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“Ms. Hill,” he said, voice low.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how wrinkled my sundress probably was after a long day of school. Then sitting in my not-air-conditioned car. “I brought thank-you cards from my class. For the demonstration last week.”

His gaze dropped to the box. He nodded once, setting the clipboard aside. “The boys will like that. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I had… a previous engagement.”

“Oh, no worries,” I told him, waving a hand. “I’m sure you get bored talking to school kids, probably.”

He blinked, then glanced away. “Actually, I like talking to the kids. Sometimes the scar freaks the littler ones out, though. I usually go talk to the older kids.”

My mouth dropped open. “Oh,” I say lamely. “I understand.”

I didn’t though, really. The scar was not that bad, I didn’t think. But maybe people reacted to him differently. I couldn’t criticize him for how he felt.

There was a pause, not awkward but heavy, like he was weighing what to say. Finally, he asked, “How are you settling in?”

“Good,” I said quickly. Then, because honesty had a way of tumbling out around him, I added, “Still getting lost on the back roads. And my car hates me. The mountain drives are the most work she’s had to do in years.”

His gaze wandered out to the parking lot and her sad, aging Honda. “You might think about getting a four by four. Did I hear you came from Indiana or Illinois?”

I nodded. “Illinois. The land of endless cornfields.”

“Do you have family out here?”

I made a face. “I used to. I had a great uncle out here years ago, and I loved listening to his stories. So, after I got divorced, I decided I wanted a change. My uncle had given me his cabin when he died, and it seemed like a good step.”

“Till you walked into fire season,” he murmured. A flicker of something passed across his expression—amusement, maybe. But it faded quickly, replaced by that steady, serious look again.

“Yeah,” I huffed out a breath. “That’s my luck.”

“You’ve heard the alerts,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

I nodded. “The fire danger ones, yes.”

His shoulders shifted, just enough to make him seem taller. “You should have a go-bag by your door. Clothes, water, important papers. If your road gets called, you don’t wait—you go early.”

The words weren’t bossy, but they carried weight. Like an order wrapped in concern.

“I’ll do it,” I promised.

His gaze lingered on mine a beat longer than necessary, then he gave a short nod. “Good.”

From somewhere behind him, one of the younger firefighters coughed into his hand. Another muttered something that earned him a sharp look from Butler. Heat crept up my neck. Small towns and their gossip networks.

I cleared my throat, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Chief.”

“Jack,” he said quietly, almost like a correction.

The sound of it settled into me as I turned to go, my pulse pounding.

Jack

I watched her leave, the sway of her braid catching sunlight as she walked out of the bay. Then I glanced at her hips. Damn. I literally had to force myself to turn away.

She’d listened. Most newcomers didn’t take the fire season warnings seriously, not until smoke was on their doorstep. But she’d promised she’d pack the bag, and something made me believe her.

Still, I didn’t like the thought of her alone in that cabin, waiting on alerts, not knowing the rhythm of fire season like the rest of us did.

Trouble, I reminded myself.