Chapter 1

Clearly,his last hope at a comeback was about to crash and burn.

Maybe he was being a little melodramatic, but Spenser Storm knew a good story.

Knew how to cater to an audience, knew when a script was a disaster.

And this one had flames all over it.

Yes, the screenplay had all the right ingredients?—a winning western retelling of a widow and her son who leaned on the help of two strangers to save her land. And they were shooting on location in Montana at a real abandoned western town rebuilt and redressed for the movie, complete with a jail and a church.

They'd even hired an up-and-coming country music star to write original music.

The problem was, the producer, Lincoln Cash, picked the wrong man to die.

Not that Spenser Storm had a say in it—he'd been given all of sixteen lines in the one-hundred-twenty-page script. But he wanted to ask, while waving flags and holding a megaphone—Who killed off the hero at the end of a movie? Had no one paid any attention to the audience during the screening of Sommersby?

He didn't care how many academy-acclaimed actors were attached to this movie. Because everyone?—even he—would hate the fact that their favorite action hero ended up fading into eternity. And he wasn't talking about himself, but the invincible Winchester Marshall.

Perfect. Spenser should probably quit now and go back to herding cattle.

"Back to ones!" Indigo, the first Assistant Director, with her long black hair tied back, earphones around her neck, raised her hand.

Spenser nudged his mare, Goldie, back to the position right outside town. Sweat trickled down his spine, and he leaned low so a makeup assistant could wipe his brow.

Yeah, something in his gut said trouble. It didn't help that all of Montana had become a broiler, even this early in the summer—the grass yellow, the temperature index soaring, turning even the wind from the pine-saturated mountains into the breath of hades.

But saving the movie wasn't Spenser's job. No, his job was to sit pretty atop his horse and smile for the camera, those gray-blue eyes smoldery, his body tanned and a little dusty, his golden-brown hair perfectly curled out of his black Stetson, his body buff and muscled under his blue cotton shirt and a leather vest.

He wore jeans, black boots, and could have walked off the set of Yellowstone. No, swaggered off the set. Because he wasn't a fool.

They'd cast him as eye candy. With sixteen lines and the guy who got the girl at the end. Spenser was the sizzle for the audience who was too young for Winchester Marshall, the lead of the movie, although Spenser was just a couple years younger.

But, like Lincoln Cash said when he signed him, Spenser had a special kind of appeal.

The kind that packed the convention floor at comic cons around the world.

Wow, he hated comic cons. And adults who dressed up as Iwonians and spoke a language only created in fanfic world. If he never heard the name Quillen Cleveland again, he'd die a happy man.

He hated to mention to Lincoln that the fans who loved Trek of the Osprey might not enjoy a western called The Drifters, but a guy with no screen credits to his name for five years should probably keep his mouth shut when accepting a role.

At least according to his agent, Greg Alexander.

Keep his mouth shut, deliver his lines, and maybe, hopefully, he'd be back in the game.

"We need a little more business from the extras." Director Cosmos Ferguson wore a Drifters T-shirt, jeans and boots, and his own cowboy hat. "Feel free to cause more havoc on the set."

Behind him, Swen, from SFX stepped out of the house, checking on the fire cannons for the next shot. The set crew had trailered in an old cabin for today's shoot—a real structure with a porch and a stone chimney that rose from the tattered wooden roof—and plunked it down in a valley just two hundred yards from the town, with a corral for the locally sourced horses. It was a postcard of bygone days.

Was it only Spenser, or did anyone else think it might be a bad idea to light a fire inside a rickety wooden house that looked already primed for tinder?

"Quiet on the set!"

Around him, the world stopped. The gaffers, the grips, the second team, the stuntmen, even, it seemed, the ripple of wind through the dusty one-horse ghost town-slash-movie set.

Not even Goldie moved.

"Picture's up!" Indigo said.

At least Spenser could enjoy the view. The sky stretched forever on both sides of the horizon, the glorious Kootenai mountains rising jagged and bold to the north, purple and green wildflowers cascading down the foothills into the grasslands of the valley.

"Roll sound!"

A hint of summer night hung in the air. Perhaps he'd grab a burger at the Hotline Bar and Grill in Ember, just down the street from Motel Bates, where the cast was staying. Okay, the lodging wasn't that bad, but?—

"Action."

The extras, aka cowboys, burst to life, shooting prop guns into the air just before Winchester Marshall, aka Deacon Cooper, rode in, chasing them away with his own six-shooter. They raced out of town, then Deacon got off his horse, dropped the reins, and checked the pulse of the fallen extra. "Hawk, C'mere. I think this is one of the cowboys from the Irish spread."

