Page 31 of Burning Justice (Chasing Fire: Alaska #6)

Clearly, his last hope at a comeback was about to crash and burn.

Maybe he was being a little melodramatic, but Spenser Storm knew a good story.

Knew how to cater to an audience, knew when a script was a disaster.

And this one had flames all over it.

Yes, the screenplay had all the right ingredients?—a winning western retelling of a widow and her son who leaned on the help of two strangers to save her land.

And they were shooting on location in Montana at a real abandoned western town rebuilt and redressed for the movie, complete with a jail and a church.

They’d even hired an up-and-coming country music star to write original music.

The problem was, the producer, Lincoln Cash, picked the wrong man to die.

Not that Spenser Storm had a say in it—he’d been given all of sixteen lines in the one-hundred-twenty-page script.

But he wanted to ask, while waving flags and holding a megaphone— Who killed off the hero at the end of a movie?

Had no one paid any attention to the audience during the screening of Sommersby ?

He didn’t care how many academy-acclaimed actors were attached to this movie. Because everyone?—even he—would hate the fact that their favorite action hero ended up fading into eternity. And he wasn’t talking about himself, but the invincible Winchester Marshall.

Perfect. Spenser should probably quit now and go back to herding cattle.

“Back to ones!” Indigo, the first Assistant Director, with her long black hair tied back, earphones around her neck, raised her hand.

Spenser nudged his mare, Goldie, back to the position right outside town. Sweat trickled down his spine, and he leaned low so a makeup assistant could wipe his brow.

Yeah, something in his gut said trouble. It didn’t help that all of Montana had become a broiler, even this early in the summer—the grass yellow, the temperature index soaring, turning even the wind from the pine-saturated mountains into the breath of hades.

But saving the movie wasn’t Spenser’s job.

No, his job was to sit pretty atop his horse and smile for the camera, those gray-blue eyes smoldery, his body tanned and a little dusty, his golden-brown hair perfectly curled out of his black Stetson, his body buff and muscled under his blue cotton shirt and a leather vest.

He wore jeans, black boots, and could have walked off the set of Yellowstone . No, swaggered off the set. Because he wasn’t a fool.

They’d cast him as eye candy. With sixteen lines and the guy who got the girl at the end. Spenser was the sizzle for the audience who was too young for Winchester Marshall, the lead of the movie, although Spenser was just a couple years younger.

But, like Lincoln Cash said when he signed him, Spenser had a special kind of appeal.

The kind that packed the convention floor at comic cons around the world.

Wow, he hated comic cons. And adults who dressed up as Iwonians and spoke a language only created in fanfic world. If he never heard the name Quillen Cleveland again, he’d die a happy man.

He hated to mention to Lincoln that the fans who loved Trek of the Osprey might not enjoy a western called The Drifters , but a guy with no screen credits to his name for five years should probably keep his mouth shut when accepting a role.

At least according to his agent, Greg Alexander.

Keep his mouth shut, deliver his lines, and maybe, hopefully, he’d be back in the game.

“We need a little more business from the extras.” Director Cosmos Ferguson wore a Drifters T-shirt, jeans and boots, and his own cowboy hat. “Feel free to cause more havoc on the set.”

Behind him, Swen, from SFX stepped out of the house, checking on the fire cannons for the next shot.

The set crew had trailered in an old cabin for today’s shoot—a real structure with a porch and a stone chimney that rose from the tattered wooden roof—and plunked it down in a valley just two hundred yards from the town, with a corral for the locally sourced horses. It was a postcard of bygone days.

Was it only Spenser, or did anyone else think it might be a bad idea to light a fire inside a rickety wooden house that looked already primed for tinder?

“Quiet on the set!”

Around him, the world stopped. The gaffers, the grips, the second team, the stuntmen, even, it seemed, the ripple of wind through the dusty one-horse ghost town-slash-movie set.

Not even Goldie moved.

“Picture’s up!” Indigo said.

At least Spenser could enjoy the view. The sky stretched forever on both sides of the horizon, the glorious Kootenai mountains rising jagged and bold to the north, purple and green wildflowers cascading down the foothills into the grasslands of the valley.

“Roll sound!”

A hint of summer night hung in the air. Perhaps he’d grab a burger at the Hotline Bar and Grill in Ember, just down the street from Motel Bates, where the cast was staying. Okay, the lodging wasn’t that bad, but?—

“Action.”

