Page 11 of The Blaze Between Us

"And do you? Have a problem with it?"

I consider the question. "No. He's my best friend. We met in the military, and he’s a fantastic firefighter, one of my best. We’ve gone through everything together. And he treats Ellie well. That's all that matters."

"A father who doesn't go into overprotective mode?" she teases. "I'm shocked."

"Oh, I had my moments when she first started dating," I admit. "But Ellie's always had good judgment about people. Better than mine, sometimes."

Tasha stretches her legs out in front of her, and I try not to notice how her hiking pants hug her curves. "That's refreshing to hear. My dad took the opposite approach after my mom died—suddenly every boy was a potential threat to his precious daughter's virtue."

It's the first time she's mentioned her mother, and the casual reference to that loss creates an unexpected bond between us. I'm careful with my response, recognizing the delicate territory.

"Everyone handles grief differently," I whisper.

She nods, her expression turning contemplative. "True. Some people shut down. Some try to control everything around them. Some throw themselves into work."

"And some do all three," I add, thinking of my own response to Claire's death.

The months of emotional numbness, followed by the desperate need to create a perfectly structured life for Ellie, the long hours at the station that let me avoid an empty house.

"Did you?" she asks, her voice gentle.

"I had Ellie to think about," I say, which isn't really an answer but is easier than admitting the truth. "Kept me from going too far in any one direction."

"She was lucky to have you."

"I was lucky to have her," I counter, meaning it completely. "Gave me a reason to get up every morning."

A comfortable silence falls between us, and I realize we've somehow shifted closer on the boulder, our shoulders nearly touching. I should move away, reestablish an appropriate distance, but I remain where I am, shamefully savoring her nearness.

A distant rumble of thunder breaks the spell. I look up to see dark clouds gathering over the mountain peaks to the west.

"That's our cue," I say, standing and offering her my hand. "Mountain storms can move in quickly."

She takes my hand, letting me help her down from the boulder. "Should we be worried? About lightning, I mean?"

"Not if we get moving now. The storm's still a way off."

We pack up quickly, and I lead us back to the trail at a slightly faster pace than before. The temperature has dropped a few degrees, and the wind picks up as we make our way through the forest. When another, louder rumble of thunder sounds, Tasha jumps slightly beside me.

"Not a fan of storms?" I ask.

"Not when I'm exposed on a mountainside, no," she admits with a nervous laugh.

"We're fine," I assure her. "I've been caught in plenty of these. We'll be back to the truck well before it hits."

But nature has other plans. We're barely halfway down the trail when the first heavy drops begin to fall, quickly turning into a steady rain. The canopy of pine trees provides some shelter but not enough to keep us dry.

"Damn it," I mutter, scanning the trail ahead. "There's a small shelter about a quarter mile from here—just a three-sided structure for hikers caught in weather like this. We should make for that."

She nods, pulling up the hood of her lightweight jacket, though it's clearly not waterproof. The rain is coming down harder now, and the trail is quickly turning muddy beneath our boots.

"Stay close," I instruct as visibility decreases with the rainfall. "The trail gets slippery here."

I reach back without thinking, offering my hand. She takes it immediately, her fingers cold and wet as they wrap around mine. It's a practical gesture, meant for safety, but the contact sends a surge of protectiveness through me. I must protect her, must keep her safe.

We move as quickly as safety allows, her warm breath brushing against my neck, slightly labored from the pace and the way her hand tightens in mine whenever thunder crashes overhead. The rain has soaked through my jacket now, plastering my shirt to my skin, and I can only imagine she's equally drenched.

Finally, the small wooden shelter comes into view—just a simple roof with three walls and a bench inside, but a welcome sight nonetheless. We hurry the last hundred yards and step under the roof just as the heavens truly open, the rain now coming down in sheets.

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