Page 21 of Hot for the Mountain Man

"I'll be back," he promised, his forehead resting against mine for a brief moment.

Then he was gone, the sound of his truck fading as he raced toward the danger while I remained behind, heart in my throat, praying it wouldn't be the last time I'd see him.

Chapter Eight

Grant

The station buzzed with organized chaos when I arrived. Firefighters were gearing up, their faces set in the same grim determination I felt coursing through my veins. The usual banter was absent, replaced by terse instructions and status updates.

"McAllister," Captain Dawson called as I strode in. "Western slope's ablaze. High winds pushing it toward Pinewood Estates."

My stomach dropped at the mention of the small residential community tucked into the western foothills. If the fire reached those homes...I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the immediate task.

"How'd it start?" I asked, pulling on my fire-resistant pants.

"Lightning strike, best we can tell. Been so dry this spring, it didn't take much." Dawson handed me a situation report. "Jumped containment lines about an hour ago. Governor's ordered evacuation for everything west of Ridge Road."

I nodded, scanning the map coordinates. The fire was spreading faster than expected, fueled by dense undergrowth. This wouldn't be a simple containment operation.

As I suited up, thoughts of Peyton intruded—her soft smile as I'd left her bed this morning, the worry in her eyes she'd tried to hide. I'd promised to return to her. A promise I intended to keep.

"You good?" Martinez asked, catching my momentary distraction.

"Yeah," I replied, refocusing. "Ready."

We loaded into the department vehicles, sirens wailing as we sped toward the western slope. Even from a distance, the situation looked grim. A massive plume of dark smoke billowed against the morning sky, occasional flashes of orange visible at its base. The acrid scent of burning pine filled the air, a smell that always took me straight back to Timber Ridge.

"Don't go there," I muttered to myself. I couldn't afford those memories now. Not with lives potentially at stake.

At the command post, we received our assignments. My team would tackle the northern flank, trying to establish a firebreak before the flames could reach an evacuated neighborhood. The terrain was challenging—steep in places, dotted with rocky outcrops that made equipment transport difficult.

"Stay in radio contact," Dawson instructed. "Wind direction's unstable. If I call a retreat, you move immediately. No heroes today." His eyes lingered on me for a beat longer than necessary.

I nodded, understanding his unspoken reference to Travis. "Copy that, Captain."

The next hours passed in a blur of heat, smoke, and constant vigilance. My world narrowed to the immediate task—directing water streams, clearing brush for firebreaks, monitoring wind shifts that could send flames surging in unpredictable directions. Communication was constant but minimal, each of us saving breath for the grueling physical work.

By midday, my lungs burned despite the respirator and sweat plastered my shirt to my back beneath the protective gear. The fire showed no signs of abating, its roar a constant presence as we fought to contain its spread.

"McAllister," Rodriguez's voice crackled over the radio. "Spot fire jumping the line at sector four."

I signaled to Martinez and Hardy, and we redirected our efforts, racing to smother the new threat before it could establish itself. The temperature increased as we neared the flames, heat radiating in waves that distorted the air.

A sudden gust of wind sent embers spiraling skyward, and I watched in dismay as they drifted beyond our containment zone. "Sector five compromised," I reported, already adjusting our position. "Moving to intercept."

Hours blended together as we battled the relentless advance. At some point, reinforcements arrived from neighboring counties, fresh crews rotating in as exhaustion threatened effectiveness. Captain Dawson ordered my team to take a brief rest, rehydrate, and check equipment before returning to the line.

I collapsed onto a supply crate, gulping water and trying to ignore the trembling in my overtaxed muscles. For a moment, in the relative quiet of the staging area, my mind drifted to Peyton again. Where was she right now? Was she safe? The urge to check my phone was overwhelming, but I resisted. I couldn't afford the distraction.

"Two-minute warning," Dawson called. "Back to positions."

I discarded my empty water bottle and readjusted my gear. "Let's go," I told my team, pushing exhaustion aside. People were counting on us.

The afternoon brought a glimmer of hope as the wind direction stabilized, allowing us to establish more effective containment lines. Additional resources arrived—water tankers, heavy equipment to clear defensive spaces, even a helicopter making water drops on the most aggressive sections of the fire.

"We're gaining ground," Dawson announced over the radio. "Eastern flank is holding. Southern containment at seventy percent."

A ragged cheer went up from the nearby firefighters. Progress, at last. I allowed myself a moment of cautious optimism before returning to the task at hand.

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