Fighting Love’s Flame – Chapter 2
The supply tent smelled of canvas, sweat, and the sharp tang of chain oil—a scent Jake usually found comforting. Today, it was claustrophobic. Especially with June Harrington hovering behind him, her camera bag brushing against stacks of Nomex shirts with every slight turn.
“Need fire-resistant pants in a 30 waist,” Jake told Cheryl, the exhausted supply manager.
Cheryl raised an eyebrow. “We got fresh recruits I don’t know about?”
“Her.” Jake jerked a thumb toward June without looking at her. “State-mandated liability.”
June stepped forward, offering Cheryl a smile that somehow was both warm and razor-sharp. “June Harrington. I’m joining Morrison’s team as a documentary embed.”
Cheryl’s eyes widened as she recognized the name from gossip threads. “Oh! You’re the one who—”
“—needs gear,” Jake cut in, tossing a pair of pants and a jacket onto the counter. “Try these on. Boots are over there.” He pointed toward the back wall, where rows of scarred leather boots stood at attention. “Find something that fits snug but doesn’t pinch.”
June picked up the gear, her fingers tracing the reinforced stitching on the jacket sleeves. “These are heavier than I expected.”
“They’re designed to keep third-degree burns at bay for approximately six seconds,” Jake said. “Long enough to hit the ground and roll. Try not to test that.”
Her eyes met his—a quick flash of green that held steady despite his tone. “Not planning on it.”
As she disappeared behind the changing curtain, Jake felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten. He busied himself sorting through a box of radio batteries, listening to the rustle of fabric and the soft click of buckles behind the canvas partition.
“These run a bit big,” June called out.
Jake fought the image her words conjured—fire-resistant pants loose on her hips, jacket swallowing her frame. Focus. “Try the 28s. And pull the jacket zipper all the way up. No exceptions.”
Cheryl leaned over the counter, lowering her voice. “Seriously, Jake? They’re putting a reporter on your crew? After… everything?”
Jake kept his eyes on the batteries. “Orders.”
“Bad orders. Lennon should know better.”
“He knows better. That’s why he’s doing it.” Jake looked up. “Forty percent budget cut, Cher. This documentary is the Hail Mary.”
The curtain slid back before Cheryl could respond. June emerged transformed—Nomex pants tucked into sturdy boots, jacket zipped to her chin, her hair stuffed under the collar. The bulk of the gear should have looked ridiculous on her smaller frame. Instead, it gave her an unexpected aura of competence. Or maybe stubbornness.
“The jacket’s still roomy,” June said, holding out her arms.
“It’s supposed to be. Air gap protects against radiant heat.” Jake stepped closer without thinking, checking the fit at her wrists. “Keep the cuffs sealed. Exposed skin cooks fast out there.”
His fingers brushed the pulse point on her wrist. He felt her flinch—a tiny, involuntary reaction—and dropped his hand. Too close. Too personal.
“Radio,” he snapped, turning back to the counter. He grabbed a compact unit and clipped it to her jacket collar. “Channel 7 is your primary. Scan only—no transmitting unless it’s an emergency. You hear instructions, you follow them instantly. No ‘but the shot’ or ‘just one more minute.’ Understood?”
“Understood.” She touched the radio; her expression was unreadable. “No transmissions. Instant compliance.”
“Helmet.” Jake handed over a yellow hard hat with integrated goggles and a face shield. “Keep the shield down when you’re near active fire. Smoke particulates can blind you in minutes.”
June secured the helmet, snapping the chin strap. “What about the camera?”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “What about it?”
“Rules for filming? Captain Lennon mentioned—”
“My rules are simple: when we’re actively fighting fire, the camera stays off. Interviews at base camp? Fine. B-roll of equipment? Fine. But when my team is working a hot zone, you’re either helping or staying clear. No filming.”
“That defeats the purpose, Morrison. People need to see what you do out there. The split-second decisions. The—”
“Split-second decisions get people killed when they’re distracted by performing!” Jake’s voice cut sharper than he intended. Several crew members stacking nearby crates glanced over.
