Chapter 2
TWO
KENDRICK
Reaching into the gutter, I grimace as I remove a fistful of brown gunk.
“How the hell did this get so… gross?” I ask the blue-chested bird perched on a nearby tree. “I just cleaned these sons of bitches last year.”
The bird tilts its head to the side as if to say that’s life.
“Maybe it’s a sign I should invest in some of those gutter guards.”
The bird puffs out his chest and flutters his wings.
“You’re right. I should check at the hardware store next time I’m in town.”
If they aren’t in stock, I can always have some ordered in.
It might take a while for them to come. Things tend to move a little slower around here.
It’s part of what I like about this place.
Even if it means having to clean Gran’s gutters one more time before hopefully coming up with a more permanent solution.
It’s a fair trade-off. Even if the journey is gunky.
Bracing myself for the gross-out, I retrieve another ball of congealed leaves, needles, and mystery nature. The backdoor of the cabin creaks open.
“Kennny,” Gran calls out in that raspy tone of hers. “Kenny, where have you gone to?”
I mask the next urge to shudder. I hate being called Kenny. If it was anyone else, I’d tell them off. But Gran’s been calling me that since I was in diapers. Since she was the one who frequently changed those diapers, she gets a free pass.
“I’m up here, Gran.”
Raising a hand to block the sun, she glances up. Her dark eyes crinkle around the edges as they land on me.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Cleaning out the gutters.”
“You don’t have to do that. I would’ve gotten around to it soon enough.”
I nearly roll my eyes at that. A woman her age, and with her medical history, has no business climbing ladders or sitting on roofs. I tried telling her that once a few years back. It’s a wonder I didn’t burst
Still, I’ll be damned if I let her get up here again.
“…if I let you do this,” I finish, careful not to slip and send myself flying off the roof. “Besides, I had some free time.”
Gran snorts. “Free time. Like that’s ever been a thing in your vocabulary.”
I flick another wad of muck off the edge. “I make time.”
“For me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Not for anything else.”
I don’t comment on that. Mostly because she’s right.
“Anyway,” I say instead, “storm season’s coming. Last thing we need is water backing up and ruining your siding.”
Her gaze softens. “You always take such good care of me, Kenny.”
I grit my teeth lightly at the nickname but let it slide. “Someone has to.”
She huffs again—her way of saying thank you without saying thank you—and pushes the backdoor open a bit wider.
“Well, when you’re done playing in the dirt, wash up and come inside. I’ve got sandwiches and that soup you like.”
“The one with the barley?”
“Is there another one you’ll actually eat?”
Fair point.
She disappears inside, and I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
Gran’s not subtle, not even a little, but she’s the reason I’m not rotting in a jail cell somewhere like half the guys I grew up with.
Cleaning a gutter is nothing. Hell, she could ask me to re-shingle the entire roof by hand, and I’d do it without blinking.
I pull another handful of sludge free and toss it into the bucket. When I straighten again, stretching the kink out of my back, a flicker of memory catches me off guard.
Brown eyes. Windblown hair. That stubborn little crease above her nose when she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified.
Emma. The woman in the tree.
I scrub a hand down my face, which somehow smears gutter gunk even further. Fantastic.
Of all the calls I expected to run today, rescuing a photographer because she decided to climb ten feet into the air for “light” wasn’t one of them.
And of all the people I’ve pulled out of bad situations, none of them looked at me the way she did—equal parts embarrassed, fascinated, and one breath away from saying something she’d regret.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I really shouldn’t still be hearing her voice in my head, sharp and soft at the same time.
Ma’am, I bring my ladder for everyone equally.
She’d rolled her eyes at me. And I’d liked it.
Too much.
I shake it off and reach for another stretch of gutter, determined not to let some stranger with a camera get under my skin. But as soon as I clear a bit more debris, I catch myself glancing toward the tree line behind Gran’s cabin.
She’s still out there somewhere, chasing light like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.
Strange woman.
Interesting woman.
I grunt under my breath and go back to work. The sooner I finish here, the sooner I can grab lunch and head to the station. Slow day or not, Justin will have something for me to do. He always does.