Spenser's cue to ride on screen, dismount and confirm, then stand up and stare into the horizon, as if searching for bad guys.

Seemed like a great way for a guy to get shot. But again, he wasn't in charge of the script.

So, he galloped onto the set, swung his leg over Goldie's head, jumped out of the saddle, and sauntered up. He gave the scene a once over, met Winchester-slash-Deacon's eyes with a grim look, and nodded. Then he turned and looked at the horizon, his hands on his hips, while the camera zoomed in, trouble in his expression.

"Cut!" Cosmos said as he walked over to them. "I love the interaction between you two." He turned away, motioning to Swen.

What interaction? Spenser wanted to ask, but Winchester—"Win" to the crew—rose and clamped a hand on Spenser's shoulder. "One would think you grew up on a horse the way you rode up."

"I did," Spenser said, but Win had already turned away, headed to craft services, probably for a cold soda.

"Moving on. Scene seventeen," Indigo said. "Let's get ready for the house fire."

Spenser jogged over to Goldie and grabbed her reins, but a male stunt assistant came up and took hold of the mare's halter. "I've got her, sir."

Spenser let the animal go and headed over to the craft table set up under a tented area, back from the set, near the two long connected trailers brought in for the actors. The Kalispell Sound and Light truck was parked next to an array of rental cars, along with the massive Production trailer, where the wardrobe department kept their set supplies, including a locked container for the weapons.

"That was a great scene." This from the caterer, a woman named Juliet, whose family owned the Hot Cakes Bakery in Ember. She wore her brown hair back in a singular braid and handed him a sandwich, nodding to drinks in a cooler. Not a fancy setup, but this far out in the sticks, they were beggars. Cosmos had also ordered a hot breakfast from the Ember Hotline every morning.

"Thanks." Spenser unwrapped the plastic on his sandwich. "This bread looks homemade."

"It is. The smoked chicken is from the Hotline, though." She winked, but it wasn't flirty, and continued to set out snacks—cookies and donuts.

The sandwich reminded him a little of the kind of food that Kermit, the cook for the Flying S Ranch, served during roundup, eaten with a cold soda, and a crispy pickle.

Sheesh, what was he doing here, back on a movie set? He should be home, on his family's ranch…

Or not. Frankly, he didn't know where he belonged.

He turned, eating the sandwich, and watched as lead actress Kathryn Canary, seated on a high director's chair, dressed in a long grimy prairie dress, her blonde hair mussed, ignored a makeup assistant applying blood to her face and hands. She held her script in one hand, rehearsing her lines as Blossom Winthrop, the heroine with Trace Wilder, playing the role of her husband, Shane Winthrop.

Who was about to die.

He hadn't seen Trace since his last movie, but the man seemed not to remember their short stint on Say You Love Me.

Spenser would like to forget it too, frankly. Another reason why he'd run back to the family ranch in central Montana.

It all felt surreal, a marriage of Spenser's worlds?—the set, busy with gaffers setting up lighting, and the sound department fixing boom mics near the house, the set dresser putting together the scene. And then, nearby, saddles lined up along the rail of a corral where horses on loan from a nearby ranch nickered, restless with the heat.

Cowboys, aka extras, sat in holding with their hats pushed back, drinking coffee, wearing chaps and boots. All they were missing were the cattle grazing in the distance. Maybe the smell of burgers sizzling on Kermit's flat grill.

Bandit, the ranch dog, begging for scraps.

They did, however, have a cat, and out of the corner of his eye, Spenser spotted Bucky Turnquist, age eight, who played Dusty Winthrop, chase the tabby around the set. His mother, Gemma, had already hinted that, as a single mom, she might be interested in getting to know Spenser better.

Now, she talked with one of the villain cowboys, laughing as he got on his horse.

"You guys about ready?" Cosmos had come back from where the cameramen were setting up, the grip team working to shade the light for the shot, on his way to Kathryn and Trace, who were rising from their chairs.

One of the SFX guys raised a hand from where they set up the cannons that would ‘fire' the house. Not a real fire, not with the burn index so high in this part of crispy, dry Montana. But enough that it would generate heat and look real.

And enough that they'd asked the local wildland fire team on set to keep an eye on anything that might get out of hand. He'd caught sight of the handful of firefighters dressed in their canvas pants, steel-toed boots, yellow Nomex shirts, and Pulaskis hanging out near the fire. They'd brought up a fire truck, too, with a hose ready to deploy water.

"Get a hose over here, Emily!" A man wearing a vest, the word Command on the back, directed a woman, her blonde hair in a tight ponytail, to pull up a hose nearer the building, and hand it over to another firefighter. Then she ran back to the truck, ready to deploy.

