Californian Wildfire Fighters: The Complete Series

by North, Leslie

  "That's better than we've seen all summer," remarked the county commissioner. "At the risk of sounding overconfident, I think it might be time we consider a downgrade."

  Hank stood at the center of the room, arms crossed. Flanking him were the other volunteer team leaders. None of them were endowed with any more authority than another, but the other leaders always gave Hank a place at the head of their group. His squad had been the first to respond to Cedar Springs' call for help, and his personal connection to the town was no secret by now. They considered him as much a local as the Springs chief.

  Three weeks under control.

  He wished he could say the same for himself.

  One of the volunteer leaders glanced at him. Hank wasn't sure what the man expected him to say. He probably should say something, but hell if he could remember now what the fighters had discussed among themselves before the meeting. Lana's face burned like an ember in his brain. All the rest melted away like 8mm film.

  "We're concerned about the incoming storm," the leader to Hank’s right mentioned. "There's the possibility that it will push the fire more northerly from the southern region."

  "I appreciate your concern," the commissioner replied. "The meteorologists have been keeping us up-to-date on the storm track. At this time, my department doesn't think that it poses a significant risk."

  Hank knew how all this worked. There were too many extra bodies, too many volunteers, and they were eating up resources fast. The pencil-pushers at the commissioner's office had their own reports to compile, and the results were clear. Cedar Springs simply couldn't support this many volunteers. The town was eager to get back to its sleepy business-as-usual, and Hank couldn't say he blamed anyone for thinking that way.

  The sooner things returned to normal, the better.

  And that meant packing the volunteer squads up—and going home.

  Hank left the meeting with Alaska on his mind. He was aware that the other squad leaders had expected more from him in the meeting, but at the end of the day, it wasn't his call. If the commissioner's office had the weather patterns and numbers they thought they needed, then he wasn't going to give voice to a gut feeling he only half-acknowledged himself. The battle against the fire wasn't over . . . but maybe it wasn't his problem anymore.

  Maybe it was time to let things go.

  Back at the fire station, he pulled a few items from his borrowed locker and shoved them into his duffle bag. Better to begin the packing process now. He thought he could count on Chase Kingston to be the one panicking at the last minute, and a cursory glance over at his squad mate's overflowing locker proved his instincts right. He had warned Chase, more than anyone else, about putting down roots here. Looked like the other man had decided once again not to heed sound advice.

  Hank slung his bag over his shoulder and headed out. He rounded the corner of the station . . . and nearly plowed right into Lana Sweet.

  Hank took a staggered step back to avoid bowling her over. He was a big man and knew the effects of his size and strength.

  "Oh, Hank!" Lana exclaimed. "I'm sorry! I wasn't watching where I was going!"

  "Lana?" Her name was a riddle on his lips. "What are you doing here?" He couldn't help staring at her in disbelief. They hadn't been able to avoid running into each other these past months, but he couldn't think of a reason for her to be at the station.

  "I . . . actually, I was looking for you." Lana teased a few strands of hair back behind her ear. She still wouldn't make easy eye contact with him, not directly. Not the way she used to.

  It killed him to see the struggle play out, but he had no idea how to reach for her. All he could do was stand before her and wait.

  At last, she said, "How did your meeting go?"

  "Good." This wasn't what either of them wanted to talk about, but he was getting used to it. "The fire's been downgraded as a threat. They're going to start sending people home."

  Lana’s head jerked up, and her gaze bored into him. "Oh?" It felt worse than having her avoid his eyes.

  "Figured I'd volunteer the Alaska contingent if no one else steps up right away," he continued. "We've been here the longest, and I know some of the boys are getting antsy to head back. And I'd like to get home to the station before someone manages to burn it down in my absence."

  It was a lame joke. Lana didn't even try to muster a laugh. He could see her thoughts racing a mile a minute behind her eyes.

