1
HUX
I’d been awake for thirty-one hours when I finally made it back to the roadhouse.
The storm hadn’t let up since yesterday afternoon, and neither had the calls. After we pulled my fellow firefighter Mason out of that ditch, the crew had scattered across town to handle whatever Captain needed handled. I’d spent the night on the mountain road, clearing debris, helping stranded drivers, and hauling a generator to the Richards place when their power went out and Mrs. Richards’ oxygen concentrator died.
My truck barely made it through the last stretch into town. I parked crooked, too tired to fix it, and trudged toward the warm glow of the Wildwood Ridge Roadhouse.
The firehouse was right across the street, and I should have gone there. Grabbed a bunk. Closed my eyes for an hour before Captain called me out again. But food first. I needed something hot in my stomach or I was going to collapse.
I pushed through the door, stomping snow off my boots. The warmth hit me like a wall, and for a second I just stood there, letting it seep through my frozen layers. The place was dim, running on generator power, the usual neon signs darkand quiet. A couple of cars sat in the parking lot, half-buried in snow, so someone had to be here. But the bar was empty. No one behind the counter. No one at the tables.
“Hello?” My voice came out rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Anybody here?”
Nothing. But I could hear movement somewhere in the back. The clatter of pots, maybe. Someone was in the kitchen.
I made it to the counter and dropped onto a stool, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. My elbows hit the wood, and I let my head fall forward, the weight of it suddenly too much to hold up. Whoever was back there would come out eventually. I just needed to wait.
The warmth of the room was seeping into my bones. My eyelids felt like they weighed about ten pounds each. I folded my arms on the counter and rested my head on them.
Just for a second.
Next thing I knew, I was smelling bread.
For a disoriented moment, I had no idea where I was. My cheek was pressed against something hard. Wood. The counter. I’d fallen asleep on the damn counter.
I jerked upright, blinking against the low light, and found a bowl of soup in front of me. Steam curled off the surface. A thick slice of bread sat beside it, butter already melting into the crust. A cup of coffee, still hot.
And a woman was standing on the other side of the counter with her arms crossed, watching me like I was the most pitiful thing she’d ever laid eyes on.
Allegra. The cook. I’d seen her dozens of times when the crew came in, always in the back, always busy, always disappearing before I could think of something to say that wasn’t a stupid joke. She was one of those women who seemed to exist in her own world, separate from the noise and chaos of the bar.
And right now, she was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Welcome back,” she said.
I stared at the food, then at her. My brain was running about three steps behind reality. “Did you make me lunch while I was unconscious?”
“Someone had to.” She shrugged, but there was a hint of something in her dark eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or pity. “You looked pathetic.”
Pathetic. Yeah, that tracked. I glanced around the empty bar. Still no one else. Just me and the cook, who’d apparently decided to take care of me while I drooled on her counter.
“How long was I out?”
“About twenty minutes. I heard someone call out, but by the time I got up here, you were dead to the world.” She nodded toward my soup. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
I should have been embarrassed. I’d literally passed out in front of her like some kind of hibernating bear. But I was too tired and too hungry to feel anything except gratitude.
I picked up the spoon and took a bite.
And stopped.
“What?” She frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I took another bite, slower this time, letting it sit on my tongue. Rich broth. Tender vegetables. Some kind of herb I couldn’t name but wanted more of. “This is incredible.”
She shifted her weight, uncomfortable with the compliment. “It’s just soup. Threw it together from what we had.”
