Chapter 5

She nearly cried watching Spenser,aka Hawken Cooper, bury a man he didn't know.

Emily stood on the sidelines of the set, trying to study the marked-up script, but every time Hawk dropped to his knees and pulled little Dusty to himself, telling him that every day the sun rose, his daddy was with him, she wanted to burst into tears.

For cryin' out loud.

And it didn't help that, from her position, she could also see the screen that showed the camera's takes. Close ups and then wide-shot views, and if the crowd didn't love Hawk Cooper before, they would as he held onto Dusty, tears pooling in his tough- guy eyes.

It didn't help that he'd followed up with so much desperation to avenge Winthrop's death that his brother, Deacon, aka Winchester Marshall, seemed an afterthought.

His fans were going to lose their minds.

Bucky went home at lunchtime, and Spenser spent the rest of the day taking and re-taking a staged-but-so-real scuffle with a handful of bad guys who attacked the ranch. Once, he'd even pulled one of the stuntmen off his horse—an unscripted attack, but one the stunt double easily handled as they rolled in the dirt.

The hits looked so real.

Never mind Winchester Marshall fending off three attackers—but he was Jack Powers, after all, and did most of his own stunts as a rule.

She'd screamed when out of nowhere, one of the big thugs tackled Spenser on set—A big no, no, as Indigo pointed out during the first take when she'd gone over to Swen to ask a question. Emily had been put in a big Time Out for that slip up.

But Spenser had rolled out of the attack, and then, suddenly, they cut scene.

And took it again.

And again.

So many angles, so much camera work—some wide shot, some handheld, some down low, many of the cameramen moving, others on a stick.

And no one, not once, actually got hit.

The entire fight was entirely scripted and took up most of the day, with so many takes for power shifts, and close-ups.

At a break, with the sun falling, shadows filling the valley, she listened to Cosmos talk through the different shots and cuts—thirty-one different cuts, so many shots…

"Pretty cool, huh?"

Spenser was drinking a protein shake.

"Very. You're an amazing actor."

He smiled. "Thanks. Great safety briefing."

Oh yeah. She was the real star here. She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

"I loved watching Kathryn trying to get the pin out of the fire extinguisher," he said.

Emily glanced at the actress. She seemed nice, hadn't complained about the safety class. "Indigo hates me."

"She's an AD. Her job is to keep the set schedule moving." He gestured to the shot list. "You figuring out the fire scenes?"

"Yes. I guess there's a prairie fire tomorrow?"

"I think it's in the shot list for today. It's supposed to be after the sun sets, in the darkness, so it'll be a long day."

Right. Noted. "What do you shoot next?"

"I have a scene with Kathryn, in the barn."

"You're the hero, then?"

"Hawk's the hero. Deacon dies in the end."

She nodded and hated the tiny, weird fist in her gut. "It's a kissing scene?"

He made a face and nodded.

"What?"

"I don't know. It seems to me that Kathryn and Win have more chemistry, and frankly, Deacon should be with Blossom, not me. My character is a bit of a rogue. Doesn't have a goal, a plan. He shouldn't get the girl."

"C'mon, even the rogue gets a happy ending."

He gave her a look, and suddenly her entire body turned to fire. She didn't mean—oh, brother.

"At least in this western he does," Spenser said, making it suddenly all better. Then Indigo called him back to the set.

And with the sun casting gold upon the barn, he took Kathryn into his arms and kissed her.

For a guy who'd made a face, he certainly made it look real.

Oh, this was a terrible, awful, no good, very bad idea.

"Emily, did you get a chance to talk to Swen about the prairie fire?" This from the second AD, a man in his late twenties, who spent most of his time running around the set. No wonder he was so thin.

Right. The fire. "I took another look at the schematic, and I think if we position fire extinguishers here," she flipped to her page and pointed to an X she'd penciled in, "and here, and I dig a trench to stop the fire, it should be fine."

"We can computer generate most of the fire. We just need a baseline, and of course, the shot with Blossom watching her entire life burn."

She nodded. It had the potential to be a heart-wrenching scene. "The thing is, we can only burn the field once, so we have to get it right."

