Page 16 of Knotting the Firefighters

"I'm sure Chief Rodriguez already has someone in mind for the position."

Hazel's smirk returns, sharp and knowing.

"He might have had ideas, but your name's been buzzing through the grapevine like wildfire—pun intended. The way his crew talked about you after the rescue, with that particular mixture of awe and professional respect? Chief Rodriguez has been making inquiries."

"That can't be right." Nervous laughter bubbles up, the kind that happens when the universe offers something too good to be real. "I'm just?—"

"Why do you think I specifically sought out your case?" She turns fully to face me, expression serious. "Rodriguez requested protection detail for you, body guard service until you're officially pack-affiliated. He thinks highly enough of you to pull those kinds of strings. That doesn't happen for random civilians, Wendolyn."

"Wow." The word escapes on an exhale. "No pressure or anything."

"You couldn't be on the frontlines, though," I add quickly, the familiar excuses rising automatically. "Not as an Omega. The politics alone would?—"

Her frown cuts deeper than any blade.

"Didn't stop you from being chief in Los Angeles. One of the youngest in the department's history, if my research is correct."

"That was different." The protest sounds weak even to my own ears. "I had drive then, had something to prove. Now..." I gesture vaguely at myself, at the vintage dress and the pie-delivery truck and the careful life I've built from running away.

"Now you have experience," Hazel counters firmly. "Wisdom earned through surviving what would break lesser people. Do you know how rare it is to find someone with your qualifications who also understands the unique challenges our designationfaces? Who could advocate for Omega firefighters, ensure they're treated fairly, given opportunities based on merit rather than biology?"

The vision she paints—a station where designation doesn't determine destiny—makes something long-dormant stir in my chest.

"Think about it," she urges, backing toward her cruiser. "Don't let this investigation, or Gregory Mason, or anyone else steal what you've earned. You survived the fire, Chief Murphy. Don't let them win by keeping you from what you love."

With quick goodbyes, she drives away, leaving me standing in the morning light with dust settling around me like possibilities. The ranch continues its rhythm—cattle lowing, horses nickering, the distant sound of Cole directing someone about fence repairs.

Normal life carrying on while mine tilts on its axis.

Station Fahrenheit.

The name rolls through my mind, tasting of potential and terror in equal measure.

A new station means new protocols, new chances to shape policy and culture. It means standing up instead of hiding, means reclaiming the title Gregory tried to burn away.

But it also means exposure.

Visibility.

Being a target not just for him but for every Alpha who thinks Omegas don't belong in positions of authority.

The LA department had been brutal enough, and that was with established credentials and years of proving myself.

"Wendy?"

Cole's voice pulls me from my spiral. He's standing by the barn, obviously giving me space but concerned enough to check. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," I call back, surprised to find it might actually be true. "Just got some unexpected news."

"Good news or bad news?"

I consider the question, weighing Hazel's visit against everything it implies.

The investigation moving forward. Needing a pack. The possibility of wearing a chief's badge again.

"Complicated news," I settle on, which makes him chuckle.

"That's the only kind worth getting," he says, philosophical in that way cowboys manage without trying. "You staying to help with the feeding, or heading back?"