  "Hank, I want you to know that I . . . I can't forget what happened between us the other night. I've tried."

  "I know." He felt like an asshole saying it, but he meant it more than she could possibly guess. It wasn't Lana's fixation that worried him, but his own. He couldn't think straight enough even to speak at meetings anymore, which was partly why he thought it high time to head home. "I don't want to forget it."

  "Neither do I." Lana surprised him by reaching for his free hand. Her fingers closed over his. "I figured your time here might be drawing to a close. I came by today to ask you to stay . . . just a little longer. I wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight, at least. There's something important I want to discuss with you."

  Hank's heart lurched. A warning bell went off in his head. He thought he knew what it was that Lana wanted to discuss with him, but the two of them being together . . . it wasn't the right thing. They couldn't recapture the past. He wasn't any good for her, then or now. And after caving to his desire, he needed to keep his distance from her, more than ever.

  "I've got some time." Contrary to everything he was thinking in that moment, the words somehow slipped free. His control wasn't just being tested, it was being pulverized by a pair of gorgeous green eyes.

  Lana perked up. The fingers around his squeezed as she smiled happily. "Good. Because I wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer. I've already got a bun in the oven."

  "Your mom's homemade bread?" Hank guessed.

  Lana's expression was queer, but she nodded. "I know it was always your favorite."

  "Some things never change."

  They agreed on a time that evening and parted ways. Don't even think about sleeping with her, Logan, Hank thought as he watched the love of his life stroll away from him. Not in the cards.

  And this time, he wasn't allowed to deal himself a new hand. Lana was off-limits to him. She had to be, if either of them hoped to survive this next encounter.

  The fire had to be put out—once and for all.

  6

  LANA

  The doorbell rang.

  Lana rose from where she sat by the oven, monitoring the bread. She had finished baking a while ago and was simply keeping the loaf warm now until Hank arrived. The table was set for two, the silverware sparkling, the lace napkins carefully folded. The steak dinner she had prepared was already plated. An ice cube popped and settled in the fresh pitcher of tea at the center of the arrangement.

  She paused to survey it all, then dusted her hands off on her apron. It was a needless gesture; her supplies were already put away, her hands washed pristinely clean. But her palms were sweating, and she hadn't even answered the door yet. God, please let this evening go well, she prayed as she moved out into the hallway.

  She saw Hank's long shadow cast beneath her porchlight. Her pulse quickened as she laid her hand on the doorknob.

  God, please let me have the courage to tell him the truth.

  A lame attempt at wordplay wasn't going to cut it. Things were more serious now than her earlier bun-in-the-oven remark.

  She wasn't even sure what had possessed her to say it. Maybe a part of her had hoped for an easy out—a look of dawning comprehension from Hank that required no real admission on her part. He would just intuit, understand, and then . . . what? He would realize he loved her and sweep her off her feet? They would get married and start a family?

  Maybe it was best not to open with the news.

  Lana pulled the door open and beamed warmly. "Hi, Hank. Thanks for coming."

  Hank glanced up from hi
s feet, where he had been kicking her welcome mat. "Evening, Lana." His brown eyes caught hers. "Hope you didn't go to a lot of trouble."

  She managed a bubbly laugh. "Never."

  She helped him out of his jacket, hung it on the coat tree, and led the way to the kitchen. If there was one thing Lana knew how to do, it was play host. She lived alone in her parents' old house, really too large for just one person, for the express purpose of being able to entertain guests. Hardly a week went by when she didn't have someone over for tea. She wondered if an unacknowledged part of her had always looked forward to this night amid all the others: the night Hank returned.

  Hank eased his tall form into a kitchen chair, and Lana could feel his eyes, watching her remove the loaf from the oven. They made small talk as she sliced them each off a steaming piece of fresh, fluffy bread. The aroma was mouth-watering. She loved the way Hank's eyes lit up despite his best attempts to keep his face stern. How could anyone not smile when faced with her mother's bread?

