Wildfire Griffin (Fire & Rescue Shifters: Wildfire Crew #1)(19)

“I don’t mind,” he said, his gaze flickering to the other side of the fire.

A rather awkward silence fell. Edith gingerly perched on the rough bark as far away as she could get from him, trying not to intrude on his personal space, and stared at her hands. As long as she watched them, she could stop them from twitching.

Wystan cleared his throat. “So, um. Have you been a fire watcher long?”

“A few years now,” she said, grateful for the conversational lifeline. “Only during the summer, of course. The lookout towers open at the start of fire season.”

Blaise cocked an eyebrow at her. “It’s not fire season yet. Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere so early?”

“I always come up here as early as I can. Fire watching isn’t the best paid career. I can’t afford my own place, so off-season I stay with my parents down in San Francisco. They’re great, and I love them, but…” She scrunched up her nose, searching for the right words. “They can’t help treating me like a child. In their eyes, I’m always going to be the hapless kid who can’t be trusted to know what’s best for her, you know?”

“Only too well,” Joe sighed, not looking up from the beans.

Wystan let out a rueful chuckle. “All of us are somewhat escaping from our families too.” He gestured around the circle. “We grew up together. Firefighting rather runs in the blood—our fathers all work together on an engine crew back in England. We had to move five thousand miles just to get out from under their shadows.”

“They’re that famous?” she asked.

There was a pause. All the hotshot crew exchanged glances with each other, as though having a silent, private debate.

“More like…legendary,” Rory said at last. “In certain circles, at least.”

She was struck again by how different his accent was from Wystan and Blaise. “You don’t sound like you come from England.”

“Och aye, lassie, ye must ken my manner o’ speakin’,” he said, exaggerating his burr to ludicrous extreme. “Half Scottish, half American. My father’s side of the family are all true-blood Highlanders. They made it their mission to make sure I didn’t end up sounding like a ‘soft southerner’ despite growing up in England. Left me with an accent that tends to wander around a bit.”

“I like your voice,” she assured him. “It’s big and warm and furry.”

Blaise broke into a coughing fit. Wystan covered his mouth with his hand. Too late, her learned social filter kicked in.

“I-I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “That was a weird thing to say.”

The firelight flickered over Rory’s crooked smile. “No. It wasn’t.”

In the warm orange light, his eyes almost seemed to glow. She was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. If she stared too long, she would burn up.

She jerked her gaze away, turning to Joe instead. “I don’t recognize your accent either. Where are you from?”

“Mid-Atlantic,” he replied, not entirely helpfully. Before she could ask what he meant, he handed her a steaming bowl. “Now, taste and tell me if this needs more chili.”

Edith obediently took a bite.

“It does not,” she gasped, when she could speak again, “need more chili.”

Wystan, who had just tasted his own bowl, spluttered. “Good grief. I thought you said this would be like angels dancing on our tongues, Joe?”

Joe pursed his lips, contemplating his creation. “Very large angels. In stilettos.”

“Actually,” Blaise said around her spoon, “I think it’s pretty good.”

Edith cautiously tried a smaller, more respectful mouthful. After you got over being slapped in the sinuses by a wave of heat, the beans did actually taste good—complex and warming, with a deep, smoky flavor.

“Wow.” She smiled at Joe. “You’ll have to teach me your secret. Canned food gets kind of monotonous when you’re eating it all summer.”

“You aren’t going to be here this summer though, are you?” Rory hadn’t touched his own food. “Not with the tower equipment broken.”

She looked at him in surprise. “How did you know that?”

Fenrir, who had his muzzle firmly planted in a large bowl of beans, made a muffled noise.

“Uh, just seemed obvious,” Rory said. “I mean, since you had your radio dismantled. I’m guessing there’s not going to be work for you here. What are you going to do?”

The beans suddenly seemed tasteless. She mashed them around with her spoon, all appetite lost.

“I’ll…I’ll find something,” she said, trying to paste a smile onto her face.

“Hmmm.” Rory leaned his elbows on his knees, watching her through the campfire with odd intensity. “Can I see your Red Card?”

She automatically reached for her wallet—then her brain caught up with her ears. The Red Card was the wildland firefighter equivalent of a driving license. It literally was a red card, printed with a record of training and qualifications that showed what roles you were certified to perform. No one was allowed to work on a fire without one.

Every year, she promised herself that she would let her qualifications lapse. Every year, she found herself filling in the forms and taking the required refresher course at a fire academy. All her identity had been bound up in that red slip of card for so long, not to have one would have felt like amputating a limb. Even now it lurked in her wallet, a scarlet reminder of failure.