Chapter 3
PATTON
I shouldn’t care about certain comments made about how I’m not being a team player in the trivia night game context. I’m perfectly fine alone. Because it’s true. Always have been, always will be.
Falling in love is for people who don’t know better—people who haven’t watched it destroy someone from the inside out. People who didn’t spend their childhood watching their mother try to hold herself together after their father didn’t come home from a call.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I navigate the winding road down from the Carson Spur. The Sierra Nevada range stretches out around me—snow-capped peaks and dense evergreen forests. It’s the kind of landscape that should feel like home.
How can I feel so lost in a place I’ve lived all my life?
Not literally lost, I could probably drive these roads blindfolded, but—a long sigh escapes.
The late afternoon sun filters through the trees. It’s a clear winter day, so why do I feel so foggy, so … soggy? That’s a better word for it. Like the bottom layer of my plate of nachos from Huck’s. The ones I refused to share with Vincenza because … I’m stubborn?
I’ve been told that before.
I shake off the thoughts and focus on my surroundings.
I’ve been up here since dawn, checking fire roads, clearing brush, and inspecting access points.
It’s standard winter patrol work that keeps me from being stuck behind my desk.
Away from the new municipal complex with its glass walls and forced cheerfulness.
Away from people who want to chat about the weather or ask how my weekend was.
And most notably … away from Vincenza Sorrentino.
I grip the wheel harder.
Tuesday night was a disaster. I knew the moment Austin mentioned Tacos & Trivia that it was a setup. Mindy has been trying to get his attention, and apparently, I was collateral damage in her campaign.
What I didn’t expect was her.
The Parks & Rec director, with her bright smile and her insistence on waving at me every morning, even though I’ve refused to participate in “Lady Salutes-A-Lot of Friendlyville’s” quest to get me to wave back.
We’re not friends. We’re barely colleagues.
Our offices face each other across the hall, which means I have a front row seat to her relentless optimism five days a week.
It must be exhausting to be her, with the way she tries so hard to be liked by everyone. The way she practically vibrates with eagerness whenever someone needs help. The sticky notes all over her office are distracting. They’re probably a fire hazard. I should look into that.
Then there was Tuesday night when her phone announced the trivia question answer. Sitting there with her face burning red while the whole town watched—she looked small, vulnerable, human.
Pretty, as usual.
I didn’t like it.
Turning onto Route 50, I also try to pull my attention away from her and focus on this place I call home.
Nestled on the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe, the village of Huckleberry Hill is the heart of a tight-knit community where mountain tradition meets modern growth.
As I drive along Main Street, bustling with locally owned shops, I nod at Clayton, owner of the hardware store of the same name. The boutiques that draw weekend visitors from Reno and beyond are just opening for the day.
Cars fill the lot of Huck’s Lake View Diner, which serves as the town’s living room, where regulars swap stories over coffee and newcomers get their first taste of its world-famous huckleberry pie and small town hospitality.
Beyond the village center, tree-lined neighborhoods give way to sprawling rural properties where families have lived for generations, their homes tucked among western white pine with glimpses of the lake’s emerald water.
The newly constructed municipal complex—complete with town offices, the fire station, and a modern community center—reflects the area’s rapid transformation, even as the historic library and post office anchor residents to their roots.
At the north end, the lakeside resort attracts year-round visitors who come for world-class recreation like hiking and mountain biking in summer, skiing in winter, and the lake’s crystal-clear waters whenever the ice melts.
Huckleberry Hill is a hidden gem whose residents are bound by the rugged yet beautiful environment, a love of the outdoors, and the kind of neighborly spirit that defines mountain communities.
And it’s my job to protect this place.
I pass the old firehouse. The building sits at the edge of Main, its red brick and wooden trim sorely in need of a sanding and fresh paint. Behind the dirty windows are a lifetime of memories, including the brass pole that I’d slide down every chance I got by the time I was old enough to walk.
If a structure such as this could have a personality, it would be stalwart, tenacious, strong, and reliable. I love it and lament the new municipal building, even though some of the modern upgrades make our lives as firefighters easier.
