The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (134 page)

“We’re holding her. We’re going to pump her hard, go through the neck here. If you get those lines down, cut them across, we’ll have her.”

“I want to pull out the fusees, start a backfire here.” She dug out her map. “We could fold her back in on herself, and she’d be out of fuel.”

“I like it. But it’s your call.”

“Then I’m making it.” She pulled her radio. “Yangtree, we’re going with the backfire. Split ten off, lead them up. I’m circling back down. Keep drowning that bitch, Gib.”

Rowan stuffed calories into her system by way of an energy bar, hydrated with water as she backtracked. And considered herself lucky when she didn’t repeat her encounter with a bear. Nothing stirred in the trees, in the brush. She cut across a trail where the trees still towered—trees they fought to save—and the wildflowers poked their heads toward the smoke-choked sky. Birds had taken wing so no song, no chatter played through the silence.

But the fire muttered and growled, shooting its flames up like angry fists and kicking feet.

She followed its flank, thought of the wildflowers, took their hope with her as she hiked to the man-made burn she’d ordered.

At Yangtree’s orders, Gull peeled off from the saw line to deal with spot fires the main blaze spat across the border. Most of his team were too weary for conversation, and as speed added a factor, breath for chat was in limited supply.

Water consumed poured off in sweat; food gulped down burned off and left a constant, nagging hunger.

The trick, he knew from his years as a hotshot, was not to think about it, about anything but the fire, and the next step toward killing it.

“Get your fusees.” Gibbons relayed the information in a voice harsh from shouting and smoke. “We’re going to burn her ass, pull her back till she eats herself.”

Gull looked back toward the direction of the tail. Their line was holding, the cross with the hotshots’ cut off her flank—so far. Spot fires flared up, but she’d lost her edge of steam here.

He considered the timing and strategy of the backfire dead-on. Despite his fatigue, it pleased him when Yangtree pulled him off the line and sent him down with a team to control the backfire.

With the others he hauled up his tools, left the line.

He saw the wildflowers as Rowan had, and the holes woodpeckers had drilled into the body of a Douglas fir, the scat of a bear—a big one—that had him scanning the hazy forest. Just in case.

Heading the line, Cards limped a little as he kept in contact with Rowan, other team leaders on his radio. Gull wondered what he’d hurt and how, but they kept moving, and at an urgent pace.

He heard the mumble of a dozer. It pushed through the haze, scooping brush and small trees. Rowan hopped off while it bumped its way along a new line.

“We’re going to work behind the Cat line. We got hose.” She pointed to the paracargo she’d ordered dropped. “We’ve got a water source with that stream. I want the backfire hemmed in here, so when she rolls back she burns herself out. Watch out for spots. She’s been spitting them out everywhere.”

She shifted her gaze to Gull. “Can you handle a hose as well as you do a saw?”

“I’ve been known to.”

“You, Matt, Cards. Let’s get pumping. Everybody else, hit those snags.”

He liked a woman with a plan, Gull thought as he got to work.

“We light it on my go.” Rowan offered Cards one of the peanut-butter crackers from her PG bag. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing. Tripped over my own feet.”

“Mine,” Matt corrected. “I got in the way.”

“My feet tripped over his feet. It was pretty crazy on the line for a while.”

“And now it’s so sane. Soak it down,” she told them. “Everything in front of the Cat line, soak it good.”

Manning a pumping fire hose took muscle, stability and sweat. Within ten minutes—and hours on the saw and scratch line—Gull’s arms stopped aching and just went numb. He dug in, sent his arcs of water raining over the trees, soaking into the ground. Over the cacophony of pump, saw and engine, he heard Rowan shout the order for the light.

“Here she goes!”

He watched fusees ignite, burst.

Special effects, he thought, nothing like it, as flames arrowed up, ignited the forest. It roared, full-throated, and would, if God was good, call to the dragon.

“Hold it here! We don’t give her another foot.”

In Rowan’s voice he heard what flooded him—wonder and determination, and a fresh energy that struck his blood like a drug.

Others shouted, too, infected with the same drug. Steam rose from the ground, melded with smoke as they pushed the backfire forward. Firebrands rocketed out only to sizzle and drown on the wet ground.