He lowered his volume, stepping closer until he could see the faint freckles dusting her nose beneath the helmet’s shadow. “Last year, a rookie died under my command. Because a spotter hesitated. He second-guessed himself, watching a crow fly too close to the flames. You think your camera won’t cause the same hesitation?”
June went very still. Her knuckles whitened around her helmet strap. “I’m not here to get anyone killed.”
“Prove it. Keep the lens cap on.”
For a moment, he thought she’d argue. Her eyes searched his—not in challenge, he realized, but in assessment. As if seeing past the anger to the terror underneath. Then she nodded, a single decisive dip of her chin. “When you’re working active lines, the camera stays off.”
It was more concession than he’d expected. He grunted acknowledgment. “Captain wants to see us both at 1400 for the formal briefing. Don’t be late.”
He turned to leave, but Cheryl cleared her throat. “Jake? About the sleeping arrangements…”
Jake closed his eyes. Right. The housing board had been full yesterday. “What’s available?”
“Nothing.” Cheryl winced. “We had that crew transfer in from the Sawtooth fire. Every cot’s claimed.”
“Put her in one of the overflow tents.”
“Those blew down in last night’s wind. We’re still repairing them.”
“So where—”
“Only spare cot is in your medic tent,” Cheryl said. “Since you have the extra space.”
Jake stared at her. “You’re joking.”
“Afraid not.” Cheryl avoided his eyes. “Captain Lennon approved it.”
Jake turned to June. She looked as horrified as he felt.
“You’re… bunking with me?”
“Tenting,” Cheryl corrected. “Separate cots! Very… roomy tent.”
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. He could smell smoke trapped deep in his sinuses. “No.”
“It’s temporary,” Cheryl said. “Just until the overflow tents are repaired tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Jake repeated. “In the middle of an active crown fire. When we might be out all night.”
“Then it’s just a place to store your gear.” Cheryl offered a weak smile. “Hardly even sleeping.”
June shifted her weight. Her helmet slipped. “I can sleep in my car.”
“Command says no civilians outside the secure perimeter after dark,” Jake said. “Safety protocol.”
Jake watched June swallow. Her fingers tapped a rapid rhythm against her camera bag strap. He could almost see the arguments forming behind those expressive eyes—all the reasons why this was unacceptable, untenable, unsafe. He braced himself.
“Fine,” she said instead, the word clipped. “Lead the way.”
It was a minor victory, her acquiescence.
The walk across base camp felt like traversing a minefield. Crew members paused in their tasks—fueling chainsaws, coiling hoses, devouring field rations—eyes tracking them with undisguised curiosity. Whispers trailed in their wake: …the reporter… bunking with Morrison? … after Williams… Lennon’s lost it…
Jake kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, shoulders rigid. Beside him, June matched his pace, her boots crunching on the gravel path. He caught a faint, incongruous scent cutting through the ever-present smoke—honey? Soap? Something clean and out of place here.
His medic tent sat apart from the general sleeping quarters, tucked near the command post for rapid response access. It was larger than the standard issue, a necessity given the equipment stored inside. He unzipped the heavy-duty flap and held it open, gesturing for her to enter.
June hesitated for only a second before ducking inside. Jake followed, zipping the flap closed behind them, shutting out the prying eyes but trapping them in a sudden, awkward intimacy.
The space was organized. Two folding cots stood against opposite walls. His was stripped bare, sleeping bag rolled tight at the foot, spare uniform folded on top. The other cot, shoved near his trauma kit cabinet, held only a thin mattress pad.
Medical supplies dominated the tent. Locked cabinets labeled with red crosses, portable oxygen cylinders secured in racks, IV stands folded and leaning in a corner. The air hummed from the portable refrigeration unit, preserving blood expanders and antibiotics.
The sharp scent of antiseptic wipes warred with the underlying, inescapable smell of wood smoke embedded in every fiber of the canvas.
June’s gaze swept the space, lingering on the backboard propped near the door, the defibrillator unit charging on a small table. She hugged her camera bag closer. “Cozy.”
“Functional,” Jake corrected, striding to a storage locker. He pulled out a rolled sleeping bag and a camp pillow, tossing them onto the empty cot. “That’s yours. Keep your gear stowed under the cot. Don’t touch anything medical unless you’re bleeding out and I’m not here. Even then, yell for help first.”
