Rescued By Her Rival

Then again, no one lurked in the forest to constantly remind him of this nonsense about him undoing core tenets of his personality over a few short weeks. People went to years of therapy to change habits and outlooks acquired over a lifetime, and he had no interest in that either.

“Chief.” He interrupted the rookie doing push-ups with one word and a meaningful waggle of his radio, indicating the call had come.

Treadwell’s gaze narrowed and he nodded, but held up one hand in Beck’s direction and told the man on the ground he could stop.

He and Treadwell might not be on the same page on everything, but over the past two years the man had learned to interpret Beck’s admittedly spartan method of communication. Beck liked him for that. Liked him in general, really.

During his first year, back when it’d seemed he could do no wrong, he’d still had to actively work to be something like what they expected off duty. They’d accepted his tendency to go off on his own when he got a whiff of something during a fire. Let him come around to telling them whatever he’d concluded when he was certain.

He didn’t know where that sixth sense had gone, could only hope it had come back over the winter. Knowing how far he’d fallen in the chief’s esteem chafed.

After marking the rookie’s reps and still carrying his clipboard, Treadwell strode in Beck’s direction. The stout man was in his fifties, and probably as fit as when he’d joined. “What’s the call?”

“Us and two other units.” Beck nodded down the field to where the other groups were breaking up. “About a forty-five-minute flight. Kolinski said he’d pack our gear and hold the plane.”

Treadwell listened and nodded, but just when Beck thought he was going to turn around and give the grunts the afternoon off he said, “Not you.”

“It’s a big fire. You need me.”

“Not like this I don’t.”

The urge to argue burned his throat, but he clamped his teeth together. Not that he didn’t buck orders on occasion, but only when he had some measure of certainty he was right to do so. He wanted to argue that no one in the unit read fires like he did, but he simply wasn’t sure that was the case any longer. That was last year’s argument. Before his mistakes. Before he’d been trapped by the flames.

Treadwell handed him the clipboard. Accepting the transfer of the hard acrylic gave him a sensation somewhat like the first time he’d jumped from a plane. Plummeting. Ground that approached far too rapidly.

He stood straighter. Even without that one selling point, he was still as capable as anyone else. “You’re sure? I’m still boots on the ground.”

“Your boots are on whatever ground you see fit. This is the first day. Prove me wrong and we’ll talk.”

He wanted to, if he actually knew how to follow orders he knew were wrong. As annoying as the yellow badge might be, at least probation gave him more time to sort things out.

When Beck said nothing else, the chief turned to summon Autry with a wave.

She’d been watching—everyone in the group had been—and at the summons she popped out of her sulk and trotted right over.

“You two finish morning PT with the group,” Treadwell said, adding, “There’s a fire, and Ellison has already expended too much energy to give one hundred percent this morning, he doesn’t need to throw himself into the blaze at less than full capacity.”

Yes, he did. He needed that.

“I’m fine,” he argued finally, the prospect of minding rookies worse than simply sitting out a fight.

Treadwell shot him a hard look, one that Beck could also interpret. Punishment or probation, it didn’t matter, he was out of the game until this was done, and Treadwell was trying to save face on his behalf.

Beck would’ve gladly taken the ding to his pride if it would’ve gotten him back into the fray. Sitting around with a clipboard while his team jumped into danger didn’t sit right.

Treadwell thumped him on the shoulder once and before Autry could ask any of the questions bouncing around in those strange green eyes he finalized his orders. “Handle the rest of the baselines. Classroom was going to be protocols, but since it looks like most of us will be in the field, Ellison’s going to do a Q&A about service, lessons learned his first couple years. Then you can all amuse yourselves for the rest of the day, but be on the field at daybreak tomorrow before the siren blasts.”

Autry still looked confused, but she nodded and had now shifted her attention to him, her expression saying things he didn’t want to hear—like she got just how little he wanted to do this. “What do you want me to do?”

All of it.

