Page 16 of Burning for the Mountain Man

muddy. beautiful. still here.

Owen:

wild. my sister staying put. never thought I'd see the day

Me:

me neither

The pregnancy test sits on the edge of the sink. Two pink lines, vivid against white plastic. Taken at six AM while Nash was at the station running morning equipment checks.

Seven weeks. Give or take.

My hands are steady. My breathing isn't. Standing in the bathroom of a cabin that belongs to both of us, looking at two pink lines, and the first thing my brain does is calculate. Not timelines. Not rotation schedules. Nursery. The second bedroom down the hall, the one Nash uses for storage. Boxes of old incident reports, a broken camp stove he keeps meaning to fix, winter gear stacked against the wall. That room has a south-facing window. Good light.

A second test is on the counter because the first one seemed too fast. Also two pink lines. Also vivid. Also making my knees do something unreliable.

Nash's truck pulls into the gravel drive at seven fifteen. Right on schedule. Door slams. Boots on the porch steps. The front door opens, and the cabin fills with him. Wood smoke and coffee and the particular energy of a man who's been awake since four thirty running a fire department on three donuts.

"Blake." His voice carries from the kitchen. "Bobby ate the last of the eggs. I'm gonna have to go to the store before⁠—"

He stops in the hallway. Because I'm standing in the bathroom doorway holding two pregnancy tests, one in each hand, wearing his department t-shirt with bare feet on the cold hardwood floor.

His eyes go to my face. Then to the tests. Then back to my face.

"Seven weeks," I say. "Give or take."

The sound he makes isn't a word. His keys hit the floor. Two steps and he's in front of me, hands on my face, reading glasses falling out of his shirt pocket onto the hardwood where they land next to his keys. His eyes are wet. Nash Deveraux, fire chief, burn survivor, the man who ran into crown fires without blinking, has tears on his face.

"We need a doctor." His thumbs move across my cheekbones. "Doc Morrison. And prenatal vitamins. Bobby's sister is an OB in Reno, she's good, we should call her too. The second bedroom—" He looks down the hall toward the storage room. "I can have it cleared by this weekend. South-facing window. Good light."

A laugh breaks out of me. "You noticed the window."

"Of course I noticed the window." He pulls me against his chest. My arms wrap around his waist, face pressed into his shoulder. His heartbeat is racing. "Autumn. Jesus. We're gonna have a baby."

"We are."

His arms tighten. One hand cradles the back of my head. Through the front door he left open, March air drifts in carrying the smell of melting snow. Somewhere on the ridge, the last of winter is letting go.

"Fire season roster's gonna need restructuring," he says into my hair. "Bobby can take lead on the overnight patrols in August. Torres is ready for more responsibility. And the prescribed burn schedule, we should frontload it in case⁠—"

"Nash."

"Yeah?"

"Can you stop planning for thirty seconds and just be happy?"

He pulls back enough to look at me. Brown eyes soft, reading glasses gone, tears drying on his cheeks. The burn scar on his forearm catches the hall light.

"I'm happy." His voice cracks on it. "Terrified and happy."

"Good. Me too." Rising on my toes, I kiss him. Soft. His mouth is warm, tasting like station coffee. "Now call Bobby. He'll be furious if Maria finds out first."

Nash picks up his phone from the counter. Types with one hand. The other stays on my hip, thumb moving in slow circles over the department shirt.

Me:

Autumn's eating for two.