Californian Wildfire Fighters: The Complete Series

by North, Leslie

  Hank and Lana are about to say good-bye forever just as the embers of the flames reignite, giving them one more chance to realize they can’t live without one another. But do they have the courage to rekindle their love?

  1

  HANK

  Ten years, and not a day went by that he didn't think of Lana Sweet.

  And now that she was sitting across the table from him, Hank Logan couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

  Thankfully, they weren’t alone together. Gathered around them were the guys from the station, members of Hank's own Alaska-based squad, and grateful Cedar Springs locals who had been invited out to celebrate the volunteers' defeat of an apartment fire that might have easily gotten the better of the town. Now, more than ever, Hank was aware of just how ill-prepared the Springs was to deal with the ever-creeping threat of immolation. And to think there was a wildfire still eating up redwoods in the distance . . . he would have personally found it a hard—if not impossible—occasion to celebrate, if it hadn't been for the surprise marriage proposal of one of his best squad members.

  Hank studied the newly engaged couple as he cracked another beer. It was enough to distract him from watching Lana, at least for a few seconds at a time. Alex, the bride-to-be, was beaming from ear to ear, and her blue eyes sparkled brightly. She engaged enthusiastically with every new conversation, but she never averted her eyes from Landon for very long.

  Landon sat to Hank's right, across from Alex, cutting his way into a burger. Seeing his crewmate’s broad grin, Hank realized the man had no idea he was actually attempting to eat his third burger with a knife and fork. Hank had never seen the guy’s cheeks so rosy. Landon was drunk.

  But then, so was Hank.

  The entirety of the long outdoor table hummed with activity. But the frenzy, the infectious laughter, had conspicuously passed two chairs by.

  Hank didn't know whose bright idea it had been to seat him and Lana across from each other. There wasn't a soul among them who didn't know their history. Childhood sweethearts, heartbreakingly parted before they’d had a real shot . . . and who had been responsible for their parting?

  Hank took another swig of beer. He needed it—because he clearly hadn't had enough alcohol yet to dull the ache of his guilt. When he’d left Lana ten years ago, he hadn't been able to explain why . . . and today was no different. Here she was, sitting three feet away from him with only a checkered cloth-covered picnic table between them, and he felt further from her than he had in Alaska.

  But what was he supposed to say? How could he ever frame it in a way she would understand?

  I'm the reason your brother's dead.

  Hank felt the ice pooling in his belly from even thinking the words. It sure as shit wasn't the lukewarm beer he was guzzling. As a matter of fact, he was in danger of popping them open faster than Chase could pull reinforcements out of the truck bed.

  I killed him. Michael. I killed your brother.

  He was staring at her again when Lana looked up suddenly. Her eyes were as green as the day around them, greener than his memory gave them credit for. Ten years of thinking about Lana every day, and his devotional thoughts hadn't even done her justice. Her auburn hair caught the sun as her head moved, and Hank saw the stunning fire of her red highlights. Her gaze slid across his face and—

  He looked away before their eyes could meet. He drank another swig. He wondered if he only imagined the huff of disappointment coming from her side of the table—because by the time he looked at her again (it was inevitable), Lana was once more staring at something interesting in her lap. Her hands, probably. He watched as she raised them—and realized she had been secreting a beer of her own. He'd lost track of how many she'd had as surely as he'd lost count of his own.

  Sookie, Hank’s sister, sat beside Lana.

  Glaring at Hank.

  It wasn't an unusual state of affairs. He and Sook still had a long road ahead of them. Brother and sister, coming back from being estranged, finding their footing again, and . . . fuck, was there anyone present who didn't hate his guts? Maybe they only tolerated him because he was boss to half of them.

  "Another beer, Chief?" Chase dropped down onto the bench beside Hank and held out a brown bottle.

  It felt like being greeted by an old friend after a long absence . . . and he wasn't extending the thought to Chase. Hank drained his current drink in a single gulp and accepted the next round.

