All the new guys were at the honky-tonk down the street, probably having their second Big Timber Lager by now.
They were Wildwood Valley's first professional fire crew—seven guys brought in from across East Tennessee after Mayor Pearce pushed through funding for a full-time station. Until the new fire captain arrived next month, guess who got tapped to help train them? Me. The volunteer with eight years of experience and zero desire to babysit a bunch of rookies.
But someone had to show them the mountain roads, the water sources, the spots where cell service dropped dead. My construction crew could survive without me for a few hours a week.
If I hadn’t stayed behind to enjoy a little peace and quiet, I could’ve been on one of those barstools with them—feet up, beer cold, back not currently screaming from ducking under branches every three feet.
Instead, I was in the woods behind the fire hall, helping a vet tech find a cat she’d somehow misplaced like a set of keys.
Okay, so the blonde was beautiful. Gorgeous. Even in that ridiculous puffy coat that went down to her thighs like shewas on an Arctic expedition and not ten feet from Main Street. Curves for days. My hands itched in a way that had nothing to do with the cold, but yeah, not the time for that.
“Stop,” Rylie called out.
It blasted out of her like she was a drill sergeant sneaking up behind me. Pretty sure the squirrels froze mid-chew.
“Do you hear that?” she whispered.
At first, all I heard was wind rustling the sad remains of January leaves—and the faint sound of my pride slipping from my body like steam. But just when I was about to tell her no, the noise drifted through the trees.
Snap. Rustle. Snap.
Meow.
Well, there it was. The feline fugitive.
I rotated slowly, scanning the ground like I was searching for a bomb instead of a ten-pound diabetic cotton ball. There. A flash of white about twenty feet to my left. Trotting along, tail up, like she owned the county.
I moved forward, trying to keep my steps light. Hard to do when you weigh two hundred pounds and were wearing boots built for kicking down doors. Meanwhile, Snowball—yes, that was apparently her name—pranced like she owned the damn woods.
“Snowball,” I called quietly, crouching down. “Come here, girl.”
Her head snapped toward me. Her eyes widened. And then she launched into the kind of sprint that’d put the town’s new firefighter rookies to shame.
“Damn it.” I lunged, but she was gone before I even got the second syllable out.
Through the trees, I heard Rylie—still crashing around like she was fighting an invisible bear.
“Did you see her?” she asked.
“Yeah, she’s heading your way. White cat, moving fast.”
“I see her.”
Snowball zagged left, then right, dripping arrogance. I cut through the trees trying to meet her, but again, I was a brick wall in turnout boots. She was a streak of lightning.
“She’s coming back toward you,” Rylie yelled.
Sure enough, that white blur shot my way. I dropped low, prepared to sacrifice my dignity in the name of animal control.
Snowball took one look at me, hit the brakes so hard she kicked up a leaf explosion, and spun to bolt the other direction?—
—straight into Rylie, who dove like she was trying out for the NFL. She snagged the fur missile midair.
“Got you,” she crowed, clutching the squirming cat to her chest. “Got you, you little escape artist.”
Snowball yowled once, then settled.
I walked over, trying not to breathe like a dying elk. “Nice catch.”
