Where There's Smoke: inspirational romantic suspense (Montana Fire Book 1) by Susan May Warren

and their camp a good two hundred yards from the tail end of the fire, Jed counted it safe enough. Still, “I’ll take first watch,” he’d said.
    Conner had eyed him. “Don’t get heroic. You need your sleep too.”
    Jed had hung a bear pack in case one of the back country animals got ambitious, then hiked back to camp, his mind on Kate.
    Something about her silence felt...off.
    He probably shouldn’t have panicked when Tanker 38 announced the drop. They’d all lived through the accidental dump of a load of slurry.
    Pure instinct turned him toward Kate.
    What shook him more, however, was the way she’d held onto him. Trembled. Even whimpered as if...
    Since the Porcupine River fire, he hadn’t known Kate Burns to be afraid of anything. Frankly, that was the problem.
    He stilled, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth and cast a look at her tucked in her sleeping bag, her tent flap open, her body illuminated in the glow of the fire. The memory of the afternoon—his body braced over her, muck and slush raining down on him—rushed back.
    And Kate curled up beneath him.
    He couldn’t flush away the expression in her eyes. Fear. White-faced, shocked, overwhelming terror.
    He stood up, needing to shake away the sense of it, the deeper memory of having seen that expression before.
    We’re not going to make it!
    His voice, maybe, although he couldn’t remember who said it first.
    Jed walked over to the silver edge of the river, watching the moonlight run a finger across the boulders, tip the moss with starlight. The lacy wisp of smoke turned the air pungent as it caught in the cooler wind pockets of the night.
    Kate, if you don’t deploy right now, you’re going to die!
    He leaned a shoulder against a trio of paper birch, seeing the Porcupine River fire roaring behind her, flaming tongues chewing up trees, thundering, a tornado of fiery destruction.
    He had grabbed his own shelter, wrung it out, the agony from his broken leg and the fact that he’d dropped his gloves forgotten in the roust of the wind—
    When he’d looked up, he found her just standing there, frozen. White-faced, trembling. “Kate!” He’d grabbed her arm, shook her, and when she didn’t respond, he pushed her down, practically tackling her. She came to life then, struggling, thrashing.
    He grabbed her helmet. Found her eyes. “Get your shelter on!” Then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he tucked his shelter over her, grabbing hers out for himself.
    The hairs on his neck singed against the heat, the fire still a hundred yards away, but closing fast. He fought the winds for the shelter, turned to tuck his feet in the pockets in the back, but the shelter unleashed into the hot current. He fell, his leg useless. Worse, he cried out, the pain crippling him.
    In that moment, the thought that he would die here, clutching the tundra of an Alaskan forest, fate having finally caught him, seemed secondary to the fact that maybe he’d killed her, too.
    And then, there she was. Diving in beside him. Tucking her legs to hold one side of the shelter down. He pinioned his foot into the other corner, pulled the dome over both of them, and she secured her side with her elbows.
    He tucked her in under him, her helmet against his, and he wedged his bare hands into the corners, holding the shelter down over the top of them.
    “Dig us a hole in the ground to breathe into,” he shouted over the rage of the fire.
    And then, the heat engulfed them.
    Jed leaned up from the tree, gasping, not realizing how he’d been holding his breath. Now he instinctively moved his hands, flexing them against the tight, still-red skin. Sometimes he could feel the flesh searing off against the foil of their shake-and-bake. Could hear his own whimpering in his ears.
    Then Kate’s voice would return, the whisper of her lips against his cheek. “Breathe, just breathe, Jed.” He’d again feel her hand curl up around the back of his neck to force his face down to the