Chapter 2

"There she is. Our hero."

Emily walked out of the locker room area into the lounge of the Jude County Hotshots HQ—a space with sofas, a television, a small kitchen with a long table, currently filled with boxes from Backdraft Pizza.

She raised a hand to fellow hotshot Houston James, who sat, also freshly showered, with his guitar and a piece of pepperoni pizza on a napkin on the coffee table. He was plunking out a song, humming. He knew fire, wore a few scars up his neck, his burns leaving him bald. But he never talked about the scars and seemed to have put it behind him.

"Not a hero. Just doing my job."

"I dunno. I heard you're Storm's new personal bodyguard." Orion Price, barely twenty-two, had his feet up on the coffee table, finishing off a box of wings. "I hear he'd be toast without you."

"Not even a little." Although her body still hummed, despite her attempts to shrug away his wink. Sheesh. It wasn't like she would see him again.

Note to self…avoid the Hotline. She should thank her personal panic button for not saying something stupid to him. "Listen. Storm can take care of himself. He did all his own stunts on Trek of the Osprey."

Silence.

Oh, shoot.

"Really." Orion grinned.

"So, I read. Whatever."

"I knew his name sounded familiar." This from Charlie Benning, a new recruit despite being in his early forties and a long-time firefighter. Charlie stood at the sink, doing dishes. Nice guy, salt-and-pepper hair, a thin layer of matching whiskers. He was quiet, easygoing, and capable.

Apparently, he came from some rescue squad team out of state. Somewhere called Last Chance County.

"It's just the longest running sci-fi family drama in history." Emily grabbed a napkin and perused the pizza choices.

"I loved that show when I was a kid. Quillen was such a hottie," said Joanna, aka JoJo Butcher, her roommate and a smokejumper with the crew. She and the team had spent the day inspecting and refolding their chutes after airing them out in the hanging room. She helped herself to pizza and sat on the sofa next to Dakota Masterson, another newbie, although nearly thirty, who'd joined the crew just this season.

In fact, they had more newbies than regulars here. Charlie and Dakota and a woman known just as Sanchez, as well as four tight-knit, quiet guys who'd transferred from a different team—Hammer, Saxon, Kane, and Mack. Tough guys, they exuded a military aura, except for Mack, who seemed like someone's kid brother.

They kept their mouths shut and did the work, and that's what counted. And, in fact, at the moment were in the attached gym, lifting, a little classic rock?—Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf—playing over their grunting.

The only other seasoned firefighters were their crew boss, Conner, and Orion Price, a second-year veteran from Ember—the other former members having joined the smokejumpers crew.

"I suppose." Emily purposely kept her voice cool after JoJo's statement. No one needed to know about her obsession. "If you like space-cowboy adventure television."

Oh, she was only making it worse, given JoJo's smile. What. Ever. She scooped up a lonely piece of cheese pizza and sat on the faded tweed couch next to Dakota. "Hey."

He nodded, his gaze on the television where he was currently murdering someone in some video game.

"You're pretty good with that gun," she said.

He lifted a shoulder. "Lots of practice time." Although, even as he said it, his character died.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault." He set the controller on the table. "So, yeah, how'd you know Storm was under the house?"

"I saw him go in. Or at least I saw his boots. Or I thought I did—okay, let's say it was a gut call." She took a bite of pizza. Cold, and the crust had turned to rubber. Ew.

"A call you nearly died because of." Charlie turned from the sink, his hands in a towel.

"Not surprised," said Conner who'd come from his nearby office to stand in his doorway, one shoulder against the frame. "Her parents are?—"

"Stop, please, Un—Um, Chief."

Conner raised an eyebrow.

But frankly, it had taken her years to climb out from under her parents' shadow, and even now, to not let the past cripple her.

Today had been a victory in more than just one way. Sure, she'd met Spenser Storm, but more importantly, bam!—PTSD, was going down, one call out at a time.