According to the script, the cowboys would fire at the house, and then a stuntman would run out, on fire, and collapse to the ground. Cue Kathryn, as Blossom, to run in with a shirt she'd pulled from the hanging laundry to snuff it out while the cowboys attempted to kidnap her.

She'd panic then, and scream for Dusty, and only then would the kid run from the barn. They'd be surrounded, swept up by the villains and taken away while poor Shane died.

At which point the guy would go down to the Hotline for a nice cool craft beer and a burger, then tomorrow, catch a ride to Kalispell and head back to his air-conditioned apartment in LA.

"Ready on Special Effects?" Indigo shouted. She'd reminded him that this wasn't Trek of The Osprey and that he wasn't the star here when he'd headed to the wrong trailer on day one.

Whatever. Easy mistake.

"Ready!" This from Swen, who stood away from the house. The cowboys were already in place and Blossom stood at the clothesline in the yard, away from the house.

"Quiet on set!" Indigo shouted. She glanced at Cosmos, who nodded. "Roll Camera. Roll Sound."

A beat. "Action!"

And that's when he spotted little Bucky, still chasing the cat, scooting under the house on his hands and knees.

At the front of the house, a window burst and flames licked out of it.

"Wait!"

The next window burst. More fire.

"Bucky's in there!" Where was his mother? It didn't matter. He took off for the back of the house.

The cowboys in the front yard whooped, shots fired, and of course, the stuntman stumbled out in his firesuit and flopped onto the front yard.

Blossom screamed and ran to put out the fire just as Spenser reached the back of the house.

The fire seemed real enough, with the roof now catching. "Bucky?"

With everyone's gaze on the action, no one had seen him wriggle under the porch. Spenser hit his knees. "Bucky?"

There. Under the middle of the house, curled into a ball, his hands over his ears. "Bucky, C'mere!"

He was crying now, and Spenser saw why—the entire front porch had caught fire.

Sparks dropped around him. The grass sizzled.

Aw—Spenser dropped to his belly and army crawled into the center of the house, coughing, his eyes watering. He grabbed Bucky's foot, yanked.

Bucky kicked at him, split his lip. Blood spurted.

"C'mon kid!"

He grabbed Bucky's arms and jerked him close, wrapping him up, holding him. "It's okay. C'mon, let's get out of here." Smoke billowed in from where the porch fell, a line of fire blocking their escape. But out the back?—

Then, suddenly, a terrible crack rent the building, and with a thunderous crash, the old chimney tumbled down. Dust and rock crashed through the cabin, tore out the flooring, and obliterated the porch.

Blocked their exit.

Spenser grabbed Bucky and pulled him close, holding his breath, then expelling the dust, his body wracking with coughs. And Bucky in his arms, screaming.

When he opened his eyes, fire burned around them, a cauldron of very real, very lethal flames.

* * *

"Stop! Stop the film! There's someone inside there!"

Or at least Emily thought so. She still wasn't quite sure if that was a person or an animal she'd seen dive under the burning house.

In truth, she'd been stationed by her fire truck, watching the house burn, trying not to let her gaze drift back to the beautiful and amazing Spenser Storm, standing near craft services.

TheSpenser Storm.

From Trek of the Osprey. Quillen Cleveland in the flesh, all grown up and ruggedly handsome, dressed in western getup: leather vest, chaps, black boots, and a Stetson over his burnished golden-brown hair, those gray-blue eyes that a girl could get lost in. He even wore that rakish, heart-thumping smile. The man who saved the galaxy, one world at a time, there he was...

Eating a sandwich.

She'd spotted him almost right off this morning when she'd arrived with fellow hotshot Houston James and her fire boss, Conner Young. The Special Effects department had called in the local Jude County Hotshots as a precaution.

Not a terrible idea given the current fire index.

The SFX supervisor, Swen, had briefed the hotshots before the event—squibs of dust on a lead that would explode to imitate bullets hitting the building. They'd walked through the system that would create the explosion, a tank filled with propane, rigged to burst the window and release a fireball.

She'd expected the bomb, but when the squibs detonated, Emily nearly hit the dirt.

Nearly. But didn't. So, take that, panic attack. No more PTSD for her, thank you ten years of therapy.

Except, the explosion hadn't gone quite like they'd hoped. Sure, the gas dissipated into the air, but somehow cinder had fallen onto the porch.

The entire old wooden porch burst into flames.

Black smoke cluttered the sky, and if she were a spotter, via a fire tower or a plane, she'd be calling in sparks to the local Ember fire department. Which would then deploy either the Jude County Hotshots or, if the fire started further in, the Jude County Smokejumpers. The first and last line of defense against fire in this northwest corner of Montana.

