Call him out on the lie. Acceptable only if she was a friend—and she wasn’t, so calling him on it was a sure way to start a fight. She wasn’t looking for that either.
Or she could ignore what he’d said and just keep the conversation going in a way that made clear she’d picked up on the lie. Spotted a weakness. Another great way to make friends.
Or, what seemed smartest, pretend to misread the situation and make a joke out of it. Give him an out, assuming he had a sense of humor.
“Did you sleep with Treadwell’s daughter or something?” She squinted dramatically at him over her bags.
“No!” He answered so sharply some of the color came back to his cheeks and she felt that moment of vulnerability pass. “He doesn’t have a daughter.”
“Okay, you did something else, then,” she announced. “You just like to speak about as much as no one I’ve ever met.”
“Don’t care.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Fine, Miss Congeniality.” She jerked her head toward the cabins. “I’m going to continue moving in. Then I’m going to pack my duffel with some weight to simulate the pack carry and run the forest track. And since I know you’re not making any other friends with that effervescent charm, you’re welcome to take the other room in the cabin if you’d like to sleep somewhere that won’t put a crick in your neck. If you don’t want to sully a bed, use the couch. Or the floor. I can step over you. No problem. I doubt I’ll even accidentally kick you more than once or twice. Three times tops.”
The pack carry was the second biggest thing she worried about doing sufficiently well. The problem that took up most of her overly developed worry centers was her application mistake—her skydiving experience. Good intentions didn’t counter bad planning follow-through. Filling out the application on behalf of her future self—the one who would’ve completed the training program and gone on several jumps—was only okay until life and family emergencies had interfered with her training schedule. Now it was a lie. In writing. Even if skydiving experience wasn’t required to get into the program, once she’d been selected—months later—she hadn’t been able to figure out how to rewind it.
She’d gladly run herself ragged with a heavy pack to keep from thinking about those possible consequences.
He levered himself from the ground. “Don’t weight your pack for the run tonight. Hard track to run in the dark.”
“You think I’ll fall?”
“You wanted advice. Don’t take unnecessary chances,” he said, dusting some of the grass from his...very firm backside and meaty, manly legs.
Then he said more things and screwed up her mental appreciation.
“Washing out already would mean another year before you could get back.”
She had wanted to hear advice. Did want to. And this was even advice that he didn’t stumble his way through or have to force out. It sounded genuine.
It also sounded like criticism. Already was a very judgmental word. Although she couldn’t stop her hackles rising, she was almost thankful for it. Handsome wrapper over a jerky nougat center? He was suddenly far less attractive.
“I’m used to tougher workouts than a woodland path.”
“Uneven terrain.” Still doubting her ability to run on shaded trails, and not answering her invitation. Which was fine. Let him sleep in his truck.
He rolled his shoulders and took off at an easy jog for the all-terrain course where he’d sent the others a while ago.
The course was two and a half miles around, two laps to make it five.
If she hurried, she could stash her stuff in the cabin and catch up with him. Then he’d see how sure-footed she was. No falling. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not already.
And she still kind of wanted to trip him.
CHAPTER THREE
BECK’S FEET HIT the ground in a steady rhythm, broken only by the need to readjust his step as he covered the uneven packed earth winding through the various pine, fir and tan oaks of the evergreen forest.
Ahead of him lay the only thing he’d looked forward to when considering his return to camp: the gnarled tan oak near the halfway mark on the trail. Tan oaks littered the state, but he loved the ones that were twisted and gnarled. He’d developed an odd affection for this particular ancient-looking tree two years ago and come to think of it in anthropomorphic terms—the Old Man.
It was almost all boughs, branching at less than three feet from the ground, a hollowed palm with six fingers shooting toward the sky. A great sitting tree, like the one he’d grown up with in his yard. Shaded. Quiet. A respite from the heat. Surrounded by birdsong. Peaceful. Somewhere to forget where he should’ve been and wasn’t.
Treadwell thought he was being obstinate or stupid, or that it meant he just didn’t care about anyone else on the team. Every time he’d gone outside protocol, it had been for valid reasons. Lifesaving. Following the signs he’d seen.
Or thought he’d seen.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he hadn’t seen anything, just imagined it.
He climbed into the center of the old tree and leaned back on the thickest limb.
If it hadn’t been for his fire, he might have just become a forest ranger full-time.
They should’ve asked for advice about that. He had better words there.
He tilted his head back to gaze through the canopy to the patches of twilight sky. He should’ve kept the radio on him to keep tabs on the fire and his team.
Before he’d had the chance to fully relax, the sound of someone running far too fast over the packed earth had him tensing. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was. She’d run hard to catch up with him, fast enough that she’d have probably caught him even if he hadn’t taken a seat.
