Page 15 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

FRASER

T he weather alert on my phone woke me from my afternoon nap, its shrill tone cutting through the darkness. I fumbled for the device, squinting at the screen through sleep-blurred eyes.

SEVERE WEATHER WARNING: High winds and heavy rain expected. Power outages likely. Residents advised to secure property and prepare for extended outages.

Outside, the wind was already picking up, rattling the windows in their frames. I lay back on my couch, listening to the storm build. After thirty years of reading weather patterns for fire behavior, I could tell this would be a big one.

The barometric pressure had been dropping all day. Even if I hadn’t had a small weather station in my backyard, I would’ve known since my leg had been screaming about it.

By the time darkness fell, the full force of the autumn storm had hit Forestville.

Rain lashed against the windows in sheets, and the old oak in my backyard groaned ominously with each gust. The power flickered twice during dinner, a warning of things to come.

I had a backup generator I could use if needed, but I really hoped I wouldn’t.

I checked my phone, debating whether to text Calloway.

It was early still—barely seven—but something nagged at me.

Maybe it was the way he’d mentioned once that storms made him anxious, or maybe it was that I’d gotten used to checking in with him.

We’d met up for coffee a few times since the Fall Festival two weeks ago, and I felt like his walls were slowly coming down.

We texted now on most days, simple messages about the weather, a book we’d read, or a beautiful line of poetry.

I had no reason not to reach out to him under the circumstances, so I typed out a quick message.

Storm’s getting nasty. You doing okay over there?

He didn’t respond.

The power went out around nine, taking with it the comforting hum of modern life.

I had camping lanterns and plenty of experience with extended outages from my firefighting days, so that would do for now.

If the outage lasted until midnight, I’d start the generator.

It was noisy as all get out, so I didn’t like using it.

But as the evening wore on with no response from Calloway, that nagging feeling that something was wrong with him grew stronger. By ten, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I needed to check on him. Driving in this weather was insanity, but I couldn’t shake my worry.

The storm had intensified, turning the short drive to Calloway’s house into a fierce battle against wind and rain. My truck could take it, but the view through my front windshield was nothing but a wall of gray. What if I accidentally hit something or, worse, someone?

I breathed out with relief when I made it to his driveway. His car was parked there, so he had to be home. Why wasn’t he responding?

My leg protested every step of the walk up to his front door, the cane nearly useless on the slick sidewalks. I had to grab the garden fence twice to prevent myself from slipping.

His house looked dark and somehow smaller in the storm, hunched against the weather like it was trying to protect itself. No lights, but the power was out all over town. What worried me more was the absolute stillness behind those windows. Nothing moved.

I knocked, then knocked harder when the wind swallowed the sound. “Calloway? It’s Fraser. Just checking on you.”

Nothing.

I knocked again, harder this time, fighting the urge to simply break the door down. “Calloway, I’m getting worried. Can you let me know you’re okay?”

All I could hear was the storm that raged around me.

Okay, time for stronger measures. I pushed against the door again, this time putting my whole shoulder and weight into it, and felt the old lock give way.

I’d apologize later for breaking in and pay to fix the door. Right now, I needed to find him.

The house was cold and dark, stormlight casting everything in shades of gray. I found him in the living room, curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His whole body was shaking, eyes wide and unfocused in the dim light. Oh fuck.

“Hey,” I said softly, not wanting to startle him further. “It’s me. It’s Fraser.”

His eyes found mine, and I saw naked terror there. Not of me, but of something deeper, older. The storm, the dark, some resurfaced trauma I wasn’t aware of.

I moved slowly, telegraphing my intentions as I crossed the room. “I’m going to sit down, okay? Right here next to you. You’re safe. The storm will pass.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away when I settled beside him on the couch. Up close, I could hear his breathing, which was way too fast, too shallow. Classic panic attack. I’d seen enough of them in rookies facing their first big fire.

“Can I touch you? Your hand?”

A tiny nod. I took his hand gently, shocked at how cold his fingers were. “Okay, we’re going to breathe together. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Follow my count.”