"I'll get started on the line." She headed to her truck for her gloves, her Pulaski.

The set designer met her in the field and staked out the fire, then she and a couple of the prop assistants dug a line for the fire. "It jumps this line, we'll grab the canisters." Dirt sank into her pores, and sweat ran a line down her spine.

Night swept down from the mountains, turning the world gray. In the distance, the jagged run of the Kootenai mountains cut across a purple sky. The smell of fresh earth, along with the slightest residue of yesterday's fire, still hung in the air.

Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Just keep them from starting any forest fires, and you'll be a hero.

JoJo's words in her head. In lieu of all the moving parts on set, her little line in the sand would hardly be called heroic.

And really, she barely knew what she was doing. This was very much starting to look like Commander Dafoe trying to get rid of her.

Swen came out to the field with his crew. "Ready?"

"Yeah, anytime." She stepped back and watched as the grips set up the cameras and the gaffers positioned the lighting, which was more than she'd thought for a fire scene.

Indigo came out with Kathryn to block the scene. No lines, just her standing in front of the flames, an epic shot of loss.

"That line going to be wide enough?" Swen came out to survey the dig.

She'd cut it three feet across, twenty feet long, with two ten-foot lines out to the back.

"There's no wind, and as long as we have the fire extinguishers, we'll be fine." She sounded more confident than she felt. But it was the same line they'd cut during training, and the fire had died in the dirt, so…

And, she'd have her shovel with her, just in case it got out of line.

Swen positioned his people along the side, and she stood off the set as Cosmos came up to check the camera shots. A makeup assistant loosened Kathryn's hair. Even dirty and disheveled, the woman belonged on a magazine cover.

They ran lines one more time, then Indigo raised her hand. "Quiet on the set!"

Emily didn't see Spenser anywhere, but her gaze was on Swen, who depressed the radio frequency detonator, and in the distance, fire alighted against the night.

The cameras had dropped low, getting an upward shot, and Kathryn stepped into it, staring out at the fire.

It grew fast, the flames lengthening, crackling, whirling, and twisting in the night.

Mesmerizing.

Kathryn faced the inferno, her expression resolute, tears cresting down her face.

Emily could feel it—the desperation, the loneliness, the fear?—

And just like that, for a second, she smelled creosote burning, heard the shouts and screams lifting into the night, felt herself swept into chaos?—

"Cue wind," said Indigo quietly and yes, Emily heard it, but the panic was still winding through her, finding her lungs, cutting off her breathing, shutting her down?—

In the darkness, just beyond the fire, a prop assistant turned on a fan.

The flames burst to life, doubling, wicked and bold?—

Kathryn screamed, stepping back, about to run. Sparks caught her dress.

And just like that, Emily was back. "Drop!"

She burst into the scene, grabbed Kathryn and shoved her down.

The woman fell, and Emily scooped up dirt and flung it at Kathryn's dress. Kathryn rolled over, backing up, still screaming, the flames sizzling.

"Roll!" Emily picked up more dirt, showered it on her.

Then she dropped the shovel and simply landed on the actress, her gloves snuffing the flames.

A flame blanket landed on them, and she grabbed it and rolled it into Kathryn's skirt.

The woman was still screaming.

Emily turned to her, grabbed her arms. "Stop moving. Stop!"

Kathryn looked at her, breathing hard. Tears now real.

"You're okay. You're okay. It's out. Breathe."

Kathryn's eyes fixed to hers.

Then Swen swooped in with the set medic, and hands pulled Emily away. She stumbled back as more assistants poured in, crowding them.

Someone came with a stretcher, but Kathryn was up, pulling up her burned dress to assess the damage. Miraculously, her legs, covered in tights, seemed unscathed. Still, the medic threw the blanket around her shoulders and led her away.

Emily just stood in the darkness, trying to catch her breath.

"You might be the worst firefighter I've ever met."

She looked up. Swen stood there, also breathing hard. "Me?"

"You said this line would hold—the fire jumped the line."

