Chapter Three
Grady was technically homeless—notthat it mattered when he lived at various firefighting base camps year-round. The northern and southern hemispheres alternated fire seasons. While other smokejumpers went home during the off-season, Grady had kept himself on the move, fighting wilderness fires in California, Montana, and Idaho half of the year and decamping to Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa for the other half of theyear.
For almost ten years, he was like a migratory bird, moving like clockwork across theglobe.
The clock stopped this fall during a wicked late season fire, causing him to retreat home to his family. He’d been squatting at his twin sister’s apartment since Christmas, the longest time he’d stayed in one place since he left home after highschool.
“Since you’re living with me, you might as well make yourself useful,” Jenna said to Grady the next morning at the breakfasttable.
“You telling me to move out?” Grady flicked through the messages on his cellphone
“No, of course not, brother dearest.” Jenna ruffled his hair. “I need help with the fall collection, and you smokejumpers are good with the sewingmachine.”
Jenna was a talented fashion designer, and while she, too, had sown plenty of wild oats, she’d surprised him by falling in love with a stalwart and loyal firefighter—the last kind of man his sister had been attracted to growingup.
“Repairing our parachutes and stitching up jumpsuits don’t exactly qualify for high fashion,” Grady said. “For one thing, our stitches don’t have to beneat.”
“True, but you’ve been moping around here half a year already. What really happened out there? I know there was a death in yourcrew.”
“If you’re saying it was my fault, you’re wrong.” Grady pushed from the kitchentable.
Jenna’s brows turned down, and her mouth opened into a circle. “That’s not what I’m saying. I only want to know how you feel aboutit.”
“There are risks in everything we do—some more than others. Besides, it’s not like I’m doing nothing. I’m busy running my Dogs for Vetscharity.”
“True.” Jenna walked to the refrigerator and pulled out eggs, bacon, and cheese. Before she was married, she never cooked, but now that she was determined to become a mother, she’d been practicing on her husband, Larry, and by extension, Grady. “I wonder why you’re doing all of this work with dogs when you don’t want oneyourself.”
“No conflict of interest. I have a list of veterans and the types and characteristics of dogs they need, and my job is to be on the lookout for them—preferably rescuing them from shelters. If I were looking for a dog for myself, I would want to keep every one ofthem.”
“You only need one,” Jenna said, looking toward the side of the refrigerator where Harley, her and Larry’s male basset hound, inhaled hisbreakfast.
He was one ugly mug of a dog with saggy skin, ears so long they trailed on the ground, and a bulging tummy from his constantgluttony.
“Good morning,” Larry stepped into the kitchen and greeted them. He bent down and patted his dog, clearly adoring the messy hound. Still wearing the shorts and T he slept in, he wore the satiated smile of a happily married man. After acknowledging Grady with a curt nod, he made a beeline for Jenna and kissed her long and hard on thelips.
Grady turned away. He was definitely crimping their lifestyle by staying here. Here they were, hot newlyweds, and they had to share a small two-bedroom apartment with a grouch who’d given up on women—anddogs.
“Nothing against you, Harley, but you fart too much,” Grady said as he walked toward the kitchendoor.
The dog gave him a droopy-eyed look and slurped his drink, splashing and flapping water with his long, hangingears.
So sloppy, unlike Grady’s long-lost Sasha, who was beautiful in grace and form with sleek, light-red fur, tufts of pristine white accents on her chest and muzzle, and ears that stood erect andalert.
Missing and presumeddead.
Grady hadn’t had a chance to look for her after his cabin burned down because he was hospitalized for smoke inhalation. When he was released, he’d been immediately assigned to an out-of-state crew where a fire burned out ofcontrol.
He’d kept his eye on the dog “lost and found” pages online, but after several false leads, he gaveup.
The fire that had consumed his cabin had started right outside the kitchen door, trapping Sasha away from her doggie door. If she had died, Grady could only hope she had passed out from smoke inhalation before the flames burned her to acrisp.
Blinking from an eye irritation, Grady shut the door of the bedroom he was staying at. He traveled light. In less than half an hour, he had his clothes packed. It was time for him to head back up the mountain and rebuild the dregs of his uselesslife.
Dogless andwomanless.
Only one big problem. The dog might be gone, but the woman was definitely not gone, not by a longshot.
She was a long-legged, lusciously curved, brown-haired Gypsy-looking spitfire who occupied permanent residency in both his dreams andnightmares.
