Page 14 of Knotting the Firefighters

~WENDOLYN~

The gravel road to Cactus Rose Ranch crunches beneath my truck's tires, each bump jostling the six apple pies secured in the passenger seat like precious cargo.

The morning air carries the scent of hay and distant rain, that particular Montana mixture that speaks of wide spaces and untold stories. My windows are down despite the October chill, needing the fresh air to clear the lingering confusion from this morning's encounter with Calder.

Still taste him on my lips. Still feel his hands...

I shake my head, forcing attention back to the winding road.

The ranch spreads before me as I crest the hill—endless fencing, grazing cattle, and the kind of pastoral beauty that belongs on postcards sold to tourists who think the West is all romance and sunsets. They never mention the predawn feedings, the backbreaking fence repairs, or the way isolation can settle into your bones like arthritis.

The joys of ranch life.

The main house sits proud against the horizon, all weathered wood and stubborn endurance. Willa's touch along the range is everywhere in the small details—window boxes overflowing withlate-season wildflowers, fresh paint on the shutters, a swing on the porch that speaks of evenings spent watching the world slow down. Hard to believe this place nearly died before she returned, before her pack of cowboys breathed life back into soil that had been waiting for the right hands.

I park near the barn, already hearing the low murmur of voices and the shuffle of hooves. Ranch work starts before the sun and never truly ends—just pauses occasionally for meals and sleep. The pies are still warm, their cinnamon-sugar scent mixing with the earthy perfume of the ranch in a combination that feels like home, even though home is a concept I've been running from for months.

"That you, Wendy?"

Cole's voice carries from inside the barn, followed by his emergence into sunlight. The man moves like the earth itself—steady, deliberate, with the kind of presence that makes horses calm and storms think twice. His weathered face breaks into a genuine smile when he spots the pie boxes.

"Morning, Cole," I call back, grabbing two boxes while leaving the rest for a second trip. "Where should I set these up?"

"Main house kitchen would be—" He stops mid-sentence, his expression shifting to alertness as he looks past me toward the road. "Were you expecting company?"

I turn to follow his gaze, spotting the police cruiser kicking up dust as it approaches. My stomach drops, immediate panic flooding my system because law enforcement vehicles at your location rarely bring good news.

The car parks beside my truck with practiced precision, and the door opens to reveal?—

An Omega.

The realization leaves me feeling a tad intrigued more than anything. The woman stepping out carries herself with the kind of authority that doesn't ask permission, her uniform crispdespite the dust, her presence somehow filling more space than her 5'7" frame should allow. Dark hair pulled back in a regulation bun, sharp eyes that miss nothing, and a scent that makes me straighten instinctively—vanilla and gunpowder, sweet danger wrapped in a badge.

"Chief Martinez?" Cole says, surprise coloring his tone. "Everything alright?"

"Morning, Cole." Her voice carries the hint of a accent, syllables shaped by somewhere far from Montana. "Just need a word with Ms. Murphy, if that's acceptable."

The way she says my name—deliberate, weighted—tells me this isn't a social call. Cole looks between us, clearly sensing the tension, but he's too polite to pry.

"I'll take those pies inside," he offers, reaching for the boxes in my arms. "Give you ladies some privacy."

"Appreciate it," Chief Martinez says, waiting until he's out of earshot before turning those assessing eyes on me. "Ms. Murphy—or should I say Chief Murphy? I understand titles matter in our line of work."

"Wendy's fine," I manage, trying to read her expression. "Though I'm curious how you know about my former position."

She smiles—sharp and knowing, the kind of expression that probably makes suspects confess just to make it stop.

"Former is a flexible term. Mind if we talk privately? Your case requires some delicate discussion."

My case.

The words hit harder than expected.

Somehow having it official, having someone with a badge acknowledge what happened, makes it real in a way that smoke inhalation and nightmares hadn't quite managed.

"There's a spot behind the barn," I offer, leading her away from potential eavesdroppers. The morning sun casts long shadows as we walk, our footsteps falling into an unconsciousrhythm that speaks of shared training, shared understanding of how to move through the world when you're always assessing threats.

Once we're sufficiently isolated, she pulls out a tablet, fingers dancing across the screen with practiced efficiency.