Feel the Fire (Hotshots #3) - Annabeth Albert Page 0,1

make your own food. And assuming you want to drive it, I can arrange mileage too.”

“It’s thirteen hours, give or take.” He’d had that number memorized for decades now, dating back to when it had seemed to matter with life-and-death urgency, each mile an endless chasm between him and what he really wanted. But now it was simply a scar, a wound he’d rather not acknowledge, let alone reopen.

“Do it over two days,” she urged, apparently assuming that was him agreeing. “And come on, Luis, don’t look at me that way. I wouldn’t ask you if you weren’t seriously needed. They’ve been shorthanded all season thanks to this hiring freeze we’re all under, but now it’s reached crisis level there with a maternity leave, a stroke, and an abrupt move. They’re dealing with a much greater number than usual of spot fires.”

“Arson?” He didn’t want to be curious, but his neck prickled all the same.

“That’s the working theory. They don’t have anyone with your level of expertise right now. Their crews are overworked, and management is stretched thin. They need help getting through this peak of the fire season, and they need a specialist with your qualifications. So when an old friend called in a favor, I immediately thought of you.”

The single guy. But he only nodded. He could tell when something was a losing effort, and trying to get her to send someone else surely was. Just like he’d been well and truly screwed at sixteen when his parents had moved back to California partway through his junior year.

They’re making me go.

I don’t have a choice.

I’m gonna miss you forever.

At least at thirty-five he was a touch less dramatic. He’d get through this. Somehow.

“You’re exactly what they need.”

Somehow, he doubted that. “Wasn’t that you last week complaining that I’m too headstrong and that I don’t take critique well?”

“Oh that.” Rosalind made a dismissive gesture. “I mean, you’re the best fire behavior specialist I know of. It’s why Mendocino asked for you last year. And it’s why I know you’re going to do excellent here. And I’m going to owe you. Seriously.”

“Yeah, you are.” He managed to keep his tone almost playful, not petulant, but it was a close thing. Her flattery wasn’t unnoticed either—she’d known the mention of arson would pique his professional interest, and he did have an excellent reputation in his specialty of identifying and predicting how a particular fire would react to given variables like wind, weather, and type of response available. He was used to working with various incident commands and interagency teams of wildfire fighters, and he tried his best to be adaptable and good with crisis situations. In short, he’d be perfect for this job. But, Oregon.

Rosalind leaned forward, expression kinder now that he’d agreed. “Isn’t there anyone up there you’d like to see again? Old friends?”

“Nope.” He had a vibrant social media life but not a single Oregonian on his contacts list, hadn’t for years now. Then, as Rosalind frowned because that was kind of harsh, he added, “I fell out of touch with my high school friends. I’ll be okay though. No warrants for my arrest up there or anything.”

“Better not be.” She laughed and offered him the bowl of candy she kept on her desk. “This will work out. You’ll see.”

“Hope so.” He crunched into a cinnamon hard candy, letting the heat fill his mouth and tamp down some of his reservations. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. It was a big area. Fair number of people spread out through several small farming communities. And he hadn’t checked—thank you, iron self-control—but chances were high that Tucker was off running his dad’s ranch by now. Him and that smiling wife and half a dozen kids. He’d be way too busy to be concerned about what the forest service was up to. Luis would simply get a room for himself and Blaze and plant his ass there when he wasn’t working. If he didn’t have to see Tucker, this didn’t have to be anything other than a pain in the neck temporary assignment.

* * *

“I’m sorry, we’re getting who?” Tucker was usually all about getting through the morning meeting as quickly as possible, and he’d learned through years of working with Fred that too many questions would slow the boss down, lead to tangents and rambles and a lost morning he could have been working. And a lost morning meant being late getting out of here in the afternoon, meant another hasty