  He watched as Alex dragged Lana out from the bench across from him and herded her back toward the house.

  "So, how's it going?" Chase prodded. Hank belatedly registered the friendly elbow to his ribs and glared at it. Chase retracted it as quickly as if he feared a sudden amputation.

  "What?"

  "I mean with Lana! Come on, Chief, you've been staring at her all night. It would be creepy if it wasn't so obvious that she's equally into you."

  "You don't know what the hell you're talking about." But he wondered. Was Chase right in his observation? The younger firefighter wasn't exactly the first in line of those Hank might consider calling for love advice, but Chase's exploits with the opposite sex had made him infamous in their little Alaska town back home. Clearly, the other man had some sort of intuition when it came to this sort of thing.

  He watched as Sookie passed an empty beer can to Chase, who momentarily broke from their conversation to crush it against his forehead with a jocular crow.

  Well, maybe not intuition. Instinct was probably the better word for it.

  Hank caught the cap of his own beer on the edge of the table and popped it open. "Show-off," he said.

  "Look who's talking. Want me to grab you another beer so you can show off your trick to Lana?"

  "I'm not kidding, Kingston. Leave it."

  Chase clapped him on the shoulder as he rose. "You're way less threatening when you're drunk, Chief.” The younger man's grin was more lopsided than usual. “You're almost charming. You should use that to your advantage."

  Hank took a long swig of beer and glared at nothing in particular. He didn't feel charming, but maybe he did feel a little drunk. He decided to stand as well, if only to test his balance.

  He put out a hand to steady himself against the table and found it wasn't that bad.

  The number of beers he’d consumed were beginning to make themselves felt in other ways. He went into the house to hunt for the bathroom . . . or at least, that's what he heard himself tell several people on his way inside. Really, he was looking for Lana.

  He didn't find her. Maybe it was just as well. What the hell did he intend to say to her?

  He finished in the bathroom and washed his hands. This time when he glared, it was his own reflection he fixed with the intensity of his glower. He shouldn't have come: not to Alex's—and not to Cedar Springs. What did he hope to gain?

  It was obvious to him now, in that moment, alone with his defenses down, the reason he had come all this way.

  He splashed the cold water from the faucet on his face and passed a hand over his dour expression. Folksy strains of bluegrass drifted through the cracked window from the garden's sound system. "I need a shave," he muttered to himself, took the towel, and dried off. He tossed it to the side and exited the bathroom. Heading out the back door again, he pulled the door open the same moment someone started pushing their way inside.

  Lana. "Oh!" she yelped as she stumbled.

  Hank reached out instinctively to catch her.

  She grasped his forearms to keep herself stabilized, then looked up. He almost didn't dare breathe as he studied her. She ducked her head beneath his scrutiny. Her angelic features glowed softly with some inner light . . . or was he just so drunk he was imagining it? There wasn't a single sharp angle or feature on her. Everything about her was generous, accommodating.

  Lovely.

  "Sorry. I didn't know you went inside," Lana said. She extracted herself from his arms stepped back out the door. "I mean, not that I was looking for you . . . not that I was avoiding you
. . . um—"

  Hank let the door swing shut behind him as he joined her.

  Lana didn't shrink from him, but she didn't seem to have an easier time talking, either. She broke off in the middle of her hard-won sentence to take a swig of her beer, tilting the bottle to finish the last of it.

  Hank surprised himself by speaking. "Want to dance?"

  2

  LANA

  Never in her life had Lana thought she would find herself back—here.

  When the invitation passed Hank's lips, all she could do was nod. She took his hand, as she had so often when he’d visited her in her dreams. Now it was warm, and solid, and bigger than she remembered. The boy she had fallen in love with ten years ago was incontrovertibly a man, and her heart trembled at the revelation.

