Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The Alarm
Easton
On Thursday morning, the storm woke me before my alarm.
Thunder rolled over the hills in long, deep waves, making the windowpanes hum like a tuning fork.
Rain hammered the roof hard enough that I half-expected gravel to be dumped straight out of the sky.
A cold draft seeped under the bedroom window, carrying that sharp, metallic scent that always comes before a real Montana downpour.
So much for the morning club ride.
I lay there for a moment, listening to the wind whip around the eaves, wrestling with disappointment and relief. My body craved the ride—the adrenaline kick that came with the open road—but my head felt heavy, like the storm had settled inside me too.
I shoved the covers back and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold. Everything felt colder on days like this.
Out of habit, I checked my phone, half-expecting a text from Bruce calling off our run. Nothing. Just the storm swallowing the horizon and a notification from the weather app gleefully alerting me to flash flooding.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, then stood, stretching until my spine popped. Outside the window, a wall of black clouds loomed, turning morning into late evening in mere moments.
If I couldn’t burn energy on the highway, I could at least do something useful.
That’s how I found myself pulling a hoodie over my head, grabbing my keys, and heading into town in the middle of the sideways rainstorm with one thought: The firehouse crew ran better on caffeine and sugar than diesel—and the look on their faces when I showed up with donuts was always worth the trip.
They gave me hell for it every time, mostly because I refused to memorize anyone’s favorite flavor. Half the fun was watching them fight over the maple bars like kindergarteners with lunch money.
I grinned to myself, backing my truck out of the driveway. If I couldn’t ride this morning, rattling the firehouse with a sugar delivery was the next best thing.
When I pushed through the side door of the fire station, familiar scents of fuel, old coffee, and that faint rubber-on-concrete odor hit me like a warm embrace. Comforting, in a weird way.
The crew looked up from the table as I carried in two big orange boxes.
“Oh hell,” McBride groaned. “If he forgot the chocolate ones again, I’m filing a complaint.”
I set the boxes down with a dramatic flourish. “Funny you mention that,” I said, opening the lid. “I got you exactly—none.”
Laughter erupted around me, the tension of the storm outside lighting up the room. Someone affectionately flipped me off, and I laughed right back.
“Bought one—a chocolate for myself. Last one. Precious cargo. Thought I’d keep it safe,” I announced, feeling the camaraderie wash over me.
Just then, Camden stepped out of his office, rubbing the back of his neck. “Morning, Easton.”
“Chief,” I said, holding up a donut. “You want the ceremonial first pick?”
“As long as it’s not chocolate,” he said, giving McBride a pointed look, and I stifled a smirk at their banter.
“Wound me,” McBride said flatly, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.
The station felt warm and easy—storm raging outside, coffee brewing inside, the kind of morning that demanded little. Then the alarm screamed—sharp and metallic, impossible to mistake.
The room froze.
For half a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Cam’s face drained of color. “That’s—”
“The baby box,” someone finished in a whisper.
Everything hit motion at once. Chairs scraped, boots thudded, and Camden sprinted for the door leading to the bay, keyring already in his hand. I was right behind him before I even realized I’d moved.
The rain lashed down hard outside, sheets of it blowing sideways under the roof edge. But the metal panel inset into the station’s brick wall glowed with a tiny blinking red light.
The safe-surrender alarm. The box I’d helped pay for and installed just weeks ago.
Camden’s hands shook only once before he forced them still and unlocked the panel. The hinge gave a soft hydraulic hiss as it opened.
A tiny bundle lay inside, wrapped in a damp towel.
Silent.
For two whole seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
“Okay,” Cam said, voice steady but low. “Okay, little one. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He lifted the baby out carefully. The towel fell back just enough for me to see a tiny face—eyes squeezed shut, mouth puckered like a rosebud. So small it didn’t seem possible he survived outside that box.
“Boy,” Cam murmured. “He’s a little boy.”
McBride appeared with an emergency blanket, hands already moving. “Premature,” he said, glancing at the tiny bundle. “Has to be.”
“Call EMS,” Cam ordered. “Now.”
One of the firefighters ran back inside. Another jogged out under the awning, scanning the lot, the street—anywhere for movement.
Rain pounded so hard it erased the world beyond twenty feet.
“Anyone out there?” Cam called.
“No sign,” the firefighter yelled back. “Nobody.” Of course not. The law protected anonymity. Whoever left him had to stay unseen.