She skidded to a halt, the sound pulling his gaze from the sky in time to see her toe catch on a root, and she stumbled.
Without thought, he leaped from the tree, hands shooting out to make a grab for her, but she was just out of reach as she took several large, barely controlled steps forward, and managed to keep from hitting the dirt anyway.
“Okay?” he asked, still covering the distance and giving her a hand to ground her as she recovered her balance.
The touch of her hand sent a surge of lust and heat down his spine that had every muscle tensing.
She froze in place, her eyes wide and locked to his where they stood, facing each other, one hand held between them as if they’d gone to shake hands and had forgotten step two.
Even in the low, fading light, he was once again struck by the color of her eyes. Vibrant, and familiar somehow.
“Fine,” she answered, finally looking down to where their hands joined. He followed her gaze, and saw his thumb slowly stroking the back of her hand.
Immediately, he let go, and stepped back, mentally scrambling through a very short list of appropriate things to do or say after doing something so creepy.
She beat him to it. “Not running?”
Still winded, her speech—short as it was—came out broken with her need for oxygen, or maybe with something else. The same words he’d said to her when trying to get rid of her earlier.
She stepped into a shaft of fading light shining through the trees, a brighter spot in a darkened forest, and he could see how flushed she’d grown from the hard, uneven run.
Pretty. Damn, she was appealing in a way he hadn’t remembered.
“I’ll do two more laps when I get done here.”
“Getting late.”
“I’ve run this trail in the dark.”
She put her hands on her knees, and her breathing got a little slower, more even, but she still had a wariness about her as she watched him. “This year?”
She had a point, as much as he’d prefer to pretend otherwise. But if he ran with her, this would definitely turn into a competition.
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“You know this isn’t a race.”
“I know.”
“But you were running like it was.”
“I was running to catch up, not to win.”
Bull. He turned and began jogging down the path again, letting her once again catch up, which she quickly did.
“Why are you rolling your eyes at me?”
“I gave you the advice you need to hear—this isn’t a race. Neither is it when you’re out in the thick of it. Staying longest, fighting hardest, that’s important. Not getting there fastest.”
“I know that, I’ve been a firefighter for six years and I was raised by firefighters. Generations of them, actually. I’m not stupid.” She kept up with him, but if he’d wanted to pick a way to make her stop with the optimism, he’d apparently picked well, judging by her tone.
“But you’re still acting like this is a competition you’re in. Work on improving yourself, not impressing everyone else.”
He shouldn’t have taken a seat tonight. He should’ve waited until tomorrow, or come back after the run was finished. He’d been wanting to wipe his mind clean, not think about her sun-kissed skin and brilliant green eyes. With his eyes on the trail before him, he suddenly had the strong mental image of a glossy, bright green stone with deep, evergreen bands.
His mother’s pendant.
And the same stone as the polished orbs she’d meditated with. Also the polished and raw pieces of gem she’d kept tucked into nooks all over their cottage.
Malachite, the word swam up from somewhere. Healing stone.
“Are you being contrary because you’re worried about your crew being out?”
God help him, if this was how the conversation was going to go, he’d be better off trying to lose her. He didn’t answer.
“I’m going to take silence for a yes.”
“I’m sure they’re fine.” He was the one in danger of resetting the safety record most recently, not that she needed to know that.
“But it must be hard to be stuck here with the rookies when they’re out there.”
She was going to ask. He could feel it. And once he gave her a scrap of that information, she’d keep pressing until she got more. Until she forced the conversation he hadn’t even wanted to have with Treadwell.
As much to stave it off as to just get the task complete, he picked up speed. A vigorous run was never good for deep conversation.
She kept up.
He glanced to the side and found her facing forward, eyes on the path. At least there was that.
She didn’t ask again, but the cadence of sneakers on compact earth began to sound too loud, too heavy.
“We’re careful. Haven’t lost anyone in a long time.” He spoke truth, words that’d probably comfort her, even if she should be afraid of the fire. Everyone should be afraid before they leaped in. “But I should be there.”
“Fires come earlier every year. There was always a chance the call could come while you were at camp.”
“So?”
“So, you can’t do everything.”
He snorted.
“What?”
“Funny, coming from someone who wants to be the best at everything.”
She didn’t say anything to him then, but he could hear her muttering under her breath. When he looked over, he saw her shaking her head and staring ahead like she could happily murder him.
“What?”
“You don’t get it. I have to be the best.” The words came out and she piled on speed, borrowing his tactic.
She didn’t get to drop that and run away.
“That’s crap,” he said when he pulled level again, although the more they argued, the harder the run became. “There aren’t tons of women in the service, but there are some and they’re treated the same.”
She didn’t slow down, kept up the speed even when she had to leap roots twisting over the path. “Have you asked them that?”
“Asked them what?”
“If your perception matches their experience.”