  They drifted out onto the lawn together. The other party guests were clustered close to one another in small groups all around the garden, laughing and chattering, completely engaged. Lana felt any self-consciousness at being seen with Hank slowly begin to bleed away. The hand that held hers was rough, and she wasn't certain it was tender, but it was the hand she had yearned for, desperately, for a very long time.

  "Been a while," Hank mentioned. It was as if he read her thoughts. He pulled her in against him, lifting their joined hands and moving his other down to her waist. To say Lana was surprised by this would have been an understatement. After spending the evening doing their best to avoid one another, the last thing she had expected was Hank to so boldly take the lead now. "You look good."

  "So do you." She had been mixing her booze that evening, something she would normally never do. She had traded her usual white wine out hours ago, when the last bottle had run out, and started drinking the much heavier beers supplied by the volunteer firefighters. It was making her limbs and tongue loose now. It was allowing her to relax into Hank's embrace, as if he was any other man who had just invited her to dance. "You look . . ."

  "Different?" he supplied.

  "Old."

  The word caught them both off guard, and they stopped dancing for a moment.

  The stricken look on Hank's normally gravely serious face proved too much to bear. Lana threw her head back and burst out laughing.

  Rather than ease up now that he knew she was joking, Hank tugged her in against him—hard. "You think I'm old?" A mischievous gleam lit his eyes, more spark than she had seen the Alaska fire chief display all evening. He kept the line of his mouth firm, though. He was sending so many mixed signals, it would have been enough to make Lana's head spin—if it wasn't spinning already.

  "I know you are," she said.

  "You know, I always thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen." He spun her, now, to a swell in the music she hadn't been expecting. "Ten years, and you're more beautiful than I remember."

  She whipped back around—and ended up bracing her hands on his chest. One foot had crossed behind her in the beginnings of a stumble, but Hank steadied her. "Stop it," she breathed. She didn't know whether she was pleased or perturbed by his words.

  "It's only the truth."

  "You shouldn't say things like that to me."

  "Why not?"

  For a moment, Lana really did struggle to come up with reasons why. From the moment Hank had taken her into his arms, it felt like he had never left.

  Which was absurd. Hank had left, and the damage of his leaving resonated in more hearts than her own. Lana remembered how desperately she had struggled to keep her head above water in the aftermath. Michael's death had torn her heart in two, but Hank Logan had taken one half with him when he’d disappeared. The only thing that had kept her going for a long time was Sookie. She had thrown herself into caring for Hank's younger sister, until Sookie, too, had left Lana behind.

  She tried to reframe the siblings' decisions. She tried not to think of it as a referendum on herself as a person. She loved, and she’d lost. An unfocused glance over Hank's left shoulder, and she saw her dear friend Alex, recently engaged, standing with Landon, a look of sublime (though definitely inebriated) happiness plastered over her face.

  Alex had loved and lost, but she had still found something worth waking up for after years of emotional hibernation.

  Did Lana really have a shot, as well?

  "You're going to keep me waiting for an answer?" Hank brushed a strand of hair from her temple.

  His touch jolted her back to the moment. The pad of his thumb lingered, stroking the swell of her cheekbone as his bright hazel eyes bore into hers. It almost felt like he had switched off her ability to breathe.

  "No. I'm . . . weighing my options carefully before I speak," she said.

  "You were always careful, Lana." His tone was so low, it sent a thrill through her.

  Something rose in her, an emotion she couldn't immediately identify. Was it anger? Denial? Was she drunk—and imagining things—or could Hank's words be taken for a challenge?

  "I wasn't, the first time I fell for you."

  And there they were: the most un-careful series of words she could imagine tumbling past her lips. She stood before him with bated breath.

  Someone switched the garden lights on, and the night sky overhead erupted into twinkling, bright white bulbs suspended on a network of delicate strings.

  Hank leaned in. His forehead brushed up against hers. Lana could smell the alcohol on his breath, the aroma almost unbearably sweet. If she tilted her head toward him, even a little . . . their lips might meet. She might taste the beer that Hank had been drinking.