She blinked at him. "Are you kidding me? Someone started a fan! Do you know what wind does to a fire?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Get off my set and never come back." Then he turned and walked away.

She stood in the field, watching as the prop assistants killed the fire with the fire extinguishers, the words echoing in her head.

Just keep them from starting any forest fires, and you'll be a hero.

Fine. Whatever. Not even a surprise, really.

She put the shovel over her shoulder and headed to the parking lot, not looking back.

Probably she should just keep going, all the way to Missouri.

* * *

"Emily!"

Spenser saw her stalk to her truck—it bore the logo of the Jude County Hotshots—throw her shovel in the back, get in, and in a second, she'd spun out of the lot, dirt spitting.

He'd been off set, in his trailer cleaning up when the action started, had emerged only when he heard the screams.

Watched as Emily again ran right into danger, threw herself on Kathryn—and to his mind—saved the woman's life.

Or at least her stockings. Because as he stood, watching in horror, Kathryn shrugged off help and marched to her trailer, slamming the door behind her.

The medic was still knocking when Emily ran from the field.

Swen wore murder on his face.

Now, he ran up to Swen, grabbed the man's arm. "What happened?"

"That stupid girl let the fire get out of hand and nearly burned down the entire set."

Spenser stared at him. "This isn't on her. You're in charge of Special Effects. Get it right."

Swen rounded on him. "I think maybe the Underwear Model might need to keep his mouth shut. Do your job, let me do mine." He shook out of Spenser's grip.

But Spenser had nothing anyway. Underwear Model? Seriously?

Swen marched away.

"Let him go, Spense."

He turned, and Winchester stood there. He'd taken off his makeup, showered, changed clothes. Swung his keys in his hand.

"This was not her fault."

Win considered him a moment. "You'll have to talk about that with Cosmos. But I think I heard him fire her."

And Spenser didn't know why that sort of hit him in the gut, why he turned and headed toward the Director's trailer. Shouting spilled out of the half-closed door. "Do better, Swen! Did you tell her that you were going to turn on a fan?"

"It's in the script—all Caps. Her hair blows back."

"Maybe she doesn't know how to read a script!"

"Then she shouldn't be on set!"

"You should have put it in the Scene Breakdown sheet!" This again from Cosmos.

Silence. Then, tightly, from Indigo, "Can she even read a Scene Breakdown sheet?"

Ho-kay. Spenser didn't even knock, just took the stairs and opened the door.

Both men and Indigo looked at him.

"So, pretty much all of Montana can hear you, but I have an idea."

Swen folded his arms.

Cosmos took off his glasses and ran a finger and thumb against his eyes.

"I go over the script with her. I'll teach her how to read it." He looked at Indigo. "And the Scene Breakdown sheet."

"Too late," Swen said. "I already fired her."

"Well unfire her," Spenser said and looked at Cosmos.

Cosmos held up a hand. "Since Linc is not here, that is my call. And if we want to stay in the good graces of the locals, my guess is that it's probably best to play well with others." He looked at Spenser. "You want to get her back?"

In every sense of the word. "Yes."

Swen shook his head and turned away, but Spenser ignored him and headed back to his trailer. He grabbed his keys and helmet and found his bike.

Calm. Down.

He didn't know why Swen's words had lit a fire inside him. He couldn't care less about the underwear comment.

But something the man said to Emily had really hurt her, the way the rocks peeled out under her tires. And weirdly, that hurt him.

Sheesh, he barely knew her. But something…there was something between them.

Something he didn't want to let go of.

He kept it under the speed limit into town—too many dirt roads—and finally spotted the lights of Ember glittering in the valley.

And that's when he realized he didn't know where she lived. But she was a hotshot. And all the hotshots hung out at the Hotline Saloon.

Music pulsed into the night, and when he pulled up, took off his helmet and went inside, a band played in the back section of the restaurant.

He spotted the only other firefighter he recognized, a guy who'd been at the scene that day, and went over to him. He was tall, bald, a few scars on his neck, but otherwise a nice-looking guy who wore a T-shirt, the words LCC Community Church on the front. "Hey. Remember me?"