Eager to get rid of the clipboard, he passed the cursed thing over and gestured for her to follow. The sooner they got on with it, the sooner he could get it over with.

“Three crews have been called to a blaze, Treadwell wants us to continue,” he announced, straight to the point, then added, because it would help them to know the course when it became mandatory, “After that, lunch, and then a five-mile run around the woodland course.”

Autry cleared her throat, and for a second he thought it was because she was going to correct him about the run, but instead she said, “Don’t forget the classroom Q&A before the run.”

One tiny twitch of an eyebrow challenged him to argue, but she didn’t correct Treadwell’s orders—probably because she was obsessive about exercise. Couldn’t rightly fault her for it, except that she didn’t let him get away with sidestepping the exercise in public speaking.

“Q&A after lunch. Five questions. Then run.” He returned her look. In unison, her brows and shoulders popped up. She might as well have just said, Whatever.

Whatever. He got back to the task at hand, gesturing to the man Treadwell had been testing, still on the ground. “Who are you?”

“San Giovanni.”

“He only has sit-ups left,” Autry added.

He’d have been happy to let her continue on her own, but Treadwell’s opinion wasn’t going to be raised by his desire to maintain the ten-foot ring of emptiness around himself he preferred.

“How many are left after him?”

“Six.”

He nodded once for the man to continue and silently counted while the man got on with it.

* * *

Lunch came and went, and Lauren found herself back on the field with the other rookies, waiting for Ellison.

He’d said about twenty words before lunch, and most of those had been numbers, or Next. He’d been chattier two years ago.

If saying more than one word per breath could ever be considered chatty. He only barely communicated at a level higher than grunts and too-easy-to-read judgmental faces. But he had communicated more last time. His current level of terseness seemed the type usually reserved for people who’d caused offense. Which couldn’t be her.

Unless he thought she stank at everything and couldn’t believe she’d returned for a second try? Wouldn’t be the first time she’d encountered that. Or the thousandth.

Women weren’t unheard of in the service, but they weren’t abundant either. Even with her firefighting pedigree, the weight of the Autry name probably just meant people would expect her to be better. Not making it two years ago had contradicted that notion, even though she’d served her family’s station since fresh from high school and her father had known better than to turn her away lest she go to a station where he couldn’t control her. Then six years of hard-fought experience, and the arguments it had taken to get it.

She looked at her watch. Two more minutes and Ellison would be late. Probably because he didn’t want to do the Q&A.

She could imagine now how it’d go.

What was the rating on the largest fire you encountered this year?

Big.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

Here.

What’s your biggest weakness?

Talking.

When the hour struck one, and not a second before, Ellison jogged up from the food hall and onto the field. If someone’s posture could shout belligerence, his did. He held himself so erect she’d have expected his collarbone to snap with an accidental shoulder twitch. Everyone else seemed to pick up on it too. Absorbed it so well even that when he asked for questions, no one said a word for a long time, until Lauren shot her hand up. To help him out, of course. Not just to torture him. To get the ball rolling. And because she wasn’t scared of a grumpy off-season forest ranger.

“You’ve been at it two seasons. Have you had any close calls? Or, you know, back when you were a combat firefighter? That could be cool to hear about.”

He shouldn’t look so surprised, she’d only had forever to dwell on what had gone wrong last time. Marine combat firefighter? More impressive than the daughter of a local chief who only let her into the fires when she was able to outmaneuver him.

She wasn’t outmaneuvering Ellison. He held his tongue long enough that it seemed like he was translating words in his head, and then produced a miserly portion to answer only the first part, ignoring her question about his surly marine firefighting days. Another hand went up and the conversation moved on.

Where was the biggest blaze?

Did he enjoy the off-season? What did he do?

Forest ranger. Clearing brush. Controlled burns.

Nailed it!

Biggest mistake people made in the field?

Most useful advice to someone starting out?

