I don’t comment on that. Mostly because she’s right.
“Anyway,” I say instead, “storm season’s coming. Last thing we need is water backing up and ruining your siding.”
Her gaze softens. “You always take such good care of me, Kenny.”
I grit my teeth lightly at the nickname but let it slide. “Someone has to.”
She huffs again—her way of saying thank you without saying thank you—and pushes the backdoor open a bit wider.
“Well, when you’re done playing in the dirt, wash up and come inside. I’ve got sandwiches and that soup you like.”
“The one with the barley?”
“Is there another one you’ll actually eat?”
Fair point.
She disappears inside, and I shake my head, smiling despite myself. Gran’s not subtle, not even a little, but she’s the reason I’m not rotting in a jail cell somewhere like half the guys I grew up with. Cleaning a gutter is nothing. Hell, she could ask me to re-shingle the entire roof by hand, and I’d do it without blinking.
I pull another handful of sludge free and toss it into the bucket. When I straighten again, stretching the kink out of my back, a flicker of memory catches me off guard.
Brown eyes. Windblown hair. That stubborn little crease above her nose when she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified.
Emma. The woman in the tree.
I scrub a hand down my face, which somehow smears gutter gunk even further. Fantastic.
Of all the calls I expected to run today, rescuing a photographer because she decided to climb ten feet into the air for “light” wasn’t one of them. And of all the people I’ve pulled out of bad situations, none of them looked at me the way she did—equal parts embarrassed, fascinated, and one breath away from saying something she’d regret.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I really shouldn’t still be hearing her voice in my head, sharp and soft at the same time.
Ma’am, I bring my ladder for everyone equally.
She’d rolled her eyes at me. And I’d liked it.
Too much.
I shake it off and reach for another stretch of gutter, determined not to let some stranger with a camera get under my skin. But as soon as I clear a bit more debris, I catch myself glancing toward the tree line behind Gran’s cabin.
She’s still out there somewhere, chasing light like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.
Strange woman.
Interesting woman.
I grunt under my breath and go back to work. The sooner I finish here, the sooner I can grab lunch and head to the station. Slow day or not, Justin will have something for me to do. He always does.
And if I’m lucky, I won’t see another reckless tourist dangling from a branch today.
But somehow, I’m not sure I’d mind.
Gran’s soup hits the spot—hot, savory, perfect for a day with a chill that keeps sneaking under my collar—and I’m barely done rinsing my bowl when my radio crackles to life on the counter.
“Brushfire reported near Ridge Trail. Small, contained. Units respond.”
Justin’s voice. Calm as ever.
Gran gives me that look—the one she’s been using on me since I was old enough to get into trouble.
