Page 49 of Falling for the Firefighter
Partnership. Purpose. Passion.
Somewhere in the darkness above us, another fire blooms against the mountainside—a fifth ignition point in what's an escalating campaign of destruction. As I watch the orange glow reflect off low-hanging clouds, one thought fills my mind. The arsonist isn't finished. They have a goal. Find that and we can anticipate rather than react.
Chapter 10
Pattern Recognition
Maps spreadacross my kitchen table like a battlefield. Coffee rings stain wood around scattered maps, photographs, and incident reports. My grandfather's brass compass sits beside Mac's tactical GPS, two generations of navigation technology united by necessity. Outside, dawn threatens the horizon with pale fingers of light.
Scout lies beneath the kitchen table, her chin resting on my boots as I work. She's been there all night, a warm, steady presence while Mac and I pored over evidence and planned our next moves.
Every so often, she lifts her head when our voices get too intense, brown eyes tracking between us with the patient wisdom of a dog who's seen her humans through countless crises.
When I shift to reach for another map, she follows the movement, ensuring she's always touching some part of me. She knows tension when she feels it.
"Five fires in eighteen hours." Mac traces the locations with his finger, each red X a scar across my carefully drawn terrain. "All in remote locations. All requiring extensive local knowledge to access."
I lean over his shoulder, close enough to smell coffee and smoke clinging to his uniform. The scent should comfort me. Instead, it reminds me that we're fighting an enemy who understands these mountains almost as well as I do.
"There's a pattern here." I tap the northwestern cluster. "These three fires form a triangle around the old Silver Creek mining claims. And these two—" I indicate Crystal Falls and Lookout Point, "—they're positioned to cut off the main evacuation routes from that area."
"Evacuation routes or access routes?" Mac's voice carries a dangerous edge.
The question hits like cold water. I grab my most detailed survey map, the one marked with every abandoned claim, every forgotten trail, every geological feature that might interest someone besides hikers and firefighters.
"The Silver Creek Mine closed in 1993." My finger traces the old mining road that winds through the fire triangle. "But the claims were never officially abandoned. Just... neglected."
"Who owns them now?"
"That's the problem." I pull out a folder of legal documents I researched years ago for a trail mapping project. "The ownership is tangled. Multiple shell companies, dissolved partnerships, and unresolved legal disputes. On paper, dozens of entities have potential claims to different sections."
Mac studies the documents, his expression growing darker with each page. "Someone's been patient. Very patient."
"What do you mean?"
"These fires aren't random destruction." He spreads the incident reports across the table. "They're strategic. Someone is using fire to clear legal obstacles."
The implications crawl up my spine like ice. "Clear them how?"
"Environmental surveys, safety inspections, historical preservation reviews—all the bureaucratic hurdles that prevent mining operations from resuming." His finger traces the fire perimeter. "But if the land is damaged by wildfire, classified as fire-prone, those protections might be waived for 'economic recovery' purposes."
My stomach drops. "You think someone's burning my mountains to restart mining operations?"
"I think someone's using your maps to identify the most efficient way to make that happen."
The coffee turns bitter in my mouth. Years of careful conservation work, decades of environmental protection, sacrificed for what? Profit margins and extraction permits?
Mac’s radio crackles. Sheriff Donovan's voice cuts through the dawn quiet: "All units, be advised. Sixth fire reported at Eagle's Nest Trail. This one's bigger."
Scout's ears perk at the radio static, her body tensing with the same alertness she shows before storms. She rises from her position under the table, moving to the window where she can see the orange glow beginning to stain the horizon. A low whine escapes her throat—not fear, but recognition that we're about to head toward danger again.
We drivetoward Eagle's Nest in pre-dawn darkness, Mac's SUV eating miles of winding mountain road. The fire's glow is visible long before we reach the staging area—a hungry orange smear against the gray sky that speaks of serious fuel consumption.
Scout sits alert in the back seat, her nose pressed to the partially opened window. Her nostrils work constantly, processing scents carried on the wind that tell her more about the fire's behavior than any of our instruments. Her ears swiveltoward sounds I can't hear—the distant roar of flames, the crack of falling timber, the chaos of evacuation efforts miles ahead.
She knows we're driving toward something big. Something dangerous. But she doesn't hesitate, doesn't try to redirect us to safety. She trusts me to make the right choices, even when those choices lead us straight into hell.
"Jesus." Mac brakes at the first overlook, both of us staring at the inferno below.