That last one was the one that tripped him up. His mouth opened and closed no fewer than three times, and she could all but see him sorting through his options of advice to dole out. It meant nothing to her if he had so much advice to give he couldn’t decide on what was best, but when he spoke, he sounded like someone parroting words given to him at some point. Like he didn’t believe a word of what came out.

“Your team is your biggest asset. Be a team player. Watch out for your team. Follow orders.”

One look around confirmed that everyone thought this advice was basic, but he cut the questions off, having just scraped five, and sent everyone for their woodland run.

Everyone but her, the one who’d actually heard the chief’s orders. She went to fetch her things from the boot of her car, and on her way back through, stopped beside where he sat on the grass, hands behind him, propping himself up.

“Go Team, eh?”

He ignored her question again, his gaze fixed across the field to the wooden steps that led up to the rough, woodland running track where he’d sent them. “Not running?”

“You forget, I actually heard what the chief said.” She grinned down at him, not that he was looking, and put down her duffel. “I don’t see you running either.”

“I will. When the crowd thins.”

“So will I.”

“They need to do it.”

She hadn’t questioned that. Of course, they needed to do it. It was called Hell Week for a reason. Every one of them was supposed to come out in better shape than they’d gone in, and no one got better by sitting on their butt, enjoying the blistering afternoon sunshine, as he was doing. “No argument from me. I’m just getting my gear moved into a cabin first.”

“Cabin assignments haven’t been made yet.”

Contrary creature. Looking for things to pick apart? Lent more weight to the notion that he just didn’t want her there.

She could really tick him off by sitting down beside him, where he looked far too comfortable, his muscled legs sprawled out in the grass. The man wasn’t bulky, but he was dense and lean in a way that made the shape of every muscle down his arms and legs show under hair-dusted skin.

He’d had a certain soldierly hunkiness before, but now he looked like he’d dulled all his sharp, military corners except for those of his physique. Longer hair. Loose cotton clothes. White and gray, no khaki or green anywhere. And he spent enough time in the woods that he wasn’t as bronzed as he’d been either.

All softening touches. And somehow he was more churlish. Strange that years after leaving combat he’d become less friendly. By the look of him, and the way he’d stood apart from everyone, this man was the one who most needed a friend. What had he even been saying?

Oh, right. She was picking her own cabin, not waiting on orders. Blah-blah cabin shenanigans. They would’ve made cabin assignments today if everyone hadn’t been called to the field for an emergency.

“Do you really think the chief wouldn’t want everyone having a bed?”

“They do things a particular way.”

“And they can do things that way tomorrow.” She shrugged, shifting topic. “What’s your plan?”

“Truck.” He looked up at her finally.

Back to one-word answers.

“Did you have a stutter as a child?”

“What? No.”

“Propensity for mispronouncing words?”

“No.”

“Do you have some kind of a Samson situation going on in reverse? The longer your hair gets, the weaker your vocabulary?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were more talkative last time we met,” she answered, “even if you weren’t exactly Mr. Conversation. Did something bad happen that you find painful to revisit?”

He actually paled then and she immediately felt bad for asking. Suddenly it was something she couldn’t joke about. Something bad had happened. And now he was a rookie.

No smokejumpers had died, she would’ve heard if there had been any deaths. They were so well trained and prepared they could go decades without a fatality.

“Nothing happened.”

The man was not a good liar, at least not when directly questioned.

Lauren’s friends were mostly men, due to the nature of her profession. She wasn’t a native speaker of Dude Language, but she had fair fluency. In this kind of triggering situation, she had a few options on how to respond.

Call him out on the lie. Acceptable only if she was a friend—and she wasn’t, so calling him on it was a sure way to start a fight. She wasn’t looking for that either.

Or she could ignore what he’d said and just keep the conversation going in a way that made clear she’d picked up on the lie. Spotted a weakness. Another great way to make friends.

Or, what seemed smartest, pretend to misread the situation and make a joke out of it. Give him an out, assuming he had a sense of humor.

