relax.
Fresh start. Right.