Chapter 1 - Clay
Present Day?
Maggie is 20 years old; Clay is 35 years old
“Heads up!”
I jerk my head upward, just in time to catch the heavy hose that’s being carelessly tossed my way over the large pumper truck by Josiah.
“Watch it, Cat-Man! Almost took my head off,” I shout back over the noise, gripping the thick rubber hose as I turn it on, sending a steady stream of water over the truck to wash away the grime of the past week.
Josiah earned the name Cat-Man after that one time he saved eight of a woman’s cats from a burning house. He’d hooked their claws onto his turnout gear and tucked them into every available pocket, turning himself into a walking feline rescue operation.
When he’d finally exited the home, he’d been clawed up so badly that he had scars to this day on his chest and thighs from where the kittens had dug into him to hold tight. But the cats had all made it and that was what mattered most to him.
That, and he shares that story with any woman who will listento it. Claims it gets him more tail than you could imagine.
Cat-Man.
I watch as the mix of mud, dirt, and oil cascade onto the asphalt outside the station as I rinse off the wheel wells, the soapy suds turning black as they wash clean.
It’s another scorching, late spring day in Lonestar Junction, with temperatures pushing past 110 degrees Fahrenheit. A few fires have flared out of control, forcing our truck through muddier terrain than usual. Despite that, the chief wouldn’t tolerate our fleet looking anything less than spotless, so here we are, me and the guys on shift today, scrubbing the trucks down shirtless, seeking what little relief the shade from the two willow trees on the property can offer.
I feel my phone buzz in my turnout pants pocket and slide it out to check the ID. Tucking it under my ear so I can continue working, I answer, “Nash, what’s going on?”
“Hey, are you going to be here today or are you skipping out on me again?”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. My brother still hasn’t adjusted to the idea of me working in the fire department—a job I started just six months ago. I’d made it clear that while I’d help with Ashwood ranch when I could, he might want to consider hiring another operations manager if he isn’t planning on running things full-time anymore. Besides, with his two teenage twin sons, he has more than enough hands to help around Ashwood ranch now.
“I’ll be there in the next two hours. I’m finishing washing the trucks.”
I slide my phone back into my pocket, complete rinsing my section of the big pumper truck, then shut off the valve. Grabbing some microfiber cloths, I start drying every surface within reach, all while listening to Cat-Man launch into an elaborate story about his latest call and how he scored a dateafter doing CPR on a woman’s ninety-year-old grandmother. I chuckle and shake my head as I continue to work.
I love working at the station, enjoying the easy banter among the men and women who wear the Lonestar Junction Volunteer Fire Department uniform. We are a small fleet for a small town that is quickly expanding, stretching out toward San Angelo, our closest city. But it’s the camaraderie and the close-knit, almost familial bond among the crew that had drawn me in six months ago.
It didn’t hurt that Chief Hollister was a longtime friend of my older brothers and someone who’d known me my entire life. He was a great boss who took me under his wing the moment I expressed interest in doing something new, something beyond what I’d known for most of my life working on the Cameron and Ashwood family ranches. And during the past six months, he’s been grooming me to eventually take over as chief of the department someday.
It’d been a semi-snap decision to join the force, not one I’d put a ton of thought behind, but after another long night and a morning where I was in bed with a woman who I couldn’t remember meeting, naked, with my dick still stuffed inside of a wilted condom, I realized that something needed to change.
Thirty-five years old was young, I’d reminded myself, plenty of time to start over, even if I felt the ache of my drinking habit, cigars and perpetual restlessness catching up to my young bones.
If I’m being honest, it’d felt like I’d stopped living the day Savannah left me six years ago. I hadn’t aged—I was stuck at twenty-nine, the age I was when she blindsided me with a breakup, right after I’d spent six months by her bedside while she was in a medically induced coma after her accident.
After she left, I needed a change. Itched for something different. I was tired of being the last to know what was going on around me. Being the youngest of the family, with my brothers tenand eleven years older than me, I was always left out of the big decisions about Cameron or Ashwood Ranch, or even the planning for large family events and considerations for major changes to the businesses.
And while I loved my sisters-in-law, Jovie, and Stevie, they didn’t trouble me with the details either. We’d all grown, yet I’d forever be ten years younger than them and still just ′Clay, the youngest son who is trying to figure things out.′
I was ready to feel needed, to make a difference. To be done fumbling through life aimlessly. And what better way to do that than by helping save lives in Lonestar Junction?
Maybe I was also a bit of a masochist for wanting to take all the calls that involved car accidents—they reminded me of the day that I discovered the woman I loved had been cheating on me and the life I was living was a lie.
A few minutes later, I finish drying the truck and toss the damp rags into the basket Cat-Man is hauling back into the station to clean.
“I’m heading out for the day, guys,” I wave over to the men finishing up on the remaining trucks.
I step out of the shaded area where we’ve been working and begin crossing the gravel lot toward the station parking area, headed for my truck that I’ll take to Ashwood. But before I can take more than a few steps, a tiny blue Hyundai races across the space, screeching to a crooked stop in one of the visitor parking spots. The passenger door flies open, and Maggie Hollister bounds out. Her chestnut curls are tucked into a messy bun atop her head, and her brown eyes are hidden behind oversized black sunglasses. She’s wearing a flowery sundress that’s far too short and swirling around in the breeze, forcing her to clutch at the hem to keep it in place.
The spaghetti straps that cling to her top desperately remind me just how much she’s grown up since the days when she used tobabysit my twin nephews, and I find myself unable to look away from her strong, tan legs.