And if I’m lucky, I won’t see another reckless tourist dangling from a branch today.
But somehow, I’m not sure I’d mind.
Gran’s soup hits the spot—hot, savory, perfect for a day with a chill that keeps sneaking under my collar—and I’m barely done rinsing my bowl when my radio crackles to life on the counter.
“Brushfire reported near Ridge Trail. Small, contained. Units respond.”
Justin’s voice. Calm as ever.
Gran gives me that look—the one she’s been using on me since I was old enough to get into trouble.
“Go on, Kenny,” she says, waving me off. “Fire doesn’t wait.”
“Neither do sandwiches,” I say, grabbing my jacket.
She smiles. “I’ll save you one.”
I’m out the door in seconds, boots hitting the ground hard as I jog to the truck.
The engine rumbles to life, and the familiar adrenaline buzz moves through my veins.
It’s not a big call—doesn’t sound like more than a smoldering stump or someone’s ill-advised campfire—but even the small ones can turn into disasters around here.
Which is why, when I turn onto the trailhead road and see smoke threading between the treetops, my grip tightens on the wheel.
“Swift Mountain Fire, Unit Three on scene,” I say into the radio. “Smoke visible from west ridge. Investigating.”
I pull off near the trail entrance, kill the engine, and step out. The air smells sharp—burnt pine, cold earth. Nothing out of control, not yet, but enough to warrant attention.
I grab my gear and start down the path.
It doesn’t take long to find the source: a small brush pile, flames licking at the edges. Someone probably thought they’d put it out. Someone was wrong.
I kneel, assessing, already reaching for the canister on my belt when I hear it—
The click of a camera shutter.
No.
There’s no way.
I straighten slowly.
And there she is.
Emma stands just beyond the smoke, camera raised, framed by tall evergreens and a beam of fading sunlight. Her hair’s pulled back messily, cheeks flushed from the cold, expression absolutely rapt as she stares through the lens at the flames.
Of course she’s here.
Of course she found the fire before the firefighters did.
“What,” I say loudly, “are you doing?”
She startles so hard she nearly drops the camera. “Jesus—would you stop sneaking up on me?”
“I wasn’t sneaking.” I step closer, careful to stay between her and the fire. “You shouldn’t be this close.”
“I’m not that close.”
“You’re close enough to inhale a lungful of smoke.”
She lifts her chin, stubborn as ever. “The smoke makes the light interesting.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “Emma.”
“What?” she asks, exasperated. “I’m working.”
“And I’m asking you to step back while I put this out.”
Her gaze cuts to the flames, then back to me, and for a moment I swear she’s torn between obeying and arguing just to see how far she can push me.
She lets out a breath that hitches slightly. “Fine.”
When she steps back, I move forward, dousing the flames and turning the burning brush to expose embers. The fire hisses and dies beneath the suppressant. Once everything’s soaked and safe, I stand, brushing ash off my gloves.
She’s still watching me.
Not in a you’re annoying way. In a you’re interesting way. Which is worse.
“You really shouldn’t get this close to fire,” I tell her again, softer this time.
She hugs her camera to her chest. “You see danger. I see beauty.”
“That’s the problem,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Her brow furrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just… be careful.”
“You always this bossy,” she asks, “or am I getting the special treatment?”
“Special treatment implies I enjoy rescuing you.”
A spark of something bright flashes in her eyes. “Do you?”
I take a slow breath, fighting a losing battle with the part of me that noticed her the first time and is noticing her again now—harder.
“Get back to your cabin, Emma.”
She smiles—small, knowing, like she can see straight through me. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.”
“I didn’t.”
“You asked nicely for you.”
She throws my own line back at me and walks past, boots crunching on the frosted ground, hair shining in the fading light.
I watch her go for far too long.
When she reaches the trailhead, she glances back once—quick, almost shy.
I’m still staring.
Damn it.
I holster my gear, radio Justin with the all-clear, and head back to the truck. But even as I drive away, clearing my throat and trying to shake off the moment, one truth sticks like a burr I can’t pry loose: That woman is going to be trouble.
And God help me, I’m already in it.