  "So you're planning on leaving soon?" Twenty minutes into their dinner, Lana summoned the strength to ask the question. She served him up some extra kale salad—even though he hadn't asked—and Hank didn't put out his hand to stop her. They both knew that no matter how delicious her food was, it was only an excuse to see each other.

  Hank nodded. He swirled his iced tea and stared deep into the whirlpool he made. "Garrett bought a car and wants to road-trip home." He sighed and sat back. "I know the men could use a chance to unwind after all the stress, but they already complain about how close they're forced to sleep back at the rental. I don't think they've thought ahead to sharing a car . . . or a hotel room."

  "Cedar Springs is going to miss them when they're gone." Lana smiled fondly.

  "I'm not so sure they won't miss this town."

  She glanced up at his quietly-spoken words, but he sipped his tea and looked at nothing in particular.

  "Why did you come here, Hank?" She folded her hands in her lap and watched him.

  He shifted, set his tea down, and stroked a finger along the inside bridge of his nose.

  She squinted. Was that a habit of his she had forgotten? Did it mean something? She was searching for answers in every smallest detail, knowing the man himself was likely to give her none.

  "I answered the call." He shrugged. "Somebody had to put out the fire."

  "The fire isn't out yet," she pointed out.

  "May as well be."

  Lana allowed a frustrated sigh to vent past her lips, set her napkin aside, and rose. "Excuse me. I have to use the bathroom."

  What she really needed was a reprieve from the conversational equivalent of pounding her fists against a brick wall. She exited the kitchen, crossed the hall, and closed herself off in the bathroom. She heaved another sigh and looked to the ceiling—and the heavens beyond—for strength. She pulled open the top drawer and stared at the pregnancy test nestled in its sheath.

  It was now or never.

  When she came back into the kitchen, she found Hank holding a picture of Michael.

  Lana froze in the doorway, the pregnancy test clutched behind her back. She forgot how to breathe as she studied him. Maybe she should have thought ahead and taken the photo down from her fridge. They had gotten so good at avoiding the past . . .

  She wasn't sure what alerted him to her presence, but Hank looked up. His jaw was tight, his angular face painted with shadows. Lana had always tried to keep her kitchen bright and cheery, but even the warm light radiating from the ceiling couldn't seem to banish the sudden gloom that overtook them.

  "I still miss him," she whispered.

  "I know you do." She could see from the way Hank's gaze deepened that Michael's death still haunted him, too. But why? She knew Hank and her brother had been best friends, but she thought he had at least partially succeeded in escaping those memories when he’d left Cedar Springs. She had thought, too, that he would have found a chance to heal in Alaska.

  Then why did she suddenly get the impression Hank's regret weighed on him even more heavily than hers?

  Hank sat down wearily. Lana covertly dropped the pregnancy test into her apron pocket and padded across the kitchen to him.

  Their food was getting cold. She took the picture from him, watching the three beaming, youthful faces slip through his fingers. The picture wasn't just of Michael. Lana, ten years younger, stood in the center of the photograph, framed by the two boys she’d cherished more than anything. Michael was on her left, and Hank was on her right. They stood so close, so tightly linked, that it was difficult to distinguish whose arms belonged to whom.

  "This has always been my favorite photograph," she murmured. She traced their faces with her fingertips. "I look at it every morning. And every morning, it reminds me how lucky I am."

  For all the dark years she had nursed her broken heart alone, Lana had never forgotten the light of her youth, and the time she had spent racing around Cedar Springs in the company of Hank and her brother. Of course, once things got romantic between them, she and Hank had started to slip off on their own.

  They had been alone together the night Michael died.

  "Why did you leave me ten years ago?" she asked. She had imagined herself posing the question to him so many times, in so many different ways, that her voice didn't waver when she finally said it. "I still have the note you taped to my door. It didn't explain anything. What did I do to run you off, Hank?"

