I huff a laugh. The question emphasizes how strange all of this is. His eyes drop to my finger, and a thin grin captures his lips.
“You were the one who won the trip to Vegas, too. The raffle grand prize. Roxy and Hawk couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“That’s me,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. “But the best prize I won last night by far was Donovan.”
McLeod runs a hand over his chin, and I can hear the stubble scratch. “Sounds like you’ve got quite a story to tell.”
I nod once, chest bursting with something I haven’t let myself feel until this moment—true, delirious happiness. “Speaking of Donovan, he’s working the East Ridge Fire right now. Have you heard anything about how it’s progressing?”
“About had it under control last time I checked with dispatch.”
My shoulders relax, and my breath finally flows freely again. That’s when I realize, in every cell of my being, how much the big cowboy fireman means to me—stranger or not.
Husband on paper and flesh.
Chapter
Fourteen
SCARLETT
Ihear the truck before I see it. I’m holding the gun again. The weight of it sits heavy in my lap, grounding and unreal all at once.
The low rumble cuts through the quiet, pulling me out of the haze I’ve been drifting through since the sirens left.
Outside birds sing. The sun shines. A beautiful morning in Rough & Ready Country, pines still glimmering with last night’s dew.
Minutes have passed. Maybe hours. I stopped tracking time.
But then, time hasn’t made sense since Donovan left earlier on the call.
I’m already moving before I realize it. I set the gun on the mantle above the fireplace, close enough to grab if I need it. Then, I look through the peephole, turning the lock with a low sigh of relief.
My hand hesitates for one moment before I open it, still replaying earlier events.
But then he’s there, stepping out of the truck, gear still on, soot streaked across his jaw, shirt dark with sweat.
Something in my chest breaks loose. Relief hits too fast. Too sharp.
“Hey,” he says like nothing happened.
I don’t answer. My vision blurs, throat tightening. I cross the distance between us. My hands find him—his chest, his arms, his shoulders. Checking for injuries, making sure he’s not a dream.
“You’re okay,” I breathe.
“I’m fine.”
My grip tightens. I can’t let go. “You smell like smoke,” I say.
“You should see the other guy.”
A laugh slips out of me—thin, frayed at the edges.
He studies my face and his jaw tightens. “What happened?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I nod toward the gun on the mantle.
Understanding flashes, sharp and immediate.