The extras, aka cowboys, burst to life, shooting prop guns into the air just before Winchester Marshall, aka Deacon Cooper, rode in, chasing them away with his own six-shooter.

They raced out of town, then Deacon got off his horse, dropped the reins, and checked the pulse of the fallen extra.

“Hawk, C’mere. I think this is one of the cowboys from the Irish spread. ”

Spenser’s cue to ride on screen, dismount and confirm, then stand up and stare into the horizon, as if searching for bad guys.

Seemed like a great way for a guy to get shot. But again, he wasn’t in charge of the script.

So, he galloped onto the set, swung his leg over Goldie’s head, jumped out of the saddle, and sauntered up.

He gave the scene a once over, met Winchester-slash-Deacon’s eyes with a grim look, and nodded.

Then he turned and looked at the horizon, his hands on his hips, while the camera zoomed in, trouble in his expression.

“Cut!” Cosmos said as he walked over to them. “I love the interaction between you two.” He turned away, motioning to Swen.

What interaction? Spenser wanted to ask, but Winchester—“Win” to the crew—rose and clamped a hand on Spenser’s shoulder. “One would think you grew up on a horse the way you rode up.”

“I did,” Spenser said, but Win had already turned away, headed to craft services, probably for a cold soda.

“Moving on. Scene seventeen,” Indigo said. “Let’s get ready for the house fire.”

Spenser jogged over to Goldie and grabbed her reins, but a male stunt assistant came up and took hold of the mare’s halter. “I’ve got her, sir.”

Spenser let the animal go and headed over to the craft table set up under a tented area, back from the set, near the two long connected trailers brought in for the actors.

The Kalispell Sound and Light truck was parked next to an array of rental cars, along with the massive Production trailer, where the wardrobe department kept their set supplies, including a locked container for the weapons.

“That was a great scene.” This from the caterer, a woman named Juliet, whose family owned the Hot Cakes Bakery in Ember.

She wore her brown hair back in a singular braid and handed him a sandwich, nodding to drinks in a cooler.

Not a fancy setup, but this far out in the sticks, they were beggars.

Cosmos had also ordered a hot breakfast from the Ember Hotline every morning.

“Thanks.” Spenser unwrapped the plastic on his sandwich. “This bread looks homemade.”

“It is. The smoked chicken is from the Hotline, though.” She winked, but it wasn’t flirty, and continued to set out snacks—cookies and donuts.

The sandwich reminded him a little of the kind of food that Kermit, the cook for the Flying S Ranch, served during roundup, eaten with a cold soda, and a crispy pickle.

Sheesh, what was he doing here, back on a movie set? He should be home, on his family’s ranch…

Or not. Frankly, he didn’t know where he belonged.

He turned, eating the sandwich, and watched as lead actress Kathryn Canary, seated on a high director’s chair, dressed in a long grimy prairie dress, her blonde hair mussed, ignored a makeup assistant applying blood to her face and hands.

She held her script in one hand, rehearsing her lines as Blossom Winthrop, the heroine with Trace Wilder, playing the role of her husband, Shane Winthrop.

Who was about to die.

He hadn’t seen Trace since his last movie, but the man seemed not to remember their short stint on Say You Love Me .

Spenser would like to forget it too, frankly. Another reason why he’d run back to the family ranch in central Montana.

It all felt surreal, a marriage of Spenser’s worlds?—the set, busy with gaffers setting up lighting, and the sound department fixing boom mics near the house, the set dresser putting together the scene.

And then, nearby, saddles lined up along the rail of a corral where horses on loan from a nearby ranch nickered, restless with the heat.

Cowboys, aka extras, sat in holding with their hats pushed back, drinking coffee, wearing chaps and boots. All they were missing were the cattle grazing in the distance. Maybe the smell of burgers sizzling on Kermit’s flat grill.

Bandit, the ranch dog, begging for scraps.

They did, however, have a cat, and out of the corner of his eye, Spenser spotted Bucky Turnquist, age eight, who played Dusty Winthrop, chase the tabby around the set. His mother, Gemma, had already hinted that, as a single mom, she might be interested in getting to know Spenser better.

Now, she talked with one of the villain cowboys, laughing as he got on his horse.

“You guys about ready?” Cosmos had come back from where the cameramen were setting up, the grip team working to shade the light for the shot, on his way to Kathryn and Trace, who were rising from their chairs.