This was winning. Not just turning a corner, not just holding ground, but winning. An hour passed in smoke and steam and ungodly heat—then another—before she began to lie down, this time in defeat.

Rowan jogged over to the water line. “She’s rolled back. Head’s cut off and under control. Flanks are receding. Take her down. She’s done.”

The fire’s retreat ran fitful and weak. By evening she could barely manage a sputter. The pulse of the pump silenced, and Gull let his weeping arms drop. He dug into his pack, found a sandwich he’d ratted in at dawn. He didn’t taste it, but since it awakened the yawning hunger in his belly, he wished he’d grabbed more of whatever the hell it was.

He walked to the stream, took off his hard hat and filled it with water. He considered the sensation of having it rain cool over his head and shoulders nearly as good as sex.

“Nice work.”

He glanced over at Rowan, filled his hat again. Standing, he quirked a brow. She laughed, took off her helmet, lifted her face, closed her eyes. “Oh, yeah,” she sighed when he dumped the water on her. She blinked her eyes open, cool, crystal blue. “You handle yourself pretty well for an ex-hotshot rookie.”

“You handle yourself pretty well for a girl.”

She laughed again. “Okay, even trade.” Then lifted her hand.

He quirked his brow again, the grin spreading, but she shook her head. “You’re too filthy to kiss, and I’m still fire boss on this line. High five’s all you get.”

“I’ll take it.” He slapped hands with her. “We were holding her, kicking her back some, but we beat her the minute you called for the backfire.”

“I’m second-guessing if I should have called it earlier.” Then she shrugged. “No point in what-ifs. We took her down.” She put her hard hat back on, lifted her voice. “Okay, kids, let’s mop it up.”

They dug roots, tramped out embers, downed smoldering snags. When the final stage of the fight was finished, they packed out, all but asleep on their feet, shouldering tools and gear. Nobody spoke on the short flight back to base; most were too busy snoring. Some thirty-eight hours after the siren sounded, Gull dragged himself into the barracks, dumped his gear. On the way to his quarters he bumped into Rowan.

“How about a nightcap?”

She snorted out a laugh. He imagined she’d braced a hand on the wall just to stay on her feet. “While a cold beer might go down good, I believe that’s your clever code for sex. Even if my brain was fried enough to say sure, I don’t believe you could get it up tonight—today—this morning.”

“I strongly disagree, and would be willing to back that up with a demonstration.”

“Sweet.” She gave him a light slap on his grimy face. “Pass. ’Night.”

She slipped into her room, and he continued on to his. Once he stripped off his stinking shirt, pants, and fell facedown and filthy on top of his bed, he had time to think thank God she hadn’t taken him up on it before he zeroed out.

 

 

IN THE BUNK
in his office, where he habitually stayed when Rowan caught a fire at night, Lucas heard the transport plane go out. Heard it come back. Still, he didn’t fully relax until his cell phone signaled a text.

 

Got nasty, but we put her down. I’m A-OK. Love, Ro

 

He put the phone aside, settled down, and slid into the first easy sleep since the siren sounded.

 

 

LUCAS JUMPED
with an early-morning group of eight, posed for pictures, signed brochures, then took the time to discuss moving up to accelerated free fall with two of the group.

When he walked them in to Marcie to sign them up, his brain went wonky on him. Ella Frazier of the red hair and forest-green eyes turned to smile at him.

With dimples.

“Hello again.”

“Ah . . . again,” he managed, flustered. “Um, Marcie will take you through the rest, get you scheduled,” he told the couple with him.

“I watched your skydive.” Ella turned her smile on them. “I just did my first tandem the other day. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

He stood, struggling not to shuffle his feet while Ella chatted with his newest students.

“Have you got a minute for me?” she asked him.

“Sure. Sure. My office—”

“Could we walk outside? Marcie tells me you’ve got two more tandems coming in. I’d love to watch.”

“Okay.” He held the door open for her, then wondered what to do with his hands. In his pockets? At his sides? He wished he had a clipboard with him to keep them occupied.

“I know you’re busy today, and I probably should’ve called.”