“Did you sleep with Treadwell’s daughter or something?” She squinted dramatically at him over her bags.

“No!” He answered so sharply some of the color came back to his cheeks and she felt that moment of vulnerability pass. “He doesn’t have a daughter.”

“Okay, you did something else, then,” she announced. “You just like to speak about as much as no one I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t care.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Fine, Miss Congeniality.” She jerked her head toward the cabins. “I’m going to continue moving in. Then I’m going to pack my duffel with some weight to simulate the pack carry and run the forest track. And since I know you’re not making any other friends with that effervescent charm, you’re welcome to take the other room in the cabin if you’d like to sleep somewhere that won’t put a crick in your neck. If you don’t want to sully a bed, use the couch. Or the floor. I can step over you. No problem. I doubt I’ll even accidentally kick you more than once or twice. Three times tops.”

The pack carry was the second biggest thing she worried about doing sufficiently well. The problem that took up most of her overly developed worry centers was her application mistake—her skydiving experience. Good intentions didn’t counter bad planning follow-through. Filling out the application on behalf of her future self—the one who would’ve completed the training program and gone on several jumps—was only okay until life and family emergencies had interfered with her training schedule. Now it was a lie. In writing. Even if skydiving experience wasn’t required to get into the program, once she’d been selected—months later—she hadn’t been able to figure out how to rewind it.

She’d gladly run herself ragged with a heavy pack to keep from thinking about those possible consequences.

He levered himself from the ground. “Don’t weight your pack for the run tonight. Hard track to run in the dark.”

“You think I’ll fall?”

“You wanted advice. Don’t take unnecessary chances,” he said, dusting some of the grass from his...very firm backside and meaty, manly legs.

Then he said more things and screwed up her mental appreciation.

“Washing out already would mean another year before you could get back.”

She had wanted to hear advice. Did want to. And this was even advice that he didn’t stumble his way through or have to force out. It sounded genuine.

It also sounded like criticism. Already was a very judgmental word. Although she couldn’t stop her hackles rising, she was almost thankful for it. Handsome wrapper over a jerky nougat center? He was suddenly far less attractive.

“I’m used to tougher workouts than a woodland path.”

“Uneven terrain.” Still doubting her ability to run on shaded trails, and not answering her invitation. Which was fine. Let him sleep in his truck.

He rolled his shoulders and took off at an easy jog for the all-terrain course where he’d sent the others a while ago.

The course was two and a half miles around, two laps to make it five.

If she hurried, she could stash her stuff in the cabin and catch up with him. Then he’d see how sure-footed she was. No falling. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not already.

And she still kind of wanted to trip him.

CHAPTER THREE

BECK’S FEET HIT the ground in a steady rhythm, broken only by the need to readjust his step as he covered the uneven packed earth winding through the various pine, fir and tan oaks of the evergreen forest.

Ahead of him lay the only thing he’d looked forward to when considering his return to camp: the gnarled tan oak near the halfway mark on the trail. Tan oaks littered the state, but he loved the ones that were twisted and gnarled. He’d developed an odd affection for this particular ancient-looking tree two years ago and come to think of it in anthropomorphic terms—the Old Man.

It was almost all boughs, branching at less than three feet from the ground, a hollowed palm with six fingers shooting toward the sky. A great sitting tree, like the one he’d grown up with in his yard. Shaded. Quiet. A respite from the heat. Surrounded by birdsong. Peaceful. Somewhere to forget where he should’ve been and wasn’t.

Treadwell thought he was being obstinate or stupid, or that it meant he just didn’t care about anyone else on the team. Every time he’d gone outside protocol, it had been for valid reasons. Lifesaving. Following the signs he’d seen.

Or thought he’d seen.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he hadn’t seen anything, just imagined it.

He climbed into the center of the old tree and leaned back on the thickest limb.

If it hadn’t been for his fire, he might have just become a forest ranger full-time.

