Starting Over with the Mountain Man Firefighter (Copper Peak Sparks #1)

1. Drew

DREW

The captain sends me to pick up a gear order from the outfitter in the Trading Post, and I almost walk right past it.

I’ve been in Copper Peak for two days. Long enough to unload my truck, sign the paperwork at the station, and learn that the coffee shop at the front of the enclave makes the best drip in town. Not long enough to know where anything is.

The Trading Post sits just off Prospect Street—a cluster of old stone buildings from the mining days arranged around a cobblestone courtyard.

There’s a bookstore, a florist, and some kind of candle shop that smells like cedar from twenty feet away.

The outfitter is on the far side, past the courtyard, and I find it by the logo on the window.

The door is propped open. I hear a guy speaking before I see him.

“It’s rated moderate on the trail app, so I think I know what I’m getting into.”

There are three of them in the boot aisle. Two are clearly along for the ride. One’s scrolling his phone. The other is holding a pair of approach shoes like he’s never touched footwear that didn’t come with a fancy label.

The one talking is the problem. Designer vest, clean white tee, sunglasses pushed up into hair that says he’s never been above eight thousand feet. He’s holding a pair of lightweight trail runners, and he’s already decided he’s right.

The woman behind the counter is walking toward them. Dark auburn hair pulled back in a braid, branded fleece with the sleeves pushed up. She moves through the aisles like she owns the place. That’s all I get from here.

It’s enough.

“Can I help you guys find anything?” she asks.

He turns and looks her up and down. I recognize the look because I’ve seen it a thousand times in every station I’ve ever worked. It’s the look someone gives you when they’ve already decided you don’t know more than they do.

“We’re good.” He holds up the trail runners. “Just grabbing these for Ridgeline Loop.”

“Ridgeline above the tree line, or the lower out-and-back?”

“The whole thing. Summit and back.”

“Those aren’t the right shoes for that.”

His eyebrows go up. I stay where I am, just inside the door with the sun at my back, and wait.

“They’re trail runners,” he says slowly, like she might need a second pass at the concept. “They’re literally made for trails.”

She doesn’t flinch. “They’re made for groomed, lower-elevation trails with packed dirt or light gravel.

Ridgeline above the tree line is loose scree and exposed granite for the last mile and a half.

The elevation gain puts you above eleven thousand feet, and afternoon storms roll in fast up there.

You lose traction on that terrain in those shoes, you’re looking at a twisted ankle on a good day.

On a bad day, the fire district sends someone to get you. ”

I shouldn’t be smiling. I am.

He stares at her. I can see him cycling through his options. He picks the wrong one.

“I’ve done Rainier.”

“Then you know what scree does to a shoe with no ankle support.”

One of his friends sets down the approach shoes. The other one puts his phone away. The whole shop is quiet. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t get heated. She just stood there with better information and waited for it to land.

I’ve been on this mountain for two days and I’m already learning things. The first thing is that this woman knows more about this terrain than anyone I’ve met. The second is that I have to get to know her.

He buys the hikers she recommends. She rings him up without a flicker of smugness, gives him a trail map, and tells him to check conditions at the ranger station before he heads out. Professional. Thorough. Done.

They pass me on the way out. None of them look at me.

She watches them go, then exhales. It’s quick and subtle, and she probably thinks nobody’s paying attention.

She turns to reorganize the approach shoes his friend left facing the wrong direction, and when she straightens, she sees me standing by the door.

“Sorry about the wait,” she calls. “Can I help you?”

I cross the store.

Up close, she’s freckled across her nose and her forearms. Sun freckles—the kind you get from years on a mountain, not a week at a resort.

Then I notice her eyes. Green. That’s the thing I’m probably going to remember later when I’m lying in bed trying to sleep.

Not the freckles, not the braid, not the way she handled that guy without breaking a sweat. The green.

“I’m picking up a gear order for the fire district. The captain called it in this morning.”

She nods. “Holt Bradshaw. Yeah, I’ve got it in the back. Give me a second.”

She disappears through a doorway behind the register.

I look around the store while she’s gone.

The layout is smart. Alpine-appropriate gear at eye level, lighter stuff lower.

Trail maps by the door, organized by difficulty.

A bulletin board near the entrance with local conditions, weather warnings, and a handwritten note about trail closures above ten thousand feet.

Somebody put thought into this. Somebody who knows this mountain arranged this store for the people who actually use it.

She comes back with a box and sets it on the counter. “Two replacement headlamps, one set of leather gloves, size large, and a signal mirror. You want to check it?”

I open the box. Everything’s there.

“You’re new,” she says. It isn’t a question.

“First day on the job. Just moved here.”

“Welcome to Copper Peak.” She says it the way someone says it when they’ve said it a hundred times. Warm enough, but practiced. She’s already turning to grab the invoice.

“You do this a lot?” I ask.

She glances back. “Gear orders?”

“Tell guys they’re wrong about the mountain.”

Something shifts in her expression. The professional warmth pulls back half an inch. She thinks I’m teasing her about it. She thinks I’m another version of the guy who just walked out.

“When they’re about to get themselves hurt, yeah,” she says. “I do.”

“Good.” I pick up the box. “He was about to get himself hurt.”

She looks at me for a beat longer than necessary. I hold it. I’m not in a rush. She’s figuring out what to do with me, and I’m fine waiting while she decides because I already know what I’m going to do about her.

“The district account is on file,” she says. “You just need to sign.”

She slides the invoice across the counter. Her fingers are tan with bare nails trimmed short. Working hands. I sign and slide it back, and when my hand brushes hers, I feel it all the way up my arm.

She pulls back, her expression professionally neutral. But I see the breath she takes.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

“For gear?”

“Sure.”

I walk out into the courtyard with the box under my arm and the sun hitting the cobblestones. I’ve been in Copper Peak for two days. I don’t know the terrain, I don’t know the crew, and I don’t know if this fresh start is going to work any better than the last one.

But I know her name. It’s on the invoice. Kendall Cross, store manager.

And I know I’m coming back.