Page 1 of Rescuing the Writer
1
WAYLON
My patrol car skidded to a gravel-spitting halt beside the RV, the emergency lights alternating red and blue flashes across the green canopy of fir trees to the side of the road. The initial call had been that the RV had broken down, blocking Route 2 into Forestville. But we had bigger problems than that now. Smoke drifted from under the hood, and the amount suggested the damn thing had caught fire.
Adrenaline surged as I jumped out and raced around to the trunk, my boots crunching on the unpaved shoulder.
“Stay back!” I yelled to the small gathering of onlookers who’d materialized like moths to a flame.
I yanked the fire extinguisher from its mounting. Oh yeah, orange flames were now licking hungrily at the RV’s engine, black smoke billowing up to smear the sky. With practiced precision, I charged toward the inferno, my focus narrowing to the base of the fire. I pulled the pin and squeezed the handle, unleashing a cloud of chemical retardant that fought back against the flames.
Sweat beaded on my forehead and smoke bit into my lungs. My muscles tensed, every fiber committed to the battle before me. I couldn’t let it spread. We hadn’t had rain in a week. One spark could be enough to burn down countless acres of our precious forests. Many a devastating wildfire had started under similar circumstances. Not on my watch.
My arm swept back and forth methodically, the extinguisher hissing its frosty protest against the blaze. The fire begrudgingly retreated, and I advanced, determined to come out the conqueror in this particular battle.
“Come on,” I muttered under my breath, coaxing the last of the flames to die down. Phew, that was it.
As the last flicker of flame succumbed to the white cloud, a man stumbled forward, his face drawn with concern. “I’m so sorry.” He coughed, waving a hand as if trying to erase the smoldering mess before us. His gaze met mine, and it was like looking into a pool of gratitude and guilt. “That’s my home—or it was. Thank you for…”
“Are you hurt?” I interjected, scanning him for burns or signs of smoke inhalation. He shook his head, a disheveled mess of dark silver-threaded hair. He had to be in his early forties—at least fifteen years older than my twenty-eight, would be my guess—and he was hot. Not that it mattered in the slightest, but I couldn’t help noticing. I had allowed myself to notice now that I was out.
“No. It stalled, sputtered, and then stopped completely. I opened the hood to see if I could find the issue. Not that I know the first thing about RVs or engines, but maybe it was something obvious, you know? Except smoke started billowing, and well, the next thing I knew, the damn thing was on fire. If you hadn’t been here…” He finally took a breath.
“I’m glad I arrived when I did, then.”
“Oh, trust me, not as grateful as I am.” He extended a tattooed arm with multiple intricate designs weaved across his skin. “Melbourne Ardiff.”
His name hit me like a rogue wave, unexpected and staggering. Melbourne Ardiff—the Melbourne Ardiff, whose thrillers lined my bookshelf, their pages worn from late-night reads that gripped me until dawn? It had to be with such a unique name. “Waylon Rozzell, deputy sheriff of Forestville. You’re the author?”
His gorgeous brown eyes lit up. “I am. You read? My books, I mean. I didn’t mean to ask if you read in general. You’re a deputy sheriff. Of course you can read. But my books. I meant to ask if you read my books.”
He was adorable. “I love your books, Mr. Ardiff, and I’ve read all of them.”
“I’m honored, Deputy Rozzell,” Melbourne said, offering a weary smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But please, call me Melbourne or Mel. And I owe you one—a big one.”
I waved his thanks away. “Just doing my job.” I turned around and addressed the folks who had gathered. “Show’s over, people. Move your cars so the tow truck has access, please.”
Within two minutes, everyone else had left, leaving only Melbourne and me.
“Tow truck?” he asked. “My RV needs to be towed?”
“Well, yeah. It can’t stay here since it’s blocking the road. Let me call Walter’s Auto Repair. They can tow it and see if it can be fixed. But first, the fire department has to confirm the fire is out.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The acrid smell of burned plastic and rubber lingered in the air, irritating my throat and lungs, a stark contrast to the usually crisp forest scent surrounding Forestville.
I got on my radio and contacted the dispatcher at the office. “The RV caught fire, but the fire is out now, and everything is under control here. No personal injuries. Can you send the fire department to check? Once they’ve given the all-clear, I’ll have the truck towed.”
“Will do, Waylon. Let us know when the road is clear.”
“I will.”
Next, I grabbed my phone and called Walter’s. “Hey, Gene, it’s Waylon. Listen, I have an RV that broke down a quarter mile west of Old Mill Road. It had a fire in the engine. The fire department is on its way to give the all-clear. Once that’s done, can you tow it and see if it can be salvaged? I wanna say twenty minutes or so.”
“No problem,” Gene’s gravelly voice promised through the speaker. “I’ll send Doreen.”
“Appreciate it.” I ended the call and turned back to Melbourne, who was watching me with those intense brown eyes. “Everything’s set in motion.”