She looked like she was going to crumple, and he took a step toward her, ready to catch her when she fell. Worrying that she thought he'd attacked her took a backseat to his concern for her health and safety. He needed to get her to a doctor to find out if there was something physically—or mentally—wrong with her that she was afraid to tell him.
But before he could put his arms back around her, she flew out of the bar, down the steps into the dining room, and was through the front door in a flash. Thirty seconds later, she disappeared behind a grove of thick trees.
CHAPTER TWO
Six months later …
LOGAN SWUNG his chainsaw steadily through dry brush and dead tree stumps while Sam McKenzie and Sam's younger brother, Connor, worked alongside him to clear a fire line a quarter mile from the wildfire. The three of them were working the southern edge of the fire, while other hotshots worked the east and west borders.
All morning and into the afternoon they set about clearing a four-foot path. No fuel meant no burn, so as long as sparks didn't jump the line, the wildfire would die here. Nothing fancy, just textbook wildland firefighting. Spread out, they worked in silence, their chainsaws, axes, and handsaws keeping pace to a mutually understood hard-rock beat.
Desolation Wilderness was rugged terrain, but this forest was the backyard playground for the Tahoe Pines Hotshot Crew. There was no need to call for assistance from the state's smoke jumpers or Lake Tahoe's urban crews. The hotshots easily had it covered.
In the past fifteen years, Logan had doused hundreds of blazes. Some fires scared the shit out of you. Others toyed with you a little before giving you the upper hand, like a woman playing hard to get. And some were rookie stuff. The rains had come late in the spring and it had been a slow fire season so far. This one was nothing more than a good training exercise, had only been burning for a couple of days. It was a sweet and easy burn to whet their appetites for some real action. They'd be back at the station by tonight with time for a shower and a beer.
And yet, Logan was worried. Because he had a bad feeling about this fire. About how it had started. And who had started it.
As soon as they put the fire out, he was going to head to Joseph Kellerman's cabin to have a very difficult chat—one that would hopefully ensure there were no further unexplained wildfires in Desolation Wilderness this summer.
Cutting through thick undergrowth, Logan thought about the day he'd landed on Joseph's front porch almost twenty years ago. He'd been an angry, cocky seventeen-year-old, hell-bent on destruction. He still remembered the smile the middle-aged firefighter had given him that afternoon, almost as if he was saying This is going to be fun, you little shit. Logan hadn't known enough to back down. He'd assumed his young muscles could beat some old guy's any day of the week. One more thing he'd been wrong about.
The two of them had gone head to head, chest to chest, toe to toe, until Logan finally realized Joseph wasn't out to get him. His rules and his tough love were his way of helping. Because he actually cared.
Joseph had been—still was—the best damn hotshot Logan had ever worked with. Before he'd retired, he'd been fearless but smart, quick with decisions but not afraid to change his mind in difficult situations. Once Logan pulled his head out of his seventeen-year-old ass and came around, he'd looked up to Joseph as a mentor, a man to emulate. Nearly two decades later, he'd filled his mentor's shoes as superintendent of the Tahoe Pines Hotshot Crew.
Logan could only pray that Joseph wasn't the one who needed saving this time around.
Realizing he was swallowing more dirt than spit, Logan pulled off his goggles to take a long swig from his water bottle, but it barely passed his lips when he saw smoke rising up in his peripheral vision.
No way. No f**king way. He'd personally scanned the area by helicopter at sunrise. The blaze had been contained to the northeast of where they were clearing a fire line.
Judging by the thick, dark plume in the sky rising just south of Sam and Connor, it definitely wasn't contained anymore.
Logan wiped the sweat out of his eyes. They were working in the worst possible place. The first rule of wild fires was a no-brainer: Missionary position would kill you. Never get on top, because fires could—and would—outrace a man uphill ninety-nine percent of the time.
Somehow, they'd ended up on top.
A series of boulders had shielded them all afternoon from the dry winds whipping up the valley. Logan quickly hiked up, cresting the rocks, and a wall of heat hit him like a baking oven.
He grabbed the radio from his back pocket and spoke into it. “I've spotted a fire rolling across the canyon a quarter mile south of the ignition point.”
Even though Logan would normally trust Gary Thompson, his squad boss and second in command, with his life, Logan knew not to wait for confirmation.
It was time to get the hell out.
He scrambled down the rock and sprinted toward Sam and Connor. The tall shrubs surrounding them were a temporary cool patch, one that gave no warning to the inferno dancing up the hill. Logan wasn't afraid for himself—he'd get out of there or die trying—but his men's lives were his responsibility. He'd been proud to lead his hotshot crew for the past decade. These guys felt more like family than most blood relations had ever been. At the very least, he'd make sure the MacKenzie brothers made it out of the blowup in one piece.
Logan's radio crackled. “Logan,” Gary said from the anchor point on top of the mountain, where he could watch the fire's progress, “you need to get out. Now.”
In all of their years of working together, Logan had rarely heard Gary sound so concerned.
Logan knew Gary wanted to hear that he was already on his way. But he wasn't going to leave without his men. “I'm moving downhill to alert Sam and Connor and then we'll retreat.”
A muffled “Fuck” was followed by a tangle of voices. Logan concentrated on his mission. Speed was essential when you were trying to outwit a fire that was starving for fresh meat.
Quickly, he scanned the surrounding hillside. A retreat along the east-flank line—the nearest clean trail-head—would be suicidal. They'd have to run west, up a nearly vertical slope.
Rather than switchback down the mountain, Logan took the fastest route, jumping and sliding down steep grades, not giving a shit about bruises and scrapes if it meant getting his men out alive. The mountain below the McKenzie brothers was quickly disappearing beneath a cloud of smoke.