Page 18 of Knotting the Firefighters
Fire station. New beginnings. Second chances wrapped in department policies and regulation uniforms.
The ceramic mug in my hand—the one from Tulsa with the chip that makes it perfect—suddenly feels like a talisman. Forty-seven pieces of a life built from running. But what if I stopped? What if I planted myself here, in this complicated town with its complicated people, and grew something worth protecting?
What if I became Chief Murphy again, not in spite of being an Omega, but because of it?
The afternoon sun slants through my window, illuminating dust motes that dance like sparks, and I make a decision that feels like stepping into flames all over again.
Tomorrow, I'll call Tom Rodriguez.
I'll ask about Station Fahrenheit.
I'll stop running and start rebuilding.
But tonight, I'll bake more pies and pretend my hands aren't shaking with the weight of possibility, and pretend that thethought of wearing a badge again doesn't terrify and exhilarate in equal measure.
Station Fahrenheit.
The name tastes like redemption.
PULLED BY SMOKE AND MEOWING SALVATION
~WENDOLYN~
The grocery list crumples slightly in my grip as I navigate the winding road toward town, windows down despite the October chill because fresh air helps clear the lingering anxiety that's become my constant companion since the fire.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days since Gregory tried to erase me from existence, and here I am, making mundane trips for horse feed and fence supplies like the world hasn't fundamentally shifted on its axis.
Willa and her pack left this morning—four cowboys and one very pregnant Omega heading toward the coast for what they're calling a "business trip" but what myself and a few close friends knows is their last chance at privacy before the baby arrives.
Smart of them to escape Sweetwater Falls' gossip mill.
This town dissects pregnancies like biology students with their first frog, picking apart every symptom and craving until there's nothing left but speculation and judgment.
The ranch feels different without them—quieter, heavier with responsibility. Just me and the seasonal hands now, thoughCole promised to check in from time to time the neighboring property. Still, the weight of maintaining Cactus Rose sits square on my shoulders, familiar as breathing while I fathom the idea of not letting them down.
Ranch work never truly ends, just pauses between disasters.
My grandfather would have said that, probably while fixing something that should have been replaced years ago.
Stubborn man never met a lost cause he didn't want to salvage. Apparently, that trait runs in the family, considering I'm driving toward town in a truck held together by rust and wishful thinking, pretending I know what I'm doing.
A grand life to live in this small town compared to the big city that buzzes with chaos and ongoing misery.
The mental list scrolls through my mind; grain for the horses, mineral blocks for the cattle, new hinges for the gate that's been threatening to fall off since last winter. Normal things. Safe things. Nothing that involves badges, investigations, or the idea of needing a temporary pack with each passing hour…
Also…stop thinking about Calder.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, the cracked leather warm under my palms, and try to reroute the mental traffic jam my brain has become whenever his name surfaces. It isn’t just the obvious stuff—his lazy, devastating half-smile or the way his voice drops an octave lower when he’s saying goodbye, like he’s leaving a promise behind in the air for me to find later.
This would be easier if I could hate him. But you can’t hate a man who brings your favorite coffee unasked, who pretends not to see when you tear up at a foal’s first steps, who repairs the gate at midnight so you don’t have to ask twice.
A man who followed from the city as if being apart would have ruined both of us.
It would be more effortless to accomplish if his scent stopped clinging to my skin despite this morning's shower, when I can still feel the ghost of his hands?—
Smoke.