The man smiled. "Think so."

Right. "I'm looking for Emily Micah. Do you know where she lives?"

"With me. I'm JoJo." A brunette came over, pretty, curvy, in her late twenties. "Just up the road a couple blocks. Give me your phone, and I'll grab the GPS."

He pulled his cell from his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over.

"I'm Charlie." He motioned to the bald guy. "That's Houston." Charlie had salt and pepper hair and wore a JCHS T-shirt.

"Don't get cold," JoJo said as she handed back the phone, and he frowned at her. It was about a hundred degrees outside.

Whatever. "Thanks."

He left and used the phone to guide him to a nearby neighborhood. The house sat in a tiny lot—clearly a rental—but painted white, with a light over the small front porch.

He parked his bike, took off his helmet, drew in a breath, and headed to the door.

Music played inside. Don't stop believin'.

A Journey fan. Interesting. He knocked. No answer.

Knocked again. "Emily?"

The music was too loud. Shoot. He debated, then touched the doorknob.

Unlocked.

Here went nothin'. He pushed open the door.

Stilled.

Not a big house—the living room connected right to the kitchen, a couple sofas in front of a coffee table that faced a flat screen. In the kitchen, a table was shoved against the wall, maybe to make a dance floor, because in the middle, stood Emily.

She wore a pair of leggings and a T-shirt, her back to him, singing into a wooden spoon for all she was worth. "Hold…on, Streetlight, People—" Then she turned. "Oh! Oh!"

Then she just threw the spoon across the room. It clattered over by the sofa, bounced onto the floor.

She stared at him as her background music blared.

Then she whirled around, went to the stove, and shut off the flame.

Stayed there, her back to him, just breathing.

"Emily?"

"Uh. Hi."

"Hi."

Silence.

"Sorry to break up the Karaoke. Where do I sign up? I do a great rendition of ‘A Thousand Miles,' but if it's theme night, I can pull off a decent ‘Eye of the Tiger.'"

A beat.

"You really know ‘A Thousand Miles?'"

"Making my way downtown, walking fast, faces past?—"

She turned, held up her hand. "Okay, that's pretty good. You don't make it as an actor, maybe you try singing."

"Oh no, I'm going straight back to underwear." Shoot, she'd been crying, evidenced by the red in her eyes, her bright cheeks. "You okay?"

She looked away, then spotted her spoon on the floor and went over to pick it up. "I was fired. But you know, it could have been worse. I could have burned down the entire county, not to mention an A-list actress."

"She's hardly A-list."

She stared at him. "Okay, so I wasn't a fan of her last movie, but certainly she's up there with say, Lauren Graham."

It took just a second. "Gilmore Girls?"

"Listen, Trek of the Osprey was finished. What did you expect of me?"

He liked a girl who could laugh at herself. "You're not fired."

"Hello. Were you there? Did you miss the screaming? I threw dirt on the leading actress. Even if she's not an A-lister, there has to be consequences."

And it was how she said it…he took a step toward her?—

"Don't come near me. I'm still radioactive."

Oh. He held up his hands. "Please. Listen. You're not fired."

She gave him a look.

"Really. Not lying." He held up three fingers.

"Don't give me that. You were never a boy scout."

He put his hand down. "How did you know that?"

"No one is actually a boy scout. Sheesh. Swear to me on the Star of Elianna."

His mouth opened. "Seriously?"

"You want me to believe you?"

"Please. I'll swear on anything else. Grapthar's Hammer?—"

"Nope."

"For crying out—okay, I swear on the brightest star of the Omega Galaxy, Star of Elianna, that what I heard is honest and true."

"I'm not fired."

"I just swore on?—"

She held up her hand. Sighed. "Really?"

"Yes. If you want the job. But there are conditions."

"Conditions?" She went to the stove and picked up the pot. "It'll have to wait until I finish my overly cheesy cry-me-a-river macaroni and cheese."

She poured water into the colander, and noodles fell into the pot. "Grab me the heavy cream—it's in the fridge."

