I go looking for the thermostat, checking the walls, the hallway, and even behind a crooked picture of a moose, but there’s nothing.
Moving back to the kitchen, I fill a kettle and set it on an old gas stove, then pull out my burner phone and hit speed dial. She picks up on the second ring. “Tell me you made it.”
“I did,” I say. “Barely. That bus trip is not for the faint of heart, I’ll tell you that much. Question, though, how do I turn on the heat?”
There’s a pause, then she bursts out laughing. “I didn’t tell you? Fire, babe.”
I blink at the stone fireplace. “No, you didn’t tell me. You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. What were you expecting? It’s an old-school cabin. If you’re cold, you build a fire. There’s wood chopped out back and matches in the drawer by the sink.”
“Girl Scouts was a long time ago and I never even got my fire-making patch.”
“You’ll figure it out,” she tells me. “It’s not that hard.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s about to face frostbite if you don’t become the ultimate pioneer woman.”
She laughs again. “It’s not frostbite cold yet, Rox. You’ve got a couple of months before you’ll be in any danger of that. If you’re even there that long. Text me when you’ve got the fire going and don’t burn the place down, okay?”
“Scout’s honor,” I reply dryly. “Just remember how long it’s been since I was a scout.”
She giggles then we say our goodbyes and I stand there, staring at the cold fireplace. I finally sigh, roll up my sleeves, and mutter to the empty room.
“All right, Smokey the Bear. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
6
BOONE
From my office window, I catch a wisp of smoke curling over the ridge. At first, I figure it’s just someone burning brush. That happens this time of year, but then the plume thickens, the color darkening, and the source is closer than I’d realized.
It seems to be right over where the old Morrison cabin sits, and that means it is less than a mile from us as the crow flies. My gut tightens.
That place has been empty since we’d bought our land years ago. Dillon, Chance, and I made a point of learning every property line and getting to know every neighbor.
Word around town is that the current owners are a pair of brothers who talk about selling every few years but never follow through. The locals think one of them got too sentimental at the idea since their great-grandfather had built the cabin with his bare hands.
Or something like that. Sentimental or not, nobody has lived there for years. Wherever that smoke is coming from, the fire is unattended and much too close for comfort.
I push back from my desk and am halfway to the front door before I even realize I’ve moved. “Chance! Dillon! We’ve got smoke coming from the Morrison cabin. Let’s go.”
Chance comes sprinting up the stairs from the gym, his shirt and skin damp with sweat and his dark blonde hair sticking up in all directions. Dillon pokes his head out of the kitchen, holding a spatula in one hand and reaching around his back to untie his apron with the other.
“Smoke?” He frowns. “Like barbecue smoke or burn-down-the-forest smoke? Maybe someone in that family just finally remembered it exists and they’re warming the place up.”
“Maybe, but the smoke is too thick. It looks like the kind that gets out of hand fast if you’re wrong,” I say, already heading to the garage to grab some of the big extinguishers. “Either way, we need to go check it out.”
We load up the truck with no time to think, only to act. Back in Chicago, I’d rarely even seen a real flame, but ever since we’d moved out here, we’ve gotten more acquainted with fire than I’d ever thought possible.
The dirt road leading up to the cabin from our property twists through pines thick enough to cut off the light, as the smell of wood smoke sharpens the farther we go. When we round the last bend, I slam on the brakes, gawking at the sight that awaited us.
The good news is that it isn’t a forest fire. Instead, smoke billows out the chimney and through a half-open door. On the porch, coughing hard enough to rattle her ribs, is a petite brunette covered in soot from her boots to her cheekbones.
She looks like she’d been wrestling a fireplace and lost.
Badly.
Chance jumps out first, moving fast from the clearing where I’d parked and up the few rickety steps until he skids to a stop beside her. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