“It’s no problem.”

“How’s your daughter? I followed the fire on the news,” she added.

“She’s fine. Back on base, safe and sound. Did I tell you about Rowan?”

“Not exactly.” She tucked her hair behind her ear as she angled her face toward his. “I Googled you before I signed up. I love my son, but I wasn’t about to jump out of an airplane unless I knew something about who I was hooked to.”

“Can’t blame you.” See, he told himself, sensible. Any man should be able to relax around a sensible woman. A grandmother, he reminded himself. An
educator
.

He managed to unknot his shoulders.

“Your experience and reputation turned the trick for me. So, Lucas, I was wondering if I could buy you a drink.”

And his shoulders tensed like overwound springs while his brain went to sloppy mush. “Sorry?”

“To thank you for the experience, and giving me the chance to show off to my grandchildren.”

“Oh, well.” There went that flush of heat up the back of his neck. “You don’t have to . . . I mean to say—”

“I caught you off-guard, and probably sounded like half the women who come through here, hitting on you.”

“No, they . . . you—”

“I wasn’t. Hitting on you,” she added with a big, bright smile. “But now I have to confess to a secondary purpose. I have a project I’d love to speak to you about, and if I could buy you a drink, soften you up, I’m hoping you’ll get on board. If you’re in a relationship, you’re welcome to bring your lady with you.”

“No, I’m not. I mean, there isn’t any lady. Especially.”

“Would you be free tonight? I could meet you about seven, at the bar at Open Range. I could thank you, soften you up, and you can tell me more about training for the AFF.”

Business, he told himself. Friendly business. He discussed friendly business over drinks all the damn time. No reason he couldn’t do the same with her. “I don’t have any plans.”

“Then we’re set? Thanks so much.” She shot out a hand, shook his briskly. “I’ll see you at seven.”

He watched her walk away, so pretty, so breezy—and reminded himself it was just friendly business.

A
s she had done in her tent, Rowan lay with her eyes closed and took morning inventory. She decided she felt like a hundred-year-old woman who’d been on a starvation diet. But she’d come out of it—as fire boss—uninjured, her crew intact, and the fire down.

Added to it, she thought as she opened her eyes, tracked her gaze around her quarters, during her two days out the pig-blood fairies had not only mopped and scrubbed but rolled a fresh coat of paint on her walls.

She owed somebody, and if she could drag herself out of bed she’d find out who.

When she did, her calves twinged, her quads protested. The bis and tris, she noted, shed bitter tears. The hot shower she’d all but slept through had helped, a little, but the eight hours in the rack after two arduous days required more.

Fuel and movement, she ordered herself. And where was Gull with his breakfast sandwich when she needed one? She settled for a chocolate bar while she dressed, then hobbled off to the gym.

She wasn’t the only one hobbling.

She grunted at Gibbons, who grunted back, watched Trigger wince through some floor stretches. She studied Dobie—wiry little guy—as he bench-pressed what she judged to be his body weight.

“I’m back on the jump list tomorrow,” he told her as he pumped up with an explosion of breath. “I’m ready. Hell of a lot readier than you guys, from the looks of it.”

She shot him the finger, then moaned into a forward bend. She stayed down, just stayed down and breathed for as long as she could stand it, then with her palms on the floor, arched her back and looked up.

The yellow bruising on Dobie’s red-with-effort face made him look like a jaundiced burn victim. And he’d shaved off his scraggly excuse for a beard—an improvement, to her mind, since he looked less like a hillbilly leprechaun.

“Somebody cleaned up and painted my room.”

“Yeah.” With another explosion of breath, he pushed the weights up, then clicked them in the safety. “Stovic and me, we had time on our hands.”

She brought herself back to standing. “You guys did all that?”

“Mostly. Marg and Lynn did what they could with your clothes. Salt’s what gets blood out; that’s what my ma uses.”

“Is that so?”

“Doesn’t work so well on walls, so we got them painted up. It kept us from going stir-crazy while the rest of you were having all the fun. Hell of a mess in there, and smelled like a hog butchering. Made me homesick,” he added with a grin. “Anyhow, that broad must be crazy as a run-over lizard.”