Page 2 of Burning for the Mountain Man

An expression that could be either irritation or amusement flickers in those amber eyes. Both look the same on a face like hers. "Your mountain roads don't have guardrails."

"Don't need them if you can drive."

Bobby coughs into his fist. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Autumn Blake does not laugh. She pulls her hand back, tucks the tablet under her arm, and looks past me at the engine bay. At the trucks. At the equipment locker with the door that doesn't close all the way because the hinge bent during the east ridge fire and I haven't gotten around to fixing it.

"Two operational trucks?"

"Three. Truck 3's got a water pump issue. Parts are on order."

"Community notification system?"

"Functional."

"When was it last updated?"

The answer is 2019, and she probably already knows that, so I don't give her the satisfaction. "It works."

"Defensible space compliance across the district?"

"Improving."

"The state assessment said forty-two percent." She pulls up something on the tablet. Doesn't show me. Doesn't need to. "Forty-two percent compliance with a September fire weather watch and single-digit humidity. That's why I'm here, Chief."

Bobby has found a third donut. He's watching us like we're the most entertaining thing that's happened to him since Maria let him name their dog.

"The east ridge fire was caused by an unattended tourist campfire," I say. "Not a systemic prevention failure."

"An unattended tourist campfire in a district where forty-two percent of structures meet defensible space standards, there's no prescribed burn schedule, and the notification system hasn't been updated in four years." She ticks each point on her fingers. Three fingers. Three problems. She's efficient, I'll give her that. "The ignition source was the tourist. The vulnerability was the district. That's what prevention addresses."

My jaw tightens. She's not wrong. She's also not welcome. Those two things can exist at the same time.

"Your apartment's upstairs." I nod toward the exterior staircase on the east side of the building. "Lock sticks. You gotta lift and turn at the same time. Hot water takes about four minutes. Bunk room's down the hall from the common area, so keep it down after ten."

"Keep what down?"

"Whatever you do at night. Walls are thin."

Her eyebrows go up a fraction of an inch. "I'll try to contain my wild evening plans of reviewing your incident reports."

Bobby snorts.

"Morning briefing's at oh-five-thirty," I tell her. "I don't wait."

"I don't need you to." She takes the apartment key from my outstretched hand. Our fingers don't touch. She's careful about that, and I notice, which annoys me more than the forty-two percent. "I'll also need access to your backcountry patrol schedule. The state wants a fuel load assessment on the northeast corridor before fire weather peaks, and I'll need to see the north ridge firsthand. Three days minimum."

"I run the backcountry patrols."

"Then we'll coordinate." She says. As if it’s already been decided by someone with a bigger desk than mine. "Unless you'd prefer I file the assessment without your input."

She knows exactly what she's doing. If she goes alone, the report says whatever she wants it to say. If she goes with me, I'm stuck following her through my own territory while she tells me everything I should've done differently.

"We'll discuss it at the briefing."

"Five-thirty," she confirms. Then she walks past me toward the staircase, boots on gravel, tablet under her arm, french braid unraveling in the September heat.

Bobby waits until she's halfway up the stairs. "You're staring."