Yet the thought of a woman—bleeding, scared, alone—stumbling through this storm after giving birth made something sharp twist deep inside me.
Cam carried the baby inside, his voice soft but clipped. “Get a towel. Warm packs. He’s cold.”
I stayed close but out of the way, palms sweating like I’d just sprinted ten miles.
The baby let out a thin, reedy cry. The sound punched straight through me.
He was alive. Barely, but alive.
When EMS burst through the doors minutes later, everything moved fast—questions, vitals, rushing hands. Cam relayed details while the paramedics stabilized the newborn and transferred him into a tiny transport isolette.
“What’s his name?” one of them asked as she adjusted a lead on his chest.
Cam shook his head. “We don’t know.”
“He doesn’t have one,” the medic said grimly. “Not yet.”
I swallowed hard. A baby without a name felt like a punch to the ribs.
They wheeled him out into the storm, sirens already warming up. And just like that, he was gone.
The station emptied slowly, like the adrenaline had sucked all the sound out of the place. Cam leaned on the counter, wiping rain from his face. McBride stood still, staring at the blank baby-box panel like he’d seen a ghost crawl out of it.
I tried to breathe, but my lungs only half cooperated. “I need to—” I said, cut off because I couldn’t name the feeling clawing through me.
Cam met my eyes, wary but gentle. “Go,” he said. “Check on him if you need to.”
I nodded. Maybe I didn’t need to. But I was going to the hospital.
The hospital lobby was too bright for the storm outside. Too quiet. My boots squeaked faintly on the disinfected floors. The NICU was tucked down a narrow wing. When I reached the window that looked in on the tiny unit of incubators and machines, movement to the left caught my eye.
Marla stood near the nurse’s station in her blue vest, a stack of knitted baby hats in her hands. Her expression shifted from surprise to something softer when she saw me. “Oh—Easton,” she said. “I thought that was you. I saw you come in earlier with the EMS team.”
I blinked. “You did?”
She nodded. “I was dropping off some baby hats that some volunteers made. Everyone was talking about the surrender at the station. Poor little thing.”
I swallowed. “How… is he?”
Her face gentled even more. “Go ahead,” she said, tipping her head toward the NICU window. “The nurse inside can tell you better than I can.”
I murmured a thank-you and moved closer. Inside, a nurse looked up from adjusting an incubator’s settings. She stepped out into the small vestibule, mask around her neck, eyes tired but kind. “You here about the Safe Haven infant?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. “Is he… okay?”
Her expression answered before her words did. “He’s fighting,” she said. “But he’s very premature. We think at least six weeks early—maybe more.”
The floor didn’t move under me, but it felt like it did. “He’s tiny,” she continued. “Maybe four pounds. His lungs are underdeveloped. We’re working on stabilizing his oxygen and temp. We’ve contacted a neonatologist from Billings—the team is flying in to evaluate him.”
“A neo—?” I started.
“Neonatologist,” she clarified. “A doctor who specializes in premature and critically ill newborns.”
I nodded, even though my brain was moving like thick mud. “And the mother?” I asked. “Will someone… try to find her?”
The nurse’s face softened. “Not to identify her. Safe-surrender laws protect that. But with a birth this premature, the mother may be in danger. We’ve alerted local clinics and ERs to keep an eye out for signs of hemorrhage or infection. Just to make sure she’s alive and stable.”
My gut tightened. A woman out there could be dying. Alone. And this tiny boy—this unnamed boy—was fighting for his own survival too.
“What… what do you call him?” I asked because the silence suddenly pressed down too heavily.
The nurse glanced at the blank tag clipped to the isolette. “We haven’t assigned anything yet. Usually, we wait for the medical admin to choose a placeholder. Baby Boy Doe, that sort of thing.”
The words struck me like a burst of cold water. “No,” I said quietly, before I’d even thought it through.
Her brows lifted. “He should have a name,” I said. “Something real. Even if it’s temporary.”
She hesitated. “Do you have one in mind?”
I didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse it. It just came. “Jacob,” I said. “Call him Jacob.”
Something like warmth flickered in her eyes. “Jacob. That’s a strong name.” She wrote in her digital notebook, then looked through the window at the tiny infant surrounded by tubes and wires. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “He deserves that.”
I didn’t know what to say. My throat wouldn’t let words through anyway. I stepped outside into the cooling afternoon air just as the rain tapered into a light mist.
I should’ve felt relief. Instead, something shifted low in my chest, settling into a place I didn’t want to name. Attachment. Responsibility.