Wildest Dreams (Swift Mountain Fire & Rescue #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

EMMA

Lining up my shot in the viewfinder, I hold my breath and curl my finger onto the button.

The aperture clicks, and I pull the camera back to check my photo in the display. The picture fills the screen, and I groan.

“Seriously?”

It sucks. Again.

Based on the quality of photos I’ve been taking, you’d think this was my first time using a camera. Instead, my work has appeared in Vogue and Vanity Fair, not to mention dozens of websites that cater to the world of high fashion.

But that’s not why I’m here. A photographer doesn’t come to Alaska looking to take pictures of clothes. Not unless they’re working with an outerwear company on a new line of puffer coats or camo gear.

I came to Alaska to capture something real with my lens. So far, the only thing real about my pictures here are that they’re really shitty.

I blow out a frustrated breath and lower the camera, letting it hang against my chest. The wilderness stretches out around me in every direction—towering evergreens, snow-dusted ground, soft pale sunlight filtering between branches—but none of it looks the way it’s supposed to.

Not through my lens, not in my head, not in the pit of my stomach that’s been tight since the moment I stepped off the plane.

This was supposed to be my moment. My big break. My pivot from fashion darling to real artist.

Except the work looks flat. Empty. More like I’m trying too hard to make magic instead of letting it happen.

My agent’s voice practically echoes in my ear: This series needs to hit, Emma. This is the one that decides what your career becomes.

No pressure or anything.

I adjust the strap on my shoulder and scan the clearing. The light is shifting fast—faster than I can keep up with, honestly. I’m used to timing shots around assistants holding reflectors and stylists adjusting hemlines. Out here, the sun doesn’t care if I’m ready. It just moves.

A glint of brilliant gold flashes through the branches ahead, and my heart jumps. That. That’s the kind of light I’ve been waiting for.

I edge toward it, weaving between tree trunks, stepping over roots. The gleam flickers higher—way higher than I want it to—but the angle is perfect. If I could get a little elevation…

My gaze lands on a low, sturdy branch.

“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter to myself.

I think about it anyway.

The tree isn’t that tall. I’ve climbed worse for a good shot. And the light is disappearing by the second. So before I can talk myself out of it—or remember that I’m deeply, embarrassingly afraid of heights—I sling the camera securely around my neck and grasp the lowest branch.

The bark bites into my palms, sap sticking to my fingers, but I haul myself up. Then another branch. And another. My boots scrape for purchase, my breath goes thin, and my pulse hammers in my throat.

Totally fine. Totally normal. Definitely not a stupid idea at all.

When I finally reach a wide limb a few feet up, I settle onto it, bracing myself with one hand while lifting the camera with the other.

The light pours in exactly the way I hoped—soft, golden, ethereal.

Click. Click. Click.

I check the screen.

And groan again.

It still sucks. Worse, actually. Somehow the branch decided now was the perfect time to wobble, and the composition looks like Bigfoot took a selfie.

“Perfect,” I mutter, shifting my weight to adjust my balance.

The branch shifts again.

Then cracks.

“Oh no—no, no, no—”

Before I can scramble higher or climb down, the limb snaps clean in two. My foot slips. My stomach drops. I lunge for the trunk, grabbing the nearest intact branch by sheer panic, and cling to it like a koala with anxiety.

The world tilts. My breath snags.

I’m stuck.

Halfway up a tree.

Dangling like an idiot.

I try to adjust my grip and immediately regret it. The branch I’m clinging to creaks in a tone that suggests it hates me personally.

“Okay,” I whisper, “we’re not moving. We’re just… hanging out. Literally.”

That’s when I hear it—a deep engine rumbling somewhere behind me.

A door slams. Boots crunch across the snow.

A man’s voice, low and incredulous, calls out:

“…Ma’am?”

Oh God. Oh no.

No, no, no.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Of course. Of course someone found me stuck in a tree.

“Please tell me you’re a hallucination,” I say weakly.

A beat of silence. Then a dry, unmistakably amused reply:

“Afraid not. Dispatch said something about a ‘woman trapped off the ground.’ Didn’t realize it was literal.”

My face burns. My pride shrivels. I don’t dare look down yet, but his voice wraps around me—warm, rough, a little teasing.

The kind of voice that’s attached to a man who’s too good-looking to discover me like this.

I swallow hard.

“Well,” I mutter, “I don’t suppose you brought a ladder just for me?”

He snorts. “Ma’am, I bring my ladder for everyone equally.”

Of course he does.

Because of course my first human interaction in Swift Mountain is going to be with the most frustratingly attractive firefighter alive.