I started the breathing pattern, exaggerating my own breaths so he could follow. At first, his breathing stayed ragged, hitching on every inhale. But gradually, incrementally, he began to match my rhythm. His hand gripped mine like an anchor, and I let him hold on as tightly as he needed.

“That’s it. You’re doing great. Breathe with me.”

The storm raged outside, throwing rain against the windows like handfuls of gravel. Thunder rolled across the valley, and with each crack, Calloway flinched. But he kept breathing, kept holding on.

I don’t know how long we sat there—time went strange in the storm-darkened room. Long enough for my bad leg to cramp from the position, though I didn’t dare move. Long enough for Calloway’s death grip to ease into something less bruising. Long enough for his breathing to find its own rhythm again.

“S-s-sorry,” he whispered finally, the word barely audible over the wind.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” I shifted carefully, trying to ease the pressure on my leg without letting go of his hand. “Storms are bastards. They bring up all kinds of things.”

He turned to look at me then, really look at me, and I saw he was coming back to himself. The blind panic was fading, replaced by embarrassment and something that might’ve been gratitude.

“The d-d-dark. And the w-water.” He stopped, shuddering.

It reminded him of drowning. I thought of five-year-old Calloway going under in that quarry, the water closing over his head, the darkness pressing in. No wonder storms undid him. “How about some light? I’ve got camping lanterns in my truck. Give me five minutes?”

His grip tightened immediately. “D-don’t?—”

“Okay.” I settled back against the couch. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Instead, I pulled out my phone, grateful I’d charged it fully before the power went out. The flashlight function cast a small circle of light, pushing back the gray. Calloway’s shoulders dropped slightly.

“Better?”

He nodded, then seemed to realize he was still clutching my hand like a lifeline. He started to pull away, but I held on gently. “You don’t have to let go. Unless you want to.”

He stared at our joined hands for a long moment, then carefully turned his palm to interlace our fingers. It felt like a decision, a choice to accept comfort instead of suffering alone.

We sat in silence for a while, listening to the storm. The worst of the panic had passed, but I could feel the tension still thrumming through him. He needed a distraction, something to focus on besides the weather.

“Want to hear about the worst storm I ever worked in?”

A tiny nod against my shoulder. When had he leaned into me?

“Wyoming, 2012. We were spiked out on this smoke in the Medicine Bow forest when this monster storm rolled in out of nowhere. I’m talking biblical stuff with hail the size of golf balls, lightning striking every thirty seconds, winds that could knock you flat.”

I felt him settle slightly, sinking deeper against me.

“We had to shelter in place, couldn’t get to the safety zones.

Twenty of us crammed into deployment shelters.

They’re these emergency fire shelters that look like aluminum foil burritos.

You’re supposed to be in them alone, but we doubled up because half the crew didn’t have theirs readily accessible. ”

“W-were you scared?” His voice was steadier now, though still barely above a whisper.

“Terrified. The sound was incredible, like being inside a freight train made of fire and water. My shelter partner was this kid from Texas in his second season. He was praying in Spanish, and I was praying in English, and I’m pretty sure we were both saying the same thing: please let this pass.”

“What h-happened?”

“The storm passed. Took about an hour, but it felt like a lifetime. When we finally crawled out, the whole landscape had changed. Trees down everywhere, spot fires from the lightning strikes, our camp completely destroyed. But we were alive. All of us.”

“H-how did you stay c-calm?”

In my nightmares, I still relived that endless hour pressed against the earth. “I wasn’t calm. I was scared shitless. But I had someone depending on me to keep it together, so I did. Sometimes being brave means you’re scared as hell but you do it anyway.”

Calloway absorbed that, his breathing finally steady against my side. The wind howled around the house, but it seemed less threatening now.

“You came. In the storm. Your l-leg…”

“My leg’s fine.” I caught myself. Maybe it was time for honesty. “Okay, it hurts like hell. But I was too worried about you to stay home.”

He pulled back enough to look at me, and even in the dim phone light, I could see the wonder in his eyes. Like he couldn’t quite believe someone would brave a storm for him. “Thank you.”

“Always,” I said without thinking, then felt heat creep up my neck. Too much, too soon. But Calloway squeezed my hand and settled back against my shoulder.