Into the Flames

Chapter 4

4

A little over a year ago, Rollo and the rest of his team of hotshots had been trapped in a burnover in Big Canyon. A ferocious wildfire, moving faster than seemed possible, had simply run over them. For fifteen minutes the crew of nineteen hotshots—minus Finn, who'd taken off on his own instead of deploying his shelter—huddled inside their thin aluminum tents. The sounds of the firestorm outside—a tree exploding, the hiss of sap boiling, the fire-generated wind currents—warned Rollo there was a strong chance he'd die.

His life had done the proverbial flash-before-your-eyes routine. All of his twenty-nine years had unscrolled in his mind as if he was saying goodbye to it all. And in his heart, he was. Sean, the team leader, had tried some black humor to keep the panic at bay. It turned into a game of "if we make it out of this alive." Rollo had joked that if he survived, he'd get a job as a CPA. Safer, right? Funny, haha. Except that in those howling fiery winds, he heard his real doom.

If he made it out alive, his family would jump at the chance to make him quit firefighting. His days of freedom would be over. Goodbye hotshots, hello boardroom.

Members of the Wareham family didn't risk their lives in the wilderness. They didn't camp out on the fire lines until they stank of smoke and sweat. They didn't grow beards. No, they enjoyed their trust funds while they made more money for the Wareham Group. They attended top-tier social events and married other Mayflower descendants. That was his destiny, and he'd only managed to avoid that soul-crushing existence because he'd made an agreement.

He could live his own life until he turned thirty. Then the bill would come due.

Last month, he'd passed that landmark. He'd celebrated his thirtieth birthday getting drunk at Barstow's Brews with the guys. He told no one it was his birthday. He didn't tell anyone what it meant. He got wasted and told firefighting stories and soaked up every second of his last moments of freedom. He also wound up in a lengthy, fuzzy conversation with Craig Harrington, who was trying to unload his house.

Oops.

The next morning, the first email from his mother came.

When are you coming home, Rollington? Shall I have tickets booked for you?

Not yet. There's a hitch. I seem to have bought a house.

His phone rang immediately, but he stuck to email. You can pull your matchmaker act long distance, can't you?

You can't back out of this.

I'm not backing out. I'm quitting the hotshots. I'm giving you free rein to find someone eligible. But I'm staying in Jupiter Point. Nothing in the agreement says I can't.

She didn't like it, but she adapted pretty quickly. Ever since then, she'd been introducing him to likely candidates by email.

Lately, every morning he woke up to an email from Cornelia Nesmith. She was the first prospect who seemed halfway compatible with him.

On the morning after his non-date with Brianna, Rollo checked his email and saw that Cornelia had sent him a photo of herself jogging with her golden retriever in Central Park. She had a dog—that counted for a lot in his book. She also had thick honey-blond hair and a perky figure. A guy could do worse, he supposed.

He sent her back a quick note, then read an email from his brother, Brent. Lucky for Rollo, Brent had gone to business school and loved everything about the world of high finance. Rollo got copied on all the important board meetings and votes, but he was happy to leave the business side of things to his brother. The guy was a champ when it came to that stuff.

When he'd finished with his emails, he pulled on his running gear and ambled through his new house.

It still seemed strange that he owned a house. It was even stranger that a house he'd bought sight unseen while drunk on his thirtieth birthday would be so perfect for him. But it was.

It was an open, airy structure with vaulted ceilings, almost like a barn. With his height, he needed high ceilings, and these soared far over his head. The big picture windows looked out on a sloping lawn that dipped toward a retaining wall at the edge of a bluff. Just below, the ocean churned against a wall of rock.

Rollo got some coffee going and stared for a while out the window. This early in the morning, the sky over the Pacific glowed a gentle shade of lilac. He loved looking out over the ocean—possibly because it faced west, away from the Wareham clan.

A few minutes later, he knocked on the door of the guesthouse where Finn was staying. After a few curses and thumps, his friend cracked open the door. Rollo thrust a giant mug of coffee at him. The fragrant steam floated through the air, making Finn's bleary eyes brighten.

"Dude. You're a lifesaver."

"Late night?"

"Yeah. This screenwriting gig is for shit." He opened the door farther, letting Rollo come inside.

The guesthouse was so small he had to duck and turn sideways to enter. All the furniture had been left by the previous owners, who seemed to have had an obsession with flowery prints. He settled into a wingback armchair with an antique rose print and slung his feet onto the coffee table.

Finn, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt that read, "We find them hot and leave them wet," shoved aside the sleeping bag on the couch and sat down to put on his running shoes.

For a moment, Rollo wondered what about Finn got Brianna so dreamy. To him, Finn was just a guy. A good guy, hard worker and competent fireman. And sure, maybe better-looking than the average dude. Rumor had it he'd done a few commercials before he got into wildland firefighting. And before his face got scarred in the burnover.