"Who are her parents?" Houston asked.

"Her mom's with the NSA, and her dad's an Army Ranger. They run a SAR team," Dakota said.

She stared at Dakota. "Really?"

He shrugged. "My sister-in-law is on the team. A K-9 specialist." He picked up the controller again. "All I hear about at family events is the amazing Jim Micah and his super-smart wife Lacey who now run an international SAR team with the Red Cross."

Now Emily was the one to raise an eyebrow. Issues, anyone?

But Miles Dafoe chose that moment to walk into the room. "Micah, Young, in my office." He gestured down the hall and Emily got up, leaving the pizza behind.

When they reached his office, he gestured to the chairs.

Behind his desk, the massive picture window looked out upon the tarmac where the smokejumper planes sat, waiting. Beyond that was the training facility for the teams, including the jump platforms, and the burn lines they'd dug.

She'd passed without a hiccup, and today had been a sort of personal final test.

Hooah.

Commander Dafoe leaned against the front of his desk, his arms folded. "So many things in my head about today. Not sure where to start." He reminded her in a way of Gil Grissom from CSI—stern, capable, thoughtful. He wore his dark hair short, salt at the temples, his shirt sleeves folded up, a pair of canvas trousers.

"How about, good save, Emily?" Conner took a sip of his coffee.

Miles considered him. Finally, "I don't know whether to put you on probation or give you a promotion. But it was reckless, Em. You know that, right?"

She swallowed, her throat drying. Nodded.

"I'm just glad your team was there to pull you out. But what possessed you to climb under a burning porch?—"

She opened her mouth, and he held up a hand.

"Besides Spenser Storm."

Oh. "Just wanted to save lives, Commander."

"It's in her blood." Conner took another sip of coffee.

Oh please. "Listen, I just want to prove that I can be a contributing member of the team. I don't need any favors because of my dad." She gave Uncle Conner a pointed look. "I earned my spot here."

A beat. And thankfully no one brought up the incident in Benson, or even that moment the first week of training when an explosion ignited the field. She'd hit the dirt, hands over her ears. Could she help it that her earliest memory was exactly that?—an explosion that had nearly gotten her killed? But she got back up. Kept going.

Finished training.

And today, saved two lives. "How's Bucky?"

"He's good. A little shaken."

"More than a little, I'll guess," she said and wanted to clamp her hand over her mouth. Whoops. But, "At least he's safe. Maybe he can talk to a trauma counselor or something."

Miles nodded.

"If we had one in the area," Conner said.

"With all these hotshots and emergency personnel around, not one trauma counselor?"

"We're too busy keeping the trauma from happening," Miles said. "Which brings me to today. That fire could have started a major conflagration."

"It's so dry out," Conner said. "We haven't had a summer like this for years—back when Jed took over the team."

"Yeah. Same conditions going into this summer. Low snowfall this season, early spring, no rain—the entire Kootenai forest is a tinderbox, and one lightning strike, one out-of-control campfire?—"

"One special effect explosion—" Conner interjected.

Miles pointed at him. "Right. It could all go up and get out of control quickly."

"They were smart to call in the team," Emily said.

Miles nodded. Smiled. Looked at her.

"What?"

"I just got off the phone with Lincoln Cash, the producer of The Drifters, thanking our team for being there. And suggested to him that probably, they need someone there from our team to keep an eye on their special effects, bring in a team when needed, be on site to divert any possible problems."

"Sounds like a good…wait." Emily swallowed. "Wait, wait?—"

"Emily, you know they already trust you. And the likelihood of anything happening again is small, but possible, so…"

"Is this—?" She turned to Conner. "Are you trying to protect me? Is this my dad, calling you about…" She clamped her mouth shut. Drew in a breath.

Conner met her gaze.

"About what?" Miles asked.

She stared at Conner, her heart in her throat. He just kept her gaze and said, "Nothing."