He spotted a pile of grated cheddar cheese on a cutting block as he opened the fridge. "This is serious macaroni and cheese."

"For a seriously bad day."

He handed her the cream. She'd poured the noodles back into the pot, added the cheese and now poured in the cream and stirred. "I might just eat it out of the pot. Do you want a fork or spoon?"

"Spoon?"

"Good choice." She plunked down a wooden spoon from a crock, then a hot pad, and carried the pot out to the living room.

He came over to her. "Do I get to sit by you?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Because of the radioactive part?"

"Take your chances."

He sat down, and she handed him the spoon as she put the pot on the table. Sat back.

"Aren't you eating?"

"I lost my appetite. Sometimes I just make the food and then stare at it."

He had nothing for that.

"It's a therapy technique. Sometimes you just have to go for what feels good, and then, maybe, before you let it take over, you just see it for what it is. A tool to help you get to the deeper issue."

"Which is?"

"Maybe Swen is right. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a hotshot. Maybe I really stink at this."

"You made it through training, right?" He dug into the macaroni. "This is really good."

"I know. I've perfected it. Sharp Cheddar and Gouda. And just because I made it through training doesn't mean I'm not going to crash and burn—look at today."

"Why would you?—"

"Because I have PTSD."

He stopped mid-bite. Looked at her. "What?"

"Ten seconds before Blossom nearly burned to death, I was in my six-year-old body climbing my way out of a train crash. If I hadn't been triggered, maybe I would have seen the fire jump the line."

He put down his spoon. Leaned back. "You were in a train crash."

"When I was six years old. But that's the tip of the Titanic-sized iceberg. And before we dive into this, let me say that you're free to get up and leave any time this feels too much."

"Give me a try."

She smiled. "My mom was a spy, on the run for the first five years of my life with information that revealed corruption in the government. They sent an assassin to kill her, and in the scuffle, the train was derailed. Then, I was lost in the forest, chased, and kidnapped. And after that, held for ransom and nearly watched my mom die. Then, she married the man she loved, they had two kids, and we all lived happily ever after. Hand me my spoon."

He picked up her wooden spoon and she leaned over, took a bite. "Yeah, that's one of my better batches." She set the spoon down. "Now I'm full."

"Me too. So much to unpack there. I don't know where to start. Maybe at the end with ‘and we all lived happily ever after.'" He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm still figuring out that part. When I was ten, my parents took us on one of those day trains in Colorado, and I had a complete panic attack, meltdown, clinging to the seats, screaming. So, that began many beautiful years of therapy." She smiled.

He didn't. "I was held hostage by a fan."

She looked at him.

"I'm not comparing situations. I was a grown adult, but I came out of the bathroom of my trailer and a woman was there, with a gun, and she…was a little zealous about wanting me to marry her. And when I say marry, I mean in the Biblical sense of the word."

"Oh."

"Yep. Nothing happened—I mean, she was holding me at gunpoint, so I'm not sure what she expected, but it was about the two most terrifying hours of my life. She was found mentally unstable and sent to prison, but I sort of fled moviemaking and went to college."

"And then to underwear."

"My own personal iceberg." He touched her hand then. "My therapist was my great-grandma. The song she used to sing to me? "It Is Well with My Soul." It's a hymn, and it's about how, deep inside, you can be well—solid, strong, healthy—even though the world is on fire around you. I'm still trying to figure that out, but I do know that what I saw of you says that despite everything you've gone through, deep inside, you're brave. And smart. And have good instincts. You saved our B-list actress today, and maybe the entire movie. And frankly, we need you."

There, he said it again, or at least a variation. We need you. And this time he meant it.

She sighed. "What's the condition?"

"I have to teach you how to read a script. And a Scene Breakdown sheet. If you'd known how to do that, you would have known that all Capital Letters always means a Prop or a Shot direction. Which meant?—"

"Her Hair Blows in the Wind required a fan."

"Yep."

She sighed. Looked at him. "Fine. But I have my own condition."

"What's that?"

"I'm going to need to hear you sing the entirety of ‘A Thousand Miles.'"

He grinned and picked up his spoon.