  "You didn't do anything," he interjected. "It's complicated. It was just . . . it was time for me to go."

  "You think I wanted to stay here without you? I would have gone with you," Lana insisted. "I would have followed you anywhere!"

  "I didn't want you to," Hank threw back coldly. "Still don't."

  Lana stared at him in stunned silence. She searched every inch of his face for some indication that he hadn't meant what he said. But he wasn't the same boy she had loved ten years ago. This man—did she even recognize him? Or had she just been fooling herself thinking she could see past the stony exterior?

  Hank rose. "I shouldn't have come here. I knew it was a mistake."

  "A mistake?" Lana's vision wavered as she watched him grab his jacket off the coat tree. Her disbelief at seeing him leave again so overwhelmed her reality that, for a moment, she could almost imagine their dinner together had been a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  Hank froze. He ducked his head, and she wondered if he was deliberately preventing himself from looking over his shoulder at her. "We can't recapture the past, Lana. What we had doesn't exist anymore."

  "Is that true?" she asked quietly. "Is that really true, Hank? Is it gone?"

  He stood with his back to her. His broad shoulders seemed to create an impenetrable wall between them. For a moment, she found hope in his silence. Then he responded. "Some things that are lost stay lost, Lana. I shouldn't have come here."

  If he repeated the refrain one more time, Lana thought she would scream. It was all she could do to hold still now and watch him go. A desperate part of her wanted to throw herself at his feet, to beg him, plead with him, to reconsider.

  "I'm sorry," Hank said. He raised his head to look at her, but the depths of his hazel eyes were darker now, seemingly unreachable. He turned and exited the kitchen.

  She had the magic words to call him back. She knew she did.

  She still hadn't told him about the pregnancy.

  Lana held her tongue. She listened as the front door closed behind him. The gravel of her driveway crunched beneath his boot heels as he retreated into the night.

  She rose, calmly took hold of his empty glass—and flung it with all her might. It exploded in a shower of crystalline shards against the back of the door.

  It was too late for the glass, and it was too late for her heart. If both were going to shatter tonight, then she at least wanted to do some of the smashing.

  "I'm done," she whispered to the walls of her empty house. Her hand fell, touched her stomach. The an
ger bled out of her until she felt like a listless, empty shell. Hollow. But there was a new life growing inside her, and with it, Lana felt a spark of resilience. Of rebellion.

  The years had only hardened Hank Logan. Everything about him had changed, and nothing had changed. He hadn't learned a damn thing from his past actions, and what's more, Lana wasn't even sure he regretted them. Over the course of their encounters, she had actually allowed herself to think that he might be looking for a way to make amends for his mistakes.

  But it didn't matter now. Lana had herself to look after, and more. Pregnancy or no pregnancy, Hank wouldn't have a damn thing to do with it. If he could run out on her again now, what was there to stop him from running out on her and a baby?

  Lana wilted down into a kitchen chair and rested her head in her hands. Maybe she couldn't stop herself from loving Hank. Maybe there was no hope for it. But there was hope for a future without him.

  "I'm done," she whispered again.

  The words held such finality that she could almost believe them.

  7

  HANK

  "Storm's come in early." Chase called out a warning to the rest of the house as Hank slammed the front door.

  He took a moment to collect himself in the darkened hallway. His chest rose and fell as he tried to grasp some for some sort of inner Zen. At the very least, he needed to come to terms with what had been said that night.

  What he had said.

  He couldn't take it back now. He couldn't banish the memory of the stunned expression on Lana's face as he’d dismantled everything they had been tentatively building between them. Ten years ago, he would have given anything for her to follow him out of Cedar Springs . . . but she couldn't see how impossible that was. She didn't know the full story. It was better this way—better if she moved on—and found a man more worthy of her love than he was.

  She still didn't know what he had done.

  Hank redirected his thoughts into his hands, clenching his fists at his sides. He turned and strode into the living room.