Page 43 of Falling for the Firefighter
Her ears flatten against her skull as the acrid smoke hits us, and she looks back at me with worried eyes that seem to ask if we're really going toward that smell.
"I know, girl," I murmur, one hand finding her head for reassurance—mine or hers, I'm not sure. "But we have a job to do."
I crest the ridge and my stomach plummets.
What Parker described as a "small, contained" fire has spread to encompass nearly an acre of mixed woodland. Orange flames lick hungrily at the base of mature pines while smoke billows upward in a gray column visible for miles. Worse, the fireburns in three distinct points—not the chaotic spread of natural wildfire, but deliberate ignition sites.
"Shit." Mac's assessment echoes my own as he studies the scene through binoculars. "That's not accidental."
Below us, Sheriff Donovan coordinates the civilian evacuation. Day-hikers stream down the main trail in loose groups, some moving too fast, others too slow. A family with young children struggles to keep pace, the father carrying a toddler while the mother herds two older kids ahead of the advancing smoke.
"There." I point to the family lagging behind. "They won't make it to the parking area before the fire reaches the trail junction."
Mac follows my gaze, jaw tightening as he calculates distances and wind patterns. "Alternate route?"
"The old service road loops around the north face. Longer but safer." I trace the route on my map, mind racing. "If they can reach it before the fire jumps that ridgeline."
"How long?"
"Twenty minutes if they move fast. Thirty if they don't."
Mac's radio crackles. Rodriguez's voice cuts through static: "Alpha Leader, we've got movement on the western perimeter. Two individuals heading toward the new fire site, not away from it."
"Civilians?" Mac asks.
"Negative. Moving with purpose, carrying equipment. Definitely not tourists."
My pulse spikes. Someone set this fire as a distraction, drawing attention while they operated elsewhere. Or worse—they're still here, watching their handiwork.
"Visual on suspects?" Mac demands.
"Lost them in the tree line. But they were heading straight for the active blaze."
Mac curses under his breath, torn between responding to the immediate threat and protecting the civilians below. Command decisions in crisis—the weight I remember too well.
"I'll guide the family out." The words escape before I fully process them. "You coordinate with Rodriguez."
Scout moves to my side immediately, sensing the shift in my energy. She's already oriented toward the trail junction where the family struggles, her training kicking in.
She knows what "guide" means—it's what we do, what we've always done together in these mountains.
"Absolutely not." Mac's refusal comes swift and final. "You're not separating from the team."
"They need help now." I check my watch, calculating time against the fire spread. "Every minute they lose ground puts them deeper in the danger zone."
"Then we go together."
"And leave the arsonists free to operate? Rodriguez needs backup, and those civilians need guidance they're not getting from anyone else."
Mac's expression hardens, command authority warring with something more personal. The same protectiveness that kept him from letting me guide strangers into uncertain terrain.
"Josephine—"
"You know I’m right." My correction comes sharp, fueled by adrenaline and the familiar surge of purpose I haven't felt in three years. "This is what I do. What I'm good at."
Or, at least, it’s what I used to think I was good at.
For a heartbeat, we stare at each other across the divide between safety and necessity. Then his radio crackles again—Parker requesting status updates, Rodriguez reporting the suspects have vanished completely, Sheriff Donovan calling for additional evacuation support.
