Page 68 of Falling for the Firefighter
She can smell what's coming. The acrid scent of destruction carries on winds that shift unpredictably. When I call her name softly, she falls back into step, trusting my judgment even when her instincts scream warnings.
My footsteps echo in the unnatural silence as I unlock my office, the keys jingling in my shaking hands. The familiar space feels alien in the eerie light filtering through smoke-stained windows.
"Here." I pull open a flat file drawer, extracting rolled maps labeled with dates and locations in my careful handwriting. The paper feels substantial under my fingers, years of fieldwork distilled into precise lines and measurements. "Complete terrain surveys of all three gaps, updated within the last six months."
Sheriff Donovan spreads them across my desk, his focus intense as he absorbs every detail. The desk lamp casts a pool of yellow light, throwing sharp shadows across his weathered features. His finger traces elevation lines, water features, and vegetation patterns.
"These are incredible." The admiration in his voice is genuine, sending warmth through my chest despite the circumstances. "The detail is... Mac was right to trust your expertise."
"I walked every inch." I move beside him, close enough to feel the weight of shared responsibility, to catch the scent of smoke and determination that clings to his uniform.
My shoulder brushes his as I indicate features too subtle for standard mapping. "This small ravine provides a natural fire break if we can clear the brush at the entrance. And here—" I tap a blue line barely visible on the paper, "—spring-fed pool thatdoesn't appear on any forest service maps. Reliable water source even in drought conditions."
He studies each feature, asking precise questions that reveal a tactical mind working through scenarios, contingencies, and worst-case possibilities. For twenty minutes, we bend over the maps, planning a defense for mountains we both love, sharing the burden of command that Mac carried alone just hours earlier.
"This is our best chance." Donovan straightens finally, rolling the maps carefully for transport. His hands are steady, sure, but I catch the tension in his shoulders, the weight of responsibility that settles on anyone who must make life-or-death decisions. "If we hold those three gaps, we can force the fire to burn itself out against the ridge."
"If." The weight of that small word hangs between us like smoke.
His eyes meet mine, brown and steady despite the magnitude of what we're facing. "You've done everything possible to prepare us. Mac chose well when he put you in charge of civilian coordination."
"And weather." I glance toward the window where smoke now obscures the mountains entirely, turning day to premature dusk. The wind rattles the glass, a sound like restless spirits. "If the wind shifts..."
"We adapt." His certainty echoes Mac's earlier words, grounding me to something solid in a world that feels like it's burning around us. "That's what your maps give us—options for adaptation."
My radio crackles to life, cutting through the charged silence. Mac's voice comes through static, professional but strained.
"Base Command, this is Alpha Leader. Requesting immediate supply drop at northern position. We're holding, but barely."
Scout's ears perk immediately at the sound of Mac's voice crackling through the radio. She moves closer, pressing against my leg as if she can sense the tension in his transmission.
Her eyes fix on the radio with the same intensity she shows when tracking scents—as if she's trying to reach through the static to the man who's become important to both of us. When the transmission ends, she looks up at me with worried brown eyes that mirror my fears.
I key the radio with steady hands despite my racing pulse.
"Alpha Leader, this is Base Command. Supply drop coordinates acknowledged. Status on crew welfare?"
"All personnel accounted for. Fighting extreme conditions. Fire behavior unlike anything we’ve seen." The controlled tension in his voice tells me more than his words.
They're facing hell out there.
"Copy that, Alpha Leader. Sheriff Donovan coordinating supply drop now. Additional volunteer teams deploying to support positions."
A pause, filled with static and what sounds like the roar of a freight train. "Roger, Base Command. Tell the volunteers... tell them this is brutal. Alpha Leader out."
The radio goes quiet, leaving me staring at its display as if it might provide more connection to the man fighting for his life somewhere in that orange hell visible through my window.
"He's the best there is. He'll bring his team home." Sheriff Donovan's hand settles on my shoulder, steadying.
I nod, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. "Then let's make sure he has a home to come back to."
We return to The Haven, where the ballroom has transformed into a fully operational command center. Teams cluster around assigned leaders, equipment is distributed, and communication networks buzz with constant updates.
I oversee it all, trying to channel the calm authority I watched Mac display, directing resources and personnel like pieces on a complex chessboard.
"Complete terrain analysis for our volunteer teams." I spread the detailed surveys across the main table, the paper crackling under the bright chandelier light.
Noah Morgan studies the map, absorbing details. His finger traces the contour lines, reading the terrain like text. "What about natural shelter positions? Safety zones if our volunteers need to pull back?"