  "Sorry." She tried to mollify her statement in the aftermath. She touched a gentle hand to her forehead and winced a smile. "I've had a lot to drink. Maybe it's best if I head out." It's been good to see you, Hank, she wanted to conclude. If she was braver, she might even pull him in for a hug—just to feel his body pressed against hers one more time. It would be obvious what she was doing, but she thought it would be worth it.

  But she had used up all her bravery already in the span of a single sentence. She dropped her eyes and moved to pull away from Hank.

  He hung on. "Can I walk you home?"

  Lana's heart jumped, and she looked at him as if she hadn't heard right. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to repeat his question, but the intensity in his gaze told her she already knew the truth. She had heard Hank's offer correctly.

  She nodded. His hand found her shoulder, and he guided her back toward the house so she could grab her purse.

  She locked eyes with Sookie on their way out. Hank's sister stared, mouth agape, and didn't appear to notice that the beer she was pouring into a red Solo cup was waterfalling down the side.

  Lana nodded to let her know that everything was okay; she knew what she was doing. It was just a harmless walk home.

  Totally harmless.

  They strolled together down Cedar Springs' main street in mutual silence. There was so much to be said—and so much that remained unsaid—between them, Lana wasn't sure where to begin.

  She wasn't even sure there could be a beginning for them. They had already missed it, hadn't they? They’d had their shot.

  Still, her heart couldn't help but hope.

  They arrived at her house, and Lana took the first step up onto the front porch alone.

  She turned and found Hank still standing in the driveway. Though the step gave her extra inches, she still stood shorter than he did. He was a towering shadow on her lawn, the phantom of her past, made manifest before her.

  She wasn't ready for the evening to end, she realized. Not yet. But what more was there to say, besides—everything?

  "Do you . . . want to come inside?"

  "I'd like that," Hank said quietly.

  Lana gave a small, shy smile in response. She turned back to the door and fished around for her keys, which took longer than she would have liked. Her brain, her fingers, weren't working properly . . . and the warm gust of Hank's breath on the back of her neck made finding the dratted keys practically impossible. She wasn't
sure how close he was standing, and she didn't dare turn to look. She finally located her house key, pulled it out with a jangle from the rest of the keys on the ring, and unlocked the door.

  She hadn't thought to leave the light on. She could feel herself listing sideways in the dark as she tried to toe off her heels and hit the light switch.

  She failed at both and couldn't help the giggle that escaped her. Her laugh escalated to the point that she thought she might actually fall down in her own foyer.

  A pair of steadying hands caught her before gravity won the fight. "Look at you." Hank's own laugh was shaky. "How did you make it all the way home in this state?"

  "Because of you!" Lana planted her hands against his chest—but it would have taken more force to shove him away. The man was a rock.

  Her hands suddenly seemed to gain a mind of their own; they stayed cemented to him, then dragged lower—lightly, tentatively. His abs felt like iron beneath his shirt. There were no soft, pliable spots, no give. His body was as unyielding as the man himself.

  She remembered, then, who this was. This was Hank Logan, the man who had left her ten years ago without a backward glance. And she was Lana Sweet, the spurned first love.

  It wasn't right to touch him—not anymore. She removed her hands from him.

  Or at least, she tried to.

  Hank's fingers circled her wrists. She glanced up, mouth parted in a half-gasp of surprise. His face hovered above her. She closed her eyes, willing it to be closer. Willing him to be closer.

  And she felt it. The brush of Hank's lips against her own. It wasn't just her imagination, this time. The firm, warm press of his mouth was solid and real. It grounded her. For a split second, it gave Lana gravity and balance. She realized, with perfect clarity, that Hank was kissing her. The hands on her waist moved to her back as he wrapped her in his arms.

  She pressed forward, suddenly, with an aggression she hadn't known she was capable of. She knew it surprised Hank, too, because he staggered a step back, and she heard his shoulder hit the door.