1
KEELY
The pile of logs and kindling was stacked so high, I had to look up to see the top. It wasn't the tallest bonfire I'd ever seen, but it was still impressive.
But I wasn't here to gawk. I was here to take pictures. And if I wanted to get anything done, I'd better knock this out before the hot mountain men showed up with their muscles and axes and…whatever else mountain men had going on.
This angle was interesting, but the bonfire looked even fuller from the other side. I began moving in a circle around the heap of logs and branches, snapping as I went. Finally, I adjusted the lens and took a second go around, this time moving even farther back to capture the sheer height of this thing.
Crack.
I heard the noise at the same time I felt it—I'd stepped on something. Not just a little something, either. A big pile of something. It wasn't soft and smushy like dog poop—I'd experienced that in my time as a photographer too. No, this was something bumpy and distinctly fall-like. A pile of limbs and leaves.
What the heck?
I lowered my camera. It was a big pile, like a smaller imitation of the tower in front of me. But I hadn't just stepped on it. I’d scattered it. Limbs had toppled over into a big puddle that I assumed was from recent rain. Or maybe someone had watered the ground. Was that a bonfire thing? I really had no idea. They could have been practicing putting it out, for all I knew.
"Hey! You're standing in the extra kindling pile."
The voice behind me had me jerking around, scattering even more limbs and leaves and whatever else was in the pile. Even more of it toppled into the puddle, and I winced.
But all that was soon forgotten as I came face to face with my accuser.
Okay, now I was definitely gaping, and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't take my eyes off this guy if someone paid me a thousand bucks to do it.
He was tall and bulky, with muscles that strained the short-sleeved T-shirt he wore. Yes, short sleeves. It wasn't extra chilly, but fall had definitely arrived in this town. Interestingly, though, he didn't look a bit cold. If anything, he'd broken out in a sweat not too long ago.
I instinctively looked at my camera like I was going to take a picture, then lowered it again. It was habit—I see something beautiful, I snap it. If I didn't have my camera, I did it with my phone, just to tag the location so I could come back later with my gear, if possible.
"I'm so sorry," I blurted out, finally finding my voice. "I was just taking pictures for an article, and I didn't realize?—"
"An article?" His brows drew together, creating a furrow between dark eyes that seemed to see right through me. "You're press?"
"Freelance journalist. Travel and lifestyle stuff. Nothing invasive, I promise." I gestured helplessly at the scattered pile."I was trying to capture the authentic small-town fall festival atmosphere before everyone arrived."
He looked down at the mess I'd made, then back at me. "Well, you've definitely captured something."
The dry tone in his voice made heat creep up my neck. "I can help clean this up. I’ll put it back together."
"Most of it's soaked now." He crouched down and picked up a few pieces, examining them with the critical eye of someone who actually knew what he was doing. "This was my dry starter pile. It took me twenty minutes to collect the perfect pieces."
"Perfect pieces?" I crouched beside him, trying to help gather the scattered kindling. "There's a science to this?"
He glanced at me sideways, and I caught a hint of amusement in those dark eyes. "You could say that. Different sizes burn at different rates. You need the progression just right, or the whole thing fails before it gets going."
"Oh." I picked up a wet stick and looked at it like it might tell me its secrets. "So this was important."
"This was crucial." But his tone had lost some of its edge. "Lucky for you, I came prepared for complications."
He stood and walked over to his truck, which I hadn't even noticed parked at the edge of the field. When he returned, he was carrying a cardboard box.
"You don't have to stay," he said, setting the box down a safe distance from the puddle. "I can handle this."
"Are you kidding? I caused this mess. The least I can do is help fix it." I paused. "Plus, this might make an even better story. 'City girl learns the ancient art of fire-making from local mountain man.'"
That earned me a snort of laughter. "Ancient art? I'm thirty-five, not three hundred."
"You know what I mean." I watched as he opened the box and began pulling out what looked like professional fire-starting supplies. "This is clearly beyond my skill set."