They should’ve asked for advice about that. He had better words there.

He tilted his head back to gaze through the canopy to the patches of twilight sky. He should’ve kept the radio on him to keep tabs on the fire and his team.

Before he’d had the chance to fully relax, the sound of someone running far too fast over the packed earth had him tensing. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was. She’d run hard to catch up with him, fast enough that she’d have probably caught him even if he hadn’t taken a seat.

She skidded to a halt, the sound pulling his gaze from the sky in time to see her toe catch on a root, and she stumbled.

Without thought, he leaped from the tree, hands shooting out to make a grab for her, but she was just out of reach as she took several large, barely controlled steps forward, and managed to keep from hitting the dirt anyway.

“Okay?” he asked, still covering the distance and giving her a hand to ground her as she recovered her balance.

The touch of her hand sent a surge of lust and heat down his spine that had every muscle tensing.

She froze in place, her eyes wide and locked to his where they stood, facing each other, one hand held between them as if they’d gone to shake hands and had forgotten step two.

Even in the low, fading light, he was once again struck by the color of her eyes. Vibrant, and familiar somehow.

“Fine,” she answered, finally looking down to where their hands joined. He followed her gaze, and saw his thumb slowly stroking the back of her hand.

Immediately, he let go, and stepped back, mentally scrambling through a very short list of appropriate things to do or say after doing something so creepy.

She beat him to it. “Not running?”

Still winded, her speech—short as it was—came out broken with her need for oxygen, or maybe with something else. The same words he’d said to her when trying to get rid of her earlier.

She stepped into a shaft of fading light shining through the trees, a brighter spot in a darkened forest, and he could see how flushed she’d grown from the hard, uneven run.

Pretty. Damn, she was appealing in a way he hadn’t remembered.

“I’ll do two more laps when I get done here.”

“Getting late.”

“I’ve run this trail in the dark.”

She put her hands on her knees, and her breathing got a little slower, more even, but she still had a wariness about her as she watched him. “This year?”

She had a point, as much as he’d prefer to pretend otherwise. But if he ran with her, this would definitely turn into a competition.

“You know this isn’t a race.”

“I know.”

“But you were running like it was.”

“I was running to catch up, not to win.”

Bull. He turned and began jogging down the path again, letting her once again catch up, which she quickly did.

“Why are you rolling your eyes at me?”

“I gave you the advice you need to hear—this isn’t a race. Neither is it when you’re out in the thick of it. Staying longest, fighting hardest, that’s important. Not getting there fastest.”

“I know that, I’ve been a firefighter for six years and I was raised by firefighters. Generations of them, actually. I’m not stupid.” She kept up with him, but if he’d wanted to pick a way to make her stop with the optimism, he’d apparently picked well, judging by her tone.

“But you’re still acting like this is a competition you’re in. Work on improving yourself, not impressing everyone else.”

He shouldn’t have taken a seat tonight. He should’ve waited until tomorrow, or come back after the run was finished. He’d been wanting to wipe his mind clean, not think about her sun-kissed skin and brilliant green eyes. With his eyes on the trail before him, he suddenly had the strong mental image of a glossy, bright green stone with deep, evergreen bands.

His mother’s pendant.

And the same stone as the polished orbs she’d meditated with. Also the polished and raw pieces of gem she’d kept tucked into nooks all over their cottage.

Malachite, the word swam up from somewhere. Healing stone.

“Are you being contrary because you’re worried about your crew being out?”

God help him, if this was how the conversation was going to go, he’d be better off trying to lose her. He didn’t answer.

“I’m going to take silence for a yes.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.” He was the one in danger of resetting the safety record most recently, not that she needed to know that.

“But it must be hard to be stuck here with the rookies when they’re out there.”

She was going to ask. He could feel it. And once he gave her a scrap of that information, she’d keep pressing until she got more. Until she forced the conversation he hadn’t even wanted to have with Treadwell.