About as far away as she could get from her failures, thank you.

Not anymore. This was a new season, a new start, and this time...this time the shrapnel of the past wasn't going to eviscerate her future.

So, she'd stood by the truck, waiting for the signal from Conner. Tall, brown hair, calm, he'd been brought in to command the team for the summer while Jed Ransom, their former boss, now crewed the Missoula team.

And that's when, in her periphery, she'd spotted?—was that a person diving under the back of the house? Black boots disappeared under the footing of the cabin.

Were they out of their mind?

Maybe it was an animal—cats sometimes ran toward a fire instead of away.

"Boss!" —She had nearly shouted, but that would carry, and with the house on fire, the director only had one take. Instead, she'd headed to the house?—

The chimney simply collapsed. A crack, then thunder as the entire handmade stone chimney crumbled. She dropped to her knees, her hands over her head, as dust, rock, and debris exploded out from the house.

From the front came shouts and shooting, the cameras still rolling. She lifted her head, blinking as the dust settled. The inferno now engulfed the front of the house, moving fast toward the back, the roof half-collapsed. "Boss!"

And then a thought clicked in—black boots. "It's Spenser! Spenser Storm is under the building!"

No one heard her over the roar of the fire, the shouts from the street.

No one died today. Not on her watch.

C'mon, Emily, think!

She ran over to the truck, grabbed her Pulaski, and then opened the cab door and hit the siren. It screamed over the set as she scrambled toward the house.

Flames kicked out the side windows now, the heat burning her face. She pulled up her handkerchief and dug at the rubble.

The siren kept whining, sweat burning down her back, but in a second, she'd created a hole. She dropped to her knees. "Hello? Hello?"

"In here!"

Smoke cluttered the area, but she made out—yes, Spenser Storm, and a kid.

Oh no, the little Turnquist kid, the son of one of the locals in town.

Emily's eyes watered, but she crawled inside the space, pushing the Pulaski out in front of her. "Grab hold!"

Hands gripped her ankles. "Emily! Get out of there!"

Conner's voice.

"Grab the ax!" she shouted.

Spenser's hand gripped the ax, his other around the kid.

"Pull me out!" this, to Conner.

It was everything she could do to hold onto the Pulaski as they dragged them out from the crawl space. She cleared the building, then launched to her feet even as Conner tried to push her away.

Spenser Storm appeared, like a hero crawling from the depths of hell. The child clung to him, his face blackened, his wardrobe filthy and sooty, his eyes reddened, coughing as he kicked himself free.

"Bucky!" His mother ran toward him, but someone grabbed her back.

Instead, superstar Winchester Marshall, aka Jack Powers, aka whatever hunk he was playing in this western, was right there, pulling the kid from Spenser's arms.

Cosmos pushed through to grab Spenser, helped him to his feet. Spenser bent over, coughing.

"Water! Make a hole!" Cosmos yelled, leading Spenser away.

The movie star didn't even look at Emily as he stumbled to safety.

"C'mon—we need to put out this fire." Conner took off for the hose.

She ran to the truck, still coughing, turned off the siren, then, seeing Houston's signal, she hit the water.

The hose filled, and in a moment, water doused the house, spray saturating the air.

She leaned over, caught her knees, breathing hard. Watched as the fire died. Listened to the roaring on set, and in her heart, subside.

Felt the knot unravel.

No, no one died today. Especially not Spenser Storm.

She stood up, still hauling in breaths. She'd saved Spenser Storm. Holy Cannoli.

No, no she wouldn't make a fool of herself and ask for an autograph. And certainly not tell him, ever, that she'd had at least two Tiger Beat centerfold posters of him in his Osprey uniform—a pair of black pants, boots and white shirt, leather vest, holding a Vortex Hand Cannon. Never mind mentioning that she'd once attended a Comic-Con just to stand in line for a photo op. He wouldn't remember her, right? Or her status as a Stormie—a member of his official fan club?

"Hey!"

She looked up. Froze.

Spenser Storm was headed her direction, holding a water bottle, his eyes watering, looking like he'd just, well, been pulled from a fire. "You okay?"

She nodded, her eyes widening. C'mon words?—

"I just wanted to say thanks." He held out his hand. "You saved my life back there. And Bucky's."

She nodded again. C'mon words!

"Maybe I can buy you a drink down at the Hotline sometime?"

"Mmmhmm." That didn't count!

Then he smiled, a thousand watts of pure charisma, sunshine and star power, winked, and walked away.

And right then, right there, she nearly died.