Something had gone wrong during the burnover. He'd panicked and split. He'd survived on his own by taking shelter in a gravel streambed. No one really knew why he'd taken off, and some of the guys still hadn't forgiven him. Sean, for instance.

But Rollo didn't feel that way. In his view, no one was perfect, everyone f****d up once in a while, and everyone deserved another chance. The list of his own f**k-ups—that would take weeks to explain.

"How's it coming?" he asked Finn now, as his friend laced up his shoes.

"Oh, pretty damn f*****g great. I wrote two pages."

That didn't sound like much to Rollo, but what did he know? "Um…way to go?"

"I ditched them. They were total crap." He drained half the mug of coffee, then sprang to his feet. "You ready to go?"

"Yup."

With Rollo taking the lead, they jogged along the narrow trail that hugged the cliffs. The morning light had a pearly, misty quality, with the sun still hidden behind the hills to the east. This footpath was one of the best things about the Harrington house. It went all the way down the cliffs into the valley, where a little subdivision nestled. In fact, Brianna lived down there somewhere in a log cabin.

The thought of her bright face made him smile. Maybe they should jog down to her place and surprise her. It could be step one in the process of getting her and Finn together.

Nah. He dismissed the thought as soon as it appeared. He glanced back at Finn, who was frowning at his feet with that dark look that came over him now and then. Brianna and Finn…he just couldn't see them together. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

His phone pinged. It had to be one of his family members. They were the only ones who called this early. When would they ever learn that the West Coast was three hours behind? Of course they knew. They just didn't care. As his mother said once, "Is it my fault you moved to a different time zone?"

He dug it out of his back pocket and checked the readout. The message was from Sidney, his little sister and the only member of his family who didn't piss him off every time they spoke.

Momster says you didn't go to clubs until you were 18 and I know that's BS why does she lie to me does she think I'm stupid?

He jammed his phone back in his pocket to focus on the grassy trail under his feet.

"Problem?" Finn asked from behind him.

"Sister. Nothing urgent. The teenage drama can wait until after my run."

Finn grunted, and they picked up the pace. "Thought it might be your date from last night."

"Nah."

"Bust?"

Rollo's turn to grunt. He wouldn't call it a "bust," exactly. The time always flew with Brianna. He got such a kick out of her. And then there was the deal they'd come up with. Speaking of which… "By the way, I hired a landscaper, so if you see a cute little redhead around, be nice."

"Cute little redhead? Single?"

"Yup. Word is she likes the dark and broody type."

"Not for me, dude. I'm talking about you. It's the off-season, you just bought a house, it's time you met the right girl."

Rollo picked up the pace even more. "If my mother paid you to say that, I'm f*****g evicting you."

Finn laughed. "Anyone ever tell you you're an easy target? Damn, relax, Money."

Rollo ran even faster, until the margins of the trail slipped by in a soft green blur. The hotshots called him by two nicknames, Iron Man and Money. Iron Man because he had a knack for tech, and Money because of being a Wareham. He despised the nickname Money. At a bar in Montana, after too many beers, he'd nearly beaten up a guy on another crew for using that nickname. His guys had held him back.

"Whatever you say, Hollywood. So, about those two crappy pages you wrote…"

Finn snorted. "You know what I don't understand? Why everyone thinks you're so damn nice. Tell them to come talk to me, I'll straighten them out."

Rollo chuckled. Finn had a point there.

His phone buzzed again. This time, he ignored it. If Sidney wanted to vent, he'd listen, of course. But it would have to wait until he wasn't hurtling down a rocky slope alongside a steep drop-off. It was crazy to be running here. But to be a hotshot, you had to be a little bit crazy.

Back at the house, Finn retreated to the guesthouse to hammer at the screenplay some more, but Rollo felt the need for more exercise. He spent some time with his punching bag, which he'd set up in the lower-level den of the house. He needed to punch something. But it couldn't be a person. He was too big and powerful. Striking a blow that could hurt another human being…he'd done that once too often as a rebellious kid.

He was never going to let that happen again.

After his session with the punching bag, when he was dripping with sweat, he finally remembered Sidney's text. He checked his phone and saw that she'd sent a stream of emojis. He saw an animated turd, two crying eyeballs, a dancing hot pepper, a whole bunch of screaming faces.

Bad burrito? Fight with her best friend? Who knew?

He texted back an audio clip of happy birds chirping. Guaranteed to piss her off, but make her laugh at the same time.

All joking aside, he worried about Sidney. She'd gotten kicked out of two schools in the past two years. His parents kept sending her to new and different psychiatrists. But nothing seemed to help. His parents kept asking him to talk to her, but what could he say?

Yeah, I know your life is s**t right now, but things will get better, so just hang on and don't do any kind of permanent damage like I did.

Yeah, maybe not.