Page 17 of Falling for the Firefighter
The wind kicks harder, howling through the trees. Pines bow under its force, their needle-laced limbs clawing at the sky. Dust and debris swirl up around us, stinging my eyes, stealing my breath.
A low growl of thunder rolls over the ridgeline. Long. Ominous. Too close.
“Josephine—” His voice rips through the wind, but I don’t look back.
We crest the ridge just as the first raindrops hit—heavy, cold, and sudden. Then the sky opens.
Sheets of water hammer down, drenching us in seconds. The storm doesn’t build—it descends, fast and furious, like a living thing.
Lightning lights up the sky. Thunder cracks, sharp and violent.
Scout lets out a sharp bark, ears pinned as she runs ahead. Lightning flashes—too close, too bright—throwing the forest into stark black-and-white relief.
I stumble. Catch myself on a branch slick with rain.
Mac’s hand shoots out, grabs my arm—firm, grounding. Heat from his palm burns through the chill, even as the storm rages around us.
“Shelter. Now.” His words are clipped, commanding. No more arguing. No more distance. Just urgency.
I nod, breathless, soaked to the bone, the air crackling with electric tension.
Above us, the sky groans again—thunder rolling like the belly of something ancient and pissed off.
And behind us…
That storm isn’t finished.
It’s just getting started.
"There." I point to a small structure tucked against the rockface, almost invisible against the natural landscape.
We make the final sprint as hail begins to mix with the rain, stinging exposed skin. I fumble with the shelter's latch, fingers slippery with rain, until Mac reaches around me to help.
The door swings open, and we tumble inside, Scout shaking water everywhere as we secure the door against the howling wind.
Hart's emergency shelter is one room, maybe twelve by twelve feet. A small woodstove occupies one corner, a narrow bench along the opposite wall, and a small cot in the corner. Emergency supplies are stacked neatly on shelves.
The space feels even smaller with Mac's broad shoulders blocking most of the available light from the single window.
We stand dripping on the plank floor, suddenly aware of our proximity in the confined space. Water runs from Mac's dark hair down his face, catching in his eyelashes and trailing along his jaw. My clothes cling uncomfortably, soaked through in the brief dash.
The silence between us pulses with unfinished argument and something else—something electric and dangerous.
"Well." He pushes wet hair from his forehead. "That was exciting."
"Welcome to Colorado mountain weather." I move to the stove, desperate for something to do with my hands. "We should start a fire. Temperature drops fast during storms."
Mac moves to the supply shelf, finding matches and kindling while I arrange wood in the stove. We work silently, the tension between us thickening with each passing second. Scout settles on the floor, watching us with wary eyes.
The kindling catches, filling the small space with warm light and the comforting scent of pine smoke. A shiver racks my spine, sudden and sharp, my damp clothes clinging cold against my skin. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to trap what little heat I have as steam begins to rise from my sleeves.
"You should change." Mac nods toward my pack. "Hypothermia's a risk even in summer at this elevation."
"I'm fine." My voice comes out sharper than intended, the residual anger from our argument still simmering beneath the surface.
“You’re shaking.” His voice cuts through the crackle of firewood, low and unyielding—the same commanding edge that sparked our argument on the trail. “This isn’t a suggestion, Mackenzie.”
“Don’t pull rank on me in my mountains.”
