ONE
Deanna Jackson just wanted to see the sky. The tiniest sliver of blue would be enough.
The real sky was up there somewhere, hidden behind the canopy of smoke hovering above the rooflines of Main Street. It called to her to be free, to escape the doom and the stress in her airplane, but she couldn’t. Although it looked like it was nearing nightfall, it was really only eleven in the morning, and Deanna was stuck indoors. Stuck being a grown-up with bills to pay.
Eerie shadows flickered through her coffee shop windows, making the inside of The Hangar feel too bright, as if its cheeriness offended the gloom outside. Occasional chunks of charred debris and ash dropped onto the sidewalks like dirty hail, a taste of what awaited the small town of Kinakane, Washington, if the wildfires bearing down on them weren’t contained.
“Make that coffee extra hot, please.” Sharon Grabe’s hands trembled as she dug through her purse for her wallet. Sharon was one of the many refugees stranded in town awaiting word that she could return to her home, wondering if her house in Salmon Creek still stood and if her husband would get out in time. If he’d be smart enough to know his life mattered more than a building, no matter how many generations of memories that building might hold.
“What are you doing, Sharon? Put that money away,” Deanna insisted.
Sharon slapped her debit card on the counter and covered it with her hand. There was no trembling now. Her resolve solid as stone, she slid the card across the counter. “Don’t make me a charity case, Deanna. Not yet, anyway. I’m not ready to exchange hope for a free latte.”
Deanna swallowed the lump in her throat, wishing she had more to offer, but she knew she’d despise the pity she was feeling for Sharon if it were turned in her direction.
Townspeople used to complain about a little summertime smoke in the air caused by far-off wildfires in the mountains. Now the entire Northwest appeared to be ablaze, and five separate fires hemmed them in, sucking the life out of already taxed firefighting resources. The threat squeezed in on Deanna so tight she could hardly breathe.
She felt the flames coming, their approach rumbling through her like the vibrations of an ancient army marching on a besieged city. More and more refugees were streaming into town bringing new horror stories every day. Homes and ranches that had been in families for generations, obliterated by infernos. Old Harley Hopkins died of a heart attack because after telephone poles burned out in Scotch Creek, he had no phone service to call 911.
One way or another, it was clear Deanna wouldn’t escape this fire season unscathed. Even if she didn’t physically lose anything, seeing her neighbors suffering like this hurt enough.
Her grandmother’s voice cut through her thoughts, snapping her focus back on more immediate concerns.
“How long do you plan to make the king of Kinakane wait for you?” Gram whispered.
Deanna’s gaze landed on the tall, broad-shouldered man in the leather easy chair by the front door. Her landlord removed his Stetson and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, obviously impatient with her. Deanna’s stomach knotted. It wasn’t just the smoke that choked her. She was stalling, and Blake Ransford wasn’t the waiting kind of man.
Blake might not be an actual king, but he really did own most of Kinakane. He could be overbearing, but he was her mentor, always quick to bail her out whenever she needed it. Because he was seven years older than she was, it had never occurred to Deanna that Blake might want anything more from their friendship. But last night in an unguarded
