If I weren’t so good at my job, and we didn’t live in a small town with only one firehouse, I think he would have shipped me off by now.
Like clockwork, the man himself steps into the bay just then, voice carrying: “Rhodes.”
Jamila’s smirk falters.
I glance up. “Yeah, Cap?”
He looks between us, his jaw tight, like he walked in on something more than a card game. “Got a call for you. Direct line.”
That makes me pause. The station’s phones seldom ring straight through. Official calls get routed through dispatch.
Direct lines mean personal, and personal at the station is never good.
I push back my chair, head into the small office off the bay, and grab the phone. “Rhodes.”
“Beau? It’s me, Norah.” The voice on the other end is familiar, hurried, a little breathless.
“Norah?”
“Yeah.” She exhales, and I can hear wind whipping across the line, the faint creak of wood. “Look, there’s a bit of a situation. Don’t laugh.”
My brows knit. “What kind of situation?”
A muffled shout cuts through in the background—high, feminine, frustrated. My stomach dips because I know that voice.
“Wren,” Norah admits, lowering her tone. “She—well, Pancake got himself stuck up in one of the big maples behind my shop, and she thought she could climb up after him. Except now she’s stuck too.”
Another shout: “I’m fine! Don’t call anyone!”
Norah sighs. “As you can hear, she’s not fine.”
I bite back a smile, rubbing the back of my neck. Of course. The image of her wedged in a tree is so vivid I can’t stop the tug at my mouth.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.” Relief softens her voice. “She’s gonna hate me for calling, but… just come quick.”
“On my way.”
I hang up, grab my helmet, and head back into the bay. Daniels is waiting, arms crossed.
“Everything all right?” His tone says he already disapproves.
“Neighbor’s cat. And the neighbor,” I admit. “They’re stuck in a tree.”
His mouth hardens. “You know protocol, Rhodes. Calls go through dispatch.”
“Yeah, well, this one’s personal.” I tug my jacket on. “And if it keeps the shop from turning into a circus, I’ll handle it.”
Daniels doesn’t move, but his glare sharpens. Jamila pushes off the table and grabs the keys.
“Let’s roll,” she says easily.
Daniels’ jaw ticks, but he doesn’t stop us.
We climb into the truck, engine rumbling to life. Jamila drives, her hands sure on the wheel, while I watch the town blur past the window.
It’s almost four, shadows stretching long, a handful of folks pausing to wave as the rig thunders down Main.