Silence, then, "This is about protecting our forest, and the people on the set, and you showed not only bravery, but quick thinking with setting off the siren. If you hadn't been there, it's possible there would have been casualties."

Oh. She turned, looked at Miles. "So, what am I supposed to do?"

"Be on set, every day. Consult with the SFX team. Call in reinforcements if needed. Be ready for trouble. And overall, keep everyone safe. Or at least away from fire."

She glanced again at Conner. "So I'm off the team?"

"Not off. Just…diverted."

Her mouth tightened. Oh, she knew what this was.

This was her father, stepping in to keep her safe, again. Seriously, she couldn't outrun the man.

"Fine."

"Good. I'll tell Cash that you'll be on set in the morning."

Perfect. Just spectacular. Best summer of her life.

* * *

"Good thing luck was on your side, kid. What were you thinking?" Cosmos's shout could probably be heard outside Spenser's tiny trailer where Spenser sat under the bright lights as Lincoln, Cosmos, and Swen Oliver, the SFX guy, tried to untangle the disaster on set.

"I was thinking there was a kid who was going die," Spenser said, less loudly. No need to have the entire cast assemble outside the door. Maybe get the conversation on social media. "I was thinking, where was his mother? And why did we cast a kid with no acting background? He's running around the set chasing a cat—he should be in school. Back when I was growing up, we were required to be in school three hours a day."

"It's summer," Lincoln said. "He's out of school, but I agree, we need a designated guardian for the kid, someone who understands how dangerous a movie set can be."

"How about his mother?" Cosmos said.

"Parents are the last people you want on set. If they're not flirting with the actors, they're pestering the assistants," Spenser said. "And the kid is the last thing they think about."

Lincoln raised an eyebrow. "Spoken like a child with a parent on set."

"Grandparent. At least after my dad passed."

"He's still missed," Cosmos said. "Nobody did stunts like Hank Storm."

"Except his crazy superstar son who we clearly overpaid for this movie if he's going to die on us," Lincoln said.

"I agree I'm overpaid—especially since I only have sixteen lines! Sheesh, with the amount of screen time I get, maybe I should be the kid's guardian."

Silence.

"I was kidding."

Lincoln looked at Cosmos, raised an eyebrow.

"Really. Kidding. Guys?—"

"I like it. You know what it feels like to be a kid on set," Cosmos said. "And we only have two more weeks of shooting left."

"That's not the only thing," Lincoln said. "I talked with Miles Dafoe, down at the Jude County Hotshot HQ. He thinks we need someone from the team here full time for the rest of shooting to make sure we don't have any more accidents like today."

Swen had stood by the door all this time. Tall, swarthy, blond, he came from LA in his own trailer full of effects, his own staff who moved around the set outside the movie crew. "I have my own safety crew. I don't need help."

"Where were they today?" Spenser said. "Because the only one with a hose was that hotshot team."

Swen's eyes narrowed, then he took a breath. "And now a model is telling me how to run my business."

Spenser's mouth opened. What?—?

"Okay, that's enough," Lincoln said. "Swen, we trust you, but this can't happen again, okay? I now have to have a chat with the insurance people to assure them that this was a fluke. But if I have to have a firefighter on set to keep them calm, I will."

And just like that, Spenser's mind fixed on the woman.

The woman who'd saved his life. Granted, he'd been heading for the exit, but without her clearing a path, and maybe helping him out before the entire house fell in…

Really pretty, blonde hair, blue eyes, curvy, even in her uniform. In truth, he'd noticed her before the catastrophe.

He had mentioned buying her a drink at the Hotline. Sort of sounded lame against her heroics, now that he thought about it.

Besides she'd probably shrugged it off by now. Just another day at work.

"Swen," Cosmos said, "make sure she has a rundown of all the special effects in the script."

Swen's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I'm going to talk to my crew, see what went wrong." He pushed open the door.

