Page 10 of Falling for the Firefighter
"Morning, Mackenzie." He hands me a coffee cup, steam rising from the lid. "Two sugars, no cream."
"How did you?—"
"Rodriguez mentioned it yesterday." He shrugs. "I've got a good memory for details."
Scout pushes past me to greet Mac, practically dancing with excitement.
"And good morning to you, too, girl." He crouches, rubbing her ears while she melts under his attention. "Ready for a hike?"
"She's supposed to be a working dog." I take a sip of coffee—perfect temperature, exactly how I like it. "Not a groupie."
"Dogs have excellent judgment." He straightens, taking in my cabin with curious eyes. "Nice place."
"Thanks." I grab my pack and map case, stepping onto the porch rather than inviting him inside. "We should get moving if we want to cover Lookout Point before the afternoon."
He follows me to his Forest Service-issued SUV, opening the back for Scout, who jumps in like she's been riding with him for years.
"Traitor," I mutter under my breath.
Mac's lips twitch. "Heard that."
The drive to the trailhead passes in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Mac handles the mountain roads with easy confidence, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other cradling his coffee. I focus on the passing scenery rather than the way his forearm flexes with each turn.
At the trailhead, we synchronize our radios and check our packs. Mac's movements are efficient—a man who's done this hundreds of times. Scout circles us impatiently, eager to hit the trail.
"Lead the way." Mac gestures forward. "I'm here to learn."
The morning air carries the scent of pine and wildflowers as we start up the trail. I keep a deliberate three feet between us, pointing out features and trail markers. Mac asks intelligent questions, jotting down notes in a small, waterproof notebook.
"So this junction here." I stop where the main trail splits. "Official maps show both paths reconnecting a mile ahead."
Mac consults his GPS. "That's what the satellite data shows."
"Except this route—" I point to the right fork, "—washed out last spring. There's a fifteen-foot drop-off around that bend now."
"No warning signs posted." His brow furrows.
"Park service budget cuts." I shrug. "I've submitted the paperwork three times. Meanwhile, I update my maps and warn visitors at the center."
He crouches, studying the ground. "No obvious indications of danger."
"That's the problem with these mountains. They don't advertise their hazards." I move forward, leading him down the left fork. "Three tourists had to be rescued here last month. One with a broken ankle."
"Show me."
I guide him to the washed-out section, now carefully staying on hands and knees as we approach the edge. The drop-off appears suddenly—a jagged gouge in the earth where rushing snowmelt carved away the trail.
"Damn." He peers over the edge. "That's not a sprained ankle. That's a spinal injury waiting to happen."
"Exactly." I pull out my map, showing the marked hazard. "I document every trail change, regardless of whether official updates happen."
Mac looks from my map to the landscape, then back. His expression shifts from skeptical to impressed.
"Your attention to detail is... extraordinary."
"Just doing my job." I tuck the map away, ignoring the way his compliment warms my chest.
We continue along the trail, our conversation gradually shifting from professional assessment to more personal topics.
