Page 5 of Burning for the Mountain Man

"Fourteen hours on that fire line. Two minor burns on my guys. Remón lost his eyebrows." He looks at the charred stumps. "Saved every structure on the ridge. But the forest doesn't care about structures."

Something in his voice pulls at me. The weight of it. Carrying his people's injuries like they happened to him. Every fire chief I've worked with has the same gravity, but Nash wears it closer to the skin.

"My house burned when I was twelve." The words come out before I decide to say them. His head turns. Those brown eyes on me, full attention, no reading glasses to soften them. "Northern California. September. Stranger tossed a cigarette on a dry day. Owen and I grabbed what we could. Stuffed animals, mostly. My dad's fire gear was at the station. We watched it go from the neighbor's driveway."

He doesn't say he's sorry. Doesn't give me the sympathetic head tilt I've gotten a hundred times. He looks at the burn scar around us, then back at me.

"That's why you do this."

"It is."

Something passes between us. Recognition. The quiet understanding of two people who know what fire takes, measured in acres or bedrooms or years you don't get back.

Nash turns toward the truck. "Let's finish the survey."

We drive the rest of the district in near silence, comfortable rather than tense. He points out problem areas without being asked. Structures with zero clearance on the wildland urban interface. A cluster of vacation rentals with propane tanks sitting against exterior walls. An elderly couple's property where dead brush piles reach the roofline.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez," he says. "I've offered to clear that brush three times. She says the birds nest in it."

"The birds can nest somewhere else when the property burns."

"Tell that to Mrs. Hernandez. She's eighty-four and meaner than me."

A laugh escapes before I can catch it. His eyes slide to me. The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile. A twitch. An almost.

By the time we get back to the station, it's past seven. The sun is low, the mountains going copper, and Bobby's truck is gone. The station is quiet.

"I'm gonna review my notes upstairs," I tell him. "I'll have the preliminary assessment on your desk by morning."

"My desk is the kitchen table."

"Then I'll have it on your kitchen table by morning."

He nods once. Turns toward the engine bay. Then stops. "Blake."

"Yeah?"

"The lock on your apartment." He pulls a screwdriver from the workbench without looking. "I said I'd fix it."

Before I can answer, he's heading for the exterior staircase. Taking the steps two at a time.

"You don't have to do that tonight."

"It's a security issue."

Following him up, I dig the key out of my pocket. He takes it, opens the door on the first try because apparently the lock only fights me, then crouches in front of the mechanism with the screwdriver.

The apartment is small. One bedroom, kitchenette, bathroom. My duffel is open on the bed. Tablet on the counter. Nothing else. He glances at the duffel, then back at the lock.

"You travel light."

"Seasonal assignment. No point unpacking."

The screwdriver turns something inside the mechanism. He adjusts the strike plate, tests the door twice. Smooth both times. "Should hold now. Lift and turn is gone."

Standing, he's close. The apartment is tight enough that he's within arm's reach, filling the doorframe with his shoulders, and I catch the wood smoke embedded in his shirt. My eyes trace the burn scar from his wrist to where it disappears under his sleeve. Raised, textured tissue, the skin a shade lighter than the rest of him.

His gaze drops. Not to my chest. To my hands. They're gripping the doorframe on either side, knuckles white, and I didn't realize I was bracing until he noticed.