Outside, the night was falling, with twilight across the mountains to the east, settling purple into the valley. Spenser's stomach growled.

Lincoln reached out to shut the door.

Looked at Spenser.

"What?"

Cosmos, too, hadn't moved.

"We're just wondering if this is somehow a repeat of what happened on Say You Love Me."

He blinked at them. "Seriously? That was five years ago. Five."

"Jayla Pierce is out of jail," Cosmos said. "Did you know that?"

He stilled. Swallowed. "No."

"I would have thought Greg had called you."

Him too. "There's a permanent restraining order against her."

"You think that's going to stop someone who snuck into your trailer, waited for you, and then trapped you inside, demanding that you marry her?" He finger quoted the last words.

Marry was such a vague word for what went down.

"Part of her plea deal was that she can't even be in the same state."

"I'm just saying, be on the lookout." Cosmos rose. "Frankly, Spenser, I hope all the hype is worth it."

"Sixteen lines. I promise they'll be Academy worthy." He held up three fingers.

"We can't have what happened in Say You Love Me happen here, okay?"

Meaning his complete and utter shut down? His inability to finish the movie, thanks to the trauma?

"We're good. I'm good. It's all good."

Lincoln hid a smile.

"Good." Cosmos pointed at him. "Get some sleep. You're delivering six of those lines tomorrow, during the rescue scene." He saluted Lincoln. "I saw some of the rushes from today—despite the fire, we got a lot of good film."

He walked out the door, letting it bang behind him.

Two down, one to go. Spenser looked at Lincoln. "Really, Jayla is not coming back."

"How about that crazy guy from comic con?"

"The one who wanted me to read his script? No. He's harmless."

"What about that podcaster you punched?—"

"He made a lewd comment about my modeling. And while I would sort of like to forget I did that, I don't need anyone reminding me of how horrible that year was with comments that…well, weren't exactly PG. You would have punched him too, Linc."

Lincoln smiled. "Maybe. But I took a big chance on you, Spenser. And not just because of my relationship with Greg, but also because I had a stalker once. So I know what it feels like to need a fresh start. And, I know how getting back into the groove can be a little overwhelming. Three years roping cattle can just about flush the acting blood out of your veins, even from a legacy like you, so that's why you have so few lines. You do well here, and I have other scripts I'm looking at, okay?"

"Appreciate that, Linc." He got up, met Lincoln's grip. "I promise, I'm ready. I won't let you down."

Linc didn't let go of his hand. "I know it's been a bit of a road back since Chanel died. Your great grandmother left massive shoes to fill. Add to that the breaking out of the stigma of being a child actor, and I know this movie is a big risk for you. You got this."

Shoot. Until this moment, he'd actually felt that indeed, he had this.

And then Lincoln looked him in the eye with so much faith. As if he actually believed him. "And I didn't overpay. Just for the record. You and your million-dollar smile are going to fill the theaters."

Right. He didn't know why, with that comment, he wanted to get up and walk out the door, straight back to the Flying S Ranch. Forget this crazy charade.

Return to the only life that had made him feel whole.

Until, of course, it didn't.

Maybe he didn't know where he belonged.

Lincoln pushed out the door, then held it for Spenser. "You need a ride back to Ember?"

"Naw. I brought my bike."

"Bike?"

"Vintage Victory, 1200 Octane."

"Now that's a bike." Lincoln let the door to the trailer close behind him.

The sun was just dipping beyond the craggy mountains to the west, the smell of summer in the air.

"I think Cosmos and I are grabbing a pizza with Winchester Marshall, if you want to join us." Lincoln headed to his rental car.

Spenser walked over to his bike, black with chrome wheels, and grabbed his helmet. "Naw. I think I'm going to go to the Hotline, grab a burger."

Lincoln lifted a hand, and Spenser climbed onto his bike.

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

So maybe not totally lame. And, like Cosmos said, maybe luck was on his side.