Page 7 of Burning for the Mountain Man

"I've submitted the request three years running. State denied it. Volunteer department, no capacity, not a priority."

"It's a priority now." She pulls up something on her tablet, types rapidly. "I can get this into the assessment as a formal recommendation with cost projections. State's more likely to approve if the prevention coordinator signs off."

We're standing close. The overlook is narrow, granite slab with a drop on the east side, and she hasn't moved back. Neither have I.

"You'd do that?"

"It's good fire management, Nash. Your instincts on this district aren't wrong." She pauses. "Your paperwork is wrong. Your notification system is ancient. Your compliance outreach is basically nonexistent. But your instincts about how to protect this land are solid."

Nobody's said that to me. Not the state, not the county, not the seasonal coordinators who've rotated through and written their reports without ever hiking the ridgeline. She's looked at my territory with her scientist's brain and her data-driven assessment, and she's saying my gut was right the whole time.

My throat tightens.

"We should make camp." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Sun's gonna drop fast once it hits the ridge."

We set up at the same granite shelf as last night. Two tents, though we both gravitate to the fire pit I built yesterday from loose stone. She cooks dinner on a backpacking stove. Freeze-dried something that tastes better than it should, or maybe I'm just hungry. We eat sitting on a flat rock, boots almost touching.

"Six districts," she says, answering a question I didn't ask out loud. "Six years. Reno, Boise, Flagstaff, Redding, Hawthorne. Now here."

"That's a lot of moving."

"That's the rotation." She sets her bowl down, pulls her knees up. The campfire throws warm light across her face. "Season ends, assignment closes, I pack the duffel. Drive to the next town that needs someone to tell them their fire plan is garbage."

"You ever think about staying somewhere?"

The question lands different than I meant it to. Or exactly how I meant it to. Her eyes come to mine across the fire, and something in them goes still.

"Every time." She says it quietly. "Then October comes, and the rotation notice shows up in my inbox, and I tell myself this is what the job is. This is what I signed up for."

"That's not what I asked."

Her jaw tightens. My move, apparently. The fire crackles between us. Wind pushes smoke east, clearing the air. Stars dense in the sky.

"My dad was Forest Service," I tell her. "Worked this district before I was born. Gave everything to the job. My mom left for Phoenix when I was in high school because he chose the department over date nights. Over anniversaries. Over her."

Autumn's watching me. Full attention, no tablet, no assessment. Just her face in firelight.

"When I came back from the hotshot crews, he said I was running from fire. I told him I was running toward something. Took over the department one month later." Pausing, I look at the scar on my forearm. "Been building this volunteer crew into something real. Gave everything to the job, same as him. Didn't realize I was making the same mistake until somebody showed up with opinions about my protocols and made me notice the silence."

"Nash."

"You don't have to say anything. Just wanted you to know that I understand the rotation. Six districts, six duffels, six times you almost stayed. I get it."

She stands up. Crosses to my side of the fire. Sits down next to me, close enough that her shoulder presses against my arm. Warm through the flannel.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," she says. "So if you've got an objection, this is the time."

"No objection here."

Her mouth finds mine.

The first contact is soft. Testing. Her lips are warm, slightly chapped from two days of ridge wind, and she tastes like campfire and the instant coffee she made at six AM. Her hand comes up to my jaw, fingers spreading across my cheek. My hand goes to the back of her neck, into her loose hair, and the sound she makes against my mouth sends heat straight through my chest into my stomach.

The kiss deepens. Her tongue slides against mine, tentative then demanding. She turns into me, one hand fisting my shirt at the collar, the other bracing on my thigh. My free hand finds her hip, pulls her closer. She swings her leg over and settles into my lap facing me, knees on either side of my hips, and the weight of her pressing down against me makes my cock hard so fast my vision blurs.

"Autumn." Her name comes out rough. Her hips roll once, grinding against me through layers of fabric, and my fingers dig into her waist.

"Don't tell me to stop." She's already pulling at the hem of my shirt.