He turned to open a cabinet, checking the trauma kit inventory — airways, chest seals, tourniquets, burn gel — muscle memory guiding his hands while his mind wrestled with the reality of her presence. The tent felt smaller, the walls pressing in. He could hear her breathing.
“Where do you want me to put this?” June asked. She held up her camera bag.
“Anywhere that’s not a tripping hazard. Floor’s fine.” He slammed the trauma kit drawer shut harder than necessary. Focus on the checklist. Cervical collars. Splints. Pain meds.
Fabric rustled as she unzipped her bag. He didn’t look, concentrating on the vials of morphine secured in their locked box. But his peripheral vision caught the gleam of polished lenses, the sleek black body of a high-end video camera. His spine stiffened.
“That stays here when we’re on the line,” he said, still not turning around.
“I know. ‘Lens cap on.’” Her voice was neutral.
“It’s not a joke, Harrington.” He faced her. She was kneeling on the thin mattress pad, arranging the sleeping bag. Her helmet lay discarded beside her, revealing dark hair escaping its practical knot, strands clinging to her temples.
She looked young. Vulnerable. It triggered an unwanted flicker of protectiveness that he smothered. “That camera represents everything that can go wrong. Distraction. Hesitation. A second spent framing a shot instead of dodging a falling snag.”
She smoothed the sleeping bag, not meeting his eyes. “I understand the risks.”
“Do you?” The frustration surged, sharp and sudden. “Have you ever seen a man burn alive because someone hesitated? Have you heard that scream?”
Her head snapped up. Her eyes, wide and vividly green, locked onto his. They held no fear, but instead, a startling depth of pain. A recognition. Her knuckles whitened where they gripped the sleeping bag fabric. “Yes,” she whispered. “I have.”
It wasn’t the response he expected. Before he could process it, before the questions crowding his throat could find voice, the radio clipped to his collar crackled to life.
“Morrison, Harrington. Report to Command Post immediately for the 1400 briefing. Captain Lennon’s waiting.”
Jake tapped the transmit button. “Copy. On our way.” His voice sounded rough.
He watched June. That fleeting vulnerability was gone, replaced by a composed mask. She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her fire pants. “Better not be late,” she said, her tone flat.
She clipped the yellow helmet back under her chin, the face shield snapping down, shielding her eyes. “Wouldn’t want to break a rule before the official briefing even starts.”
She unzipped the tent flap and stepped out into the smoky daylight without looking back.
Jake stood rooted for a moment amidst the sterile order of his medical domain, the echo of her whispered “Yes, I have” reverberating in the oppressive quiet. The scent of honey was faint now, almost gone. Replaced by the acrid smoke from the fire… and the unsettling weight of something unresolved.
He grabbed his helmet, shoving it on as he pushed through the flap after her, steeling himself for the next battle. Captain Lennon’s briefing awaited. And with it, the official stamp on this impossible, unwelcome proximity.
You have been reading Fighting Love's Flame...
Sharing a tent with Alaska’s grumpiest smokejumper wasn’t part of June Harrington’s plan—but an overcrowded fire camp left her bunking with the one man who wanted her gone.
Jake Morrison made it clear from day one: her camera was a liability and his crew didn’t need a documentarian filming their every move. She made it equally clear she wasn’t leaving. Not when this assignment was her only shot at redemption for a past tragedy where she filmed instead of helping.
Every dangerous rescue revealed the devastatingly competent man beneath his stoic armor. Every quiet conversation exposed wounds that matched her own. He was drowning in guilt over losing someone under his command.
She understood that guilt better than anyone.
As they work together to save his program from budget cuts, the heat between them burns hotter than any wildfire—but when two people are convinced they don’t deserve second chances, can they risk trusting each other with their carefully guarded hearts?
Fighting Love’s Flame is a medical romance set in Alaska. It’s the third book in the Alaska Rugged Hearts Series and can be read as a standalone.
If you love workplace romance with forced proximity, grumpy smokejumper heroes finding redemption through love, and competent heroines who can save lives with a camera and melt hearts on the fire line—think Only the Brave meets Northern Exposure—then Fighting Love’s Flame is for you.
