Page 6 of Roaring Heat
"Smell?" I echo, arching a brow. "Now you’re just trying to spook me."
He leans against the porch railing beside my journal, crossing his arms so his shirt pulls tight across his chest. "Not trying. Just giving you the facts. Redwood Rise doesn’t play by the same rules as other places. The sooner you accept that, the safer you’ll be."
I pick up my journal and hug it like armor, letting the weight of it press into my chest like a challenge. "You sound like a man trying to scare off the outsider before she even unpacks. But I don’t spook easy, and I sure as hell didn’t trade my entire life for a research posting in paradise just to be warned off by cryptic half-truths, local folklore, and a good jawline."
For a moment, his eyes soften, and the corner of his mouth tugs up like he’s filed away my jab about the jawline for future use. "If I wanted to scare you off, I wouldn’t be here. I’d let the woods do it for me."
I blink, thrown off balance by the honesty in his voice. There’s no smirk, no deflection, just unwavering certainty in the way he says it. It rattles something loose in me, something that wants to scoff and something else that leans in. "Then why are you here?"
He tilts his head, studying me with that quiet intensity that makes my chest tighten. A flicker of something cold and primal brushes the back of my neck, like the air just thickened. My stomach twists in response, a low ripple of unease threading through the curiosity.
"Because something’s coming," he says, "and whether or not you believe me, I’d rather be close if it finds you."
Heat flares low in my belly, uninvited and entirely unwelcome. I force a laugh. "Wow. Do all the local men introduce themselves with ominous warnings, or am I just special?"
"Special," he says without hesitation.
The word lands between us, heavy and charged, like a line drawn in the damp air between what’s said and what’s felt. It carries a weight I wasn’t ready for, thick as the mist rolling in off the coast and just as impossible to ignore.
I clear my throat and step past him, heading for the door before I forget what personal space is. "Well, thanks for theconcern. I’ll be fine. I have a PhD in wildlife biology and a very loud air horn."
His chuckle follows me, warm and rough. "An air horn won’t stop everything."
I pause with my hand on the doorframe, glancing back at him. "And you would?"
Our eyes lock, and the silence stretches, charged. Finally, he answers, low and certain: "Yes."
Something inside me trips over itself, an unsteady tumble of nerves and want. I don’t know whether it’s the heat in his voice or the certainty in his eyes, but it knocks something off balance inside me. Before I say something I can’t take back—or give away how badly he’s getting under my skin—I turn and walk into the cottage, letting the door close between us like a boundary I desperately need.
Inside, the air is cooler than expected. I flip on the single overhead light, which hums reluctantly to life. The space is small but serviceable. There's a main room with an antique brass bed, a kitchen area along the opposite wall with a island and barstools dividing it from the rest of the room. There's an enormous wood-burning fireplace and a small but charming bathroom. One of those split systems supplies heat and air conditioning and seems to be more than adequate. The furniture’s mismatched but in an eclectic, solid way
I set my bag down and begin to unpack in earnest. Essentials first: field gear, notebooks, my kettle. I place a small photo of my grandfather on the windowsill—him in his ranger uniform, a grin on his face and binoculars around his neck. He’d have loved this place.
Grabbing a notepad, I scribble a quick list: heavier blanket, a reading lamp that doesn’t buzz, hooks for my gear, maybe some string lights if the hardware store has them. Nothingextravagant, just touches to make it feel less like a temporary posting and more like a life I chose.
I open the windows and let the sound of the surf roll in—distant but steady, grounding me. For the first time in a long while, I feel the pull of something that isn’t obligation or regret. It’s a possibility. And despite everything Beau said—or maybe because of it—I know I’m exactly where I need to be.
The cottage smells faintly of cedar and damp earth, like it’s been waiting for someone to live in it again. I set my journal on the table and busy myself with unpacking the essentials—mugs, tea bags, a skillet that’s seen better days. Through the window, I catch sight of Beau still leaning against the railing, arms crossed, gaze on the treeline as if daring the forest to make good on his warnings.
By the time I open the door to tell him I don’t need a babysitter, he’s already gone. No sound of footsteps, no trail in the dirt. Just vanished into the mist. The empty porch feels colder without him, and I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed. There’s a hollowness under my ribs, like I missed something important and don’t yet know what it was.
The next morning, I go into town. It looks different—less eerie, more alive. Sunlight pierces through breaks in the fog, painting the redwoods gold. I head down the narrow road into the center of town, notebook in hand, determined to check in at the ranger station. But Redwood Rise isn’t like other towns. There’s no Starbucks, no chain stores. Just a scattering of weathered wooden buildings that look like they’ve stood for a century and intend to stand another.
I pass the café where laughter drifts through an open window. A chalkboard out front advertises 'Bear Claws Fresh Baked Daily'—charming, if slightly over-committed to the theme. Still, something about it makes the hair on my neck lift.
A man sweeping the porch nods at me but doesn’t speak. Two women near the flower shop follow me quietly when I pass, their eyes tracking me with a curiosity that carries a hint of something sharper—wary, maybe even guarded. My spine straightens instinctively, like I’ve walked into a room mid-conversation and everyone forgot to stop whispering.
By the time I reach the ranger station—a squat cabin with peeling green paint—I’m ready for a dose of normalcy. Instead, I get Beau. Again. He’s leaning against a truck out front, grease on his hands, with that same unbothered grin curving his mouth.
"Stalking me already?" I ask too sharp.
"No," he says easily, tossing the rag into the truck bed. "Just fixing Elsie’s truck."
"Elsie, the owner of the general store? Why would her truck be out here?"
"Because I needed to drive it to see if I could hear what she was hearing, and Carson wanted me to look at something. I heard what Elsie heard, and I had my toolkit with me... so here I am."
"It's just a little odd. You seem to find me wherever I go."