He stopped running. Did that mean something had happened to her?
She slid to a more graceful stop and looked back at him. “We’re not supposed to keep taking these breaks.”
“We weren’t required to run,” he reminded her, wanting to ask, but also not.
She thought for a second, then shrugged and propped her hands on her hips, breathing deep and fast, waiting for him to answer the question she’d dropped.
“I don’t socialize with them.” Or anyone else. This was the most he’d chatted with anyone that he could remember. At least anyone that wasn’t an animal.
“I noticed.”
“So I never asked them.”
“Hence my point. How can you know what they experience without asking when you see them for only short periods and don’t talk to them?”
Another point.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, because the truth sounded a lot more pathetic. He was usually pretty good at reading people, and leaned on that ability to keep from having to ask questions. From having to talk. From having to get involved.
She looked at him for a long second, then nodded, and jerked her head in the direction they’d been running. “Offer of couch or cabin still stands.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.” With that, she got back up to pace, leaving him to run a few yards behind and consider his options.
The idea that anyone would be treated unfairly bothered him, even though he’d seen it frequently enough in life. It jarred with the whole team life Treadwell pitched. It also didn’t line up with what he wanted the service to be. A teammate, though temporary teammate, was offering him a place to sleep.
It might not be so bad to take the couch she offered. But it would be dumb, if simply touching her hand made parts of his body go tingly.
Last time he’d brought a tent and never shared quarters with anyone, using only the communal showers and dining facilities when he was awake and not actively sweating to death. Having any roommate was a step up from that, proof he was trying to be a team player. But volunteering to room with the woman who’d made him see her as a woman, not just another coworker, would be the kind of stupid Treadwell already seemed to think him.
As they neared the end of the second lap, about to cross their five miles off for the evening, he sped up to catch up with her so she wouldn’t leave immediately when she stepped off the path.
“Hey.” He touched her arm to stop her, but as soon as he did, the words he’d wanted to say left his head. Her skin was so hot and slick...firm...
The touch of his hand, no matter how quickly he drew it back, stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly back to face him, and stepped forward one pace, breaching that bubble of empty space he usually kept around himself. Out in the open air, the last light of day was fading, but the lights on poles around them buzzed, beginning to burn, and he found those astonishingly green eyes staring back at him.
The calm he’d been seeking tickled at the edge of his perception, like a hint of honeysuckle on the night breeze, and he wanted to touch her again.
Swallowing, he took one step back.
“If someone dumps on you because you’re a woman, tell me.”
As soon as he’d gotten the words out, before he saw more than her little ears pulling back as her face lit with surprise, he stepped around her and jogged off. It was almost chow time, and he was hungry and in need of a shower away from honeyed golden skin and perceptive green eyes.
No way would he take her up on the invitation to share a cabin. He was used to roughing it. Sleeping outside in a sleeping bag hardly qualified. He’d wait for his cabin assignment.
* * *
The next morning, Beck awoke in the cab of his truck, neck stiff and head clogged w
ith thoughts he generally avoided. He’d dreamed about her. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d dreamed about a woman.
It wasn’t one of those dreams, it wasn’t even her pestering him with a million questions. They were just sitting on the porch of his little cottage, playing cards and drinking beer, and she’d kept looking over the top arching edge of her red-backed cards, her eyes even greener for the proximity, and flashing mischief.
There was something very sweet about it, although even trying to explain why just left him wanting to call it boring. Boring dream. Cards. Beer. Porch. Stupid thing to dream about. He’d rather have had some kind of wild sex dream about her. If he’d taken her up on the offer to sleep in the other bed in the cabin she’d claimed, he probably would’ve had something more cinematic in his head last night.
So he was up early, and made it to the dew-covered field just as the sun came up. Mist still rose from the grass, the morning siren hadn’t even blasted, but a few other folks were coming down from the cabins.
“Here.”
Her voice came from the side suddenly, and he turned at the waist to see her, his neck refusing his order to turn. She looked as fresh as a daisy, and had a steaming paper cup in each hand, one of which she held out. “I don’t know how you like coffee, but there was a coffee maker in the cabin, and I doubted you had one in the trunk.”
“Truck,” he corrected. The quirk of her lips said she’d knowingly made that verbal typo. He probably did look like he’d been sleeping in a trunk.
“Black, but I have sugar in my pocket,” she added.
God help him, he’d bet she did. Sugar. Sweet, addicting sugar...
“I like it black.”
“Thought you might. You probably also like it a week old when it’s condensed down to an inky liquid you could use to strip an engine block.”
“You’ll get used to roughing it.” He took a sip with some effort, the bitter shot of liquid a fleeting wake-up jolt. “Men in my unit used to pack coffee grounds in their lower lip like tobacco when on guard duty.”
Rescued by Her Rival Page 3