And I’m stuck. In a tree.

Boots crunch closer beneath me. “Okay,” he calls up, “don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” I mutter.

Another low huff of amusement, then the metallic slide of something being pulled from the fire truck. A ladder clanks softly against the trunk below.

“You secure?” he asks.

“I’m… emotionally unstable but physically attached to a branch, yes.”

“All right,” he says. “Let’s get you down.”

I finally force myself to look.

Big mistake.

The man standing below is tall—tall—with broad shoulders beneath a navy Swift Mountain Fire & Rescue jacket. His jaw is strong, his scruff is unfairly attractive, and his expression carries the distinct look of someone who is going to remember this moment for the rest of his life.

He meets my gaze with steady, patient eyes.

“Go ahead and step toward the ladder,” he says gently, like he’s coaxing a trembling animal.

I shift a little. The branch complains loudly.

His voice tightens. “Slowly.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you do this all the time?” I ask, inching closer.

“Nope.” He climbs the ladder a few rungs. “Most people don’t climb trees for fun.”

“It wasn’t for fun,” I say. “It was for art.”

He blinks up at me. “Right.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He pats a rung. “Just… step here.”

I lower my foot, heart pounding as I test the rung. He’s close enough now that I can smell faint smoke on his jacket—warm, woodsy, strangely comforting. When I wobble, his hand lifts instinctively, lightly brushing my hip to steady me.

A spark shoots straight through me. Literally. What the hell?

“Static,” he says before I can ask. “Happens all the time in the cold.”

“Hm.” I can’t tell if that’s true or if he’s just being polite about my apparent ability to electrocute myself.

Back on solid ground, my knees nearly give out. I straighten quickly, attempting dignity.

He folds the ladder, watching me with that unreadable firefighter expression—half assessing for injury, half trying not to smile.

“Thank you,” I say, brushing bark off my coat. “Really. Sorry you had to… witness that.”

“All part of the job, ma’am.”

I narrow my eyes. “You can stop calling me ma’am.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“Emma.”

He nods once. “Kendrick.”

Of course his name is something rugged and annoyingly perfect.

“Do you make a habit of rescuing strangers from trees?” I ask.

“Only the ones determined to break their necks.” His mouth twitches. “What were you even doing up there?”

“Taking photos.”

“From the tree,” he clarifies.

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

I gesture helplessly at the branches. “The light was perfect.”

He glances up as if the sun will suddenly explain my questionable choices. When it doesn’t, he just shakes his head.

“Well,” he says, “try not to climb any more trees today.”

“No promises.”

He lifts one eyebrow—just one, and it sends a ridiculous flutter through my chest—then points toward the road. “Where’s your cabin? I’ll drive you back.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can walk—”

“Ma’am,” he says, falling back into the title with infuriating ease, “you were hanging from a branch ten minutes ago. Let me give you a ride.”

I fold my arms. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.”

“I didn’t.”

“You asked nicely for you.”

He huffs, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift as he leads me to the truck. He opens the passenger door, and I climb in as if I haven’t just made the worst first impression possible on a man who looks like he does heroic things for fun.

The cab smells faintly of pine and smoke—clean, warm, like the person who drives it. Kendrick circles around to the driver’s side, gets in, and glances at me as he starts the engine.

“You do this kind of thing often?” he asks. “Travel alone into the woods and climb things you shouldn’t?”

“It’s a new hobby,” I say. “Dramatic self-endangerment. Great for the creative spirit.”

His lips twitch again. “Where to?”

I give him the name of my rental cabin, and he drives with quiet confidence—steady hands, focused expression. He doesn’t say much, but somehow the silence isn’t awkward. It’s… charged. Warm. Like the space between lightning and thunder.

When he pulls up in front of my cabin, he puts the truck into park but doesn’t turn to me immediately. His gaze stays forward for a beat, jaw flexing like he’s debating something.

“Try to stay out of trees,” he finally says.

“I’ll do my best.”

I reach for the door handle, but something makes me pause—a sudden, irrational urge to take one last picture. I lift my camera and snap a quick shot of his profile, his face caught in the soft dusk filtering through the windshield.

I check the display.

It’s perfect.

Accidentally perfect.

“Thanks for the rescue,” I say softly as I step out.

His eyes meet mine, just for a breath, and something sharp and curious flickers there.

“Anytime,” he says.

Then he drives away, and I stand there watching his taillights fade into the trees, my camera warm in my hands, my pulse still unsteady from the brush of his fingers on my hip.

I have no idea what just happened.

But I have a sinking suspicion it’s going to matter.