Captain Kendrick bought the old fire house from the town and left it to me when he died last year. He always said that I reminded him of himself at my age—driven, focused, maybe a little too serious. He was wrong about the last part. I’m exactly the right amount of serious.
But there was a stipulation. I have to open a business that contributes positively to Huckleberry Hill or lose it forever. If I’m not successful six months after opening, the property reverts to the town.
I haven’t told the crew about the deadline. They’d worry, hover, and probably try to take on extra work. This is mine to carry. Mine to succeed or fail.
The captain believed in me. I won’t let him down. Can’t let the guys down either.
Suffice it to say, the building needs work, but not my business plan—the ink is dry. It’s finalized. We need a new roof, updated electrical, and commercial kitchen equipment for the bakery. The guys and I have been planning this for months, but we still haven’t settled on a name.
Reese likes The Ember Oven. Austin votes for Hot Spot Bakery.
James says Buns on the Run, but that’s because he thinks he has a great backside—he likes himself a lot.
Seems like his wife has a different opinion lately.
Hayes, the probie, doesn’t get a say. I want to go with the Firehouse Bakery.
However, what I do know for sure is we’re going to serve Crush Cakes.
The bakery is a side business to honor the Captain’s memory and give us something to focus on beyond the adrenaline and the sirens.
Something relatively straightforward rather than the wild unpredictability of our line of work.
Except nothing about this has been easy when we practically need a dozen permits just to replace a window.
The building sits on parkland now—a zoning change that happened when they built the new municipal complex. Which means every single decision has to go through Parks & Recreation.
Through Vincenza.
I pull into the safety complex parking lot and kill the truck’s engine. The building looms ahead, a modern glass and steel monstrosity that’s trying to look like a lodge. Huckleberry Hill used to be a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town.
Now it’s growing. Tourists heading to Tahoe, remote workers looking for “mountain living,” people who don’t understand that growth means change, and change means losing what made this place special in the first place.
All of this resulted in this regional building, a base for operations, in an ever-growing area.
Our department is on the ground floor, east wing. I grab my gear bag and head inside, passing Vincenza, who eats her lunch in the driver’s seat of her silver, sand and salt-streaked generic sedan.
When she looks up, I note a trench between her eyebrows and her eyes are tight, but then her expression shifts from what looked like stress to bright with a smile. I have no doubt it’s fake. She’s just trying to smother me with sweetness because the woman is allergic to reality.
Truth: life isn’t all rainbows, sunshine, and lollipops.
I’m certain the woman despises me and is just sugarcoating it because she can’t tolerate a world in which not everyone is sitting around the campfire singing folk songs.
She doesn’t like me? Tragic.
Whatever her problem is? I don’t care. I’ll survive.
Oreo—the station Dalmatian—greets me the moment I step through the door, tail wagging so hard his whole body moves. There is nothing quite like a dog’s enthusiasm and loyalty.
“At least someone likes me,” I hear myself mutter, scratching behind his ears.
“That’s because he doesn’t know you didn’t share our Crush Cakes with Winnie,” Austin says from across the bay with his feet kicked up on a chair.
I roll my shoulders, irritated that she somehow “followed” me into the station.
“Such a harsh rejection, bro.” James stands in the doorway, but officially, he’s in the driver’s seat—our engineer.
Why are they bringing up something that happened last week? Never mind, it’s better than the spectacular failure that was trivia night—not that I was eager for it to be a success. But I’d rather have saved my dignity.
Reese polishes the engine, which means he’s avoiding paperwork. He’s our utility man, handles forcible entry, ventilation, ladders, and all the tools—the irons. He’s half mechanic. Half adrenaline junkie and possibly in love, but we don’t talk about that kind of nonsense around here.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I didn’t reject her. I said we promised a Crush Cake to Nancy.”
Austin says, “Same thing.”
I shrug. “It’s not. I reserved one for Nancy weeks ago. Standard operating procedure.”
He guffaws, well aware I’m being ridiculous.
Scotty Hodges appears from the equipment room, all six-foot-four of him, built like a lumberjack. In a rare show of humor, he chuckles. He’s our muscle and supports the nozzleman, leading the attack in a fire—that would be Austin or me.