by Julie Miller
While Matt was driving the bulldozer they’d used back onto its trailer, Mark and the other firefighters rolled up hoses and stowed their gear in the engine behind his mom. The firefighters were hot, sweaty and grimy, while O’Brien looked like he’d just stepped out of his air-conditioned trailer. He pointed to the charred shell of a tiny house on the far side of the lake that gave the subdivision its name. “This is the third fire we’ve had out here in less than two months. That’s bad for my business. I know it’s putting a burden on taxpayers and the KCFD to deal with them. But I don’t know what we would have done without your help, Chief Taylor. Clearly, the local yokels can’t handle it. Something needs to be done to stop them.”
Meghan Taylor pulled off her white helmet and brushed aside the sooty blond curls that stuck to her freckled cheek. “It’s Captain, not Chief, Mr. O’Brien. The county volunteers have been working their butts off to keep these brush fires in check. This one was in danger of jumping the interstate and causing a whole slew of new problems like impaired visibility and traffic accidents. Not to mention encroaching on airport land.” Just as he had been for as long as he could remember, Mark was amazed at how tough his mother was. He’d learned long ago not to be fooled by her youthful beauty and soft tone. If Dale O’Brien didn’t stop telling her how to do her job, he would soon learn that her gentle demeanor hid a backbone of steel. “You should be thanking them, not insulting them.”
“Well, I didn’t mean anything by it, of course.” He pulled off his hard hat and scratched at his receding hairline before he came up with a new angle that sounded more concerned citizen than whiny businessman. “I was just thinking of the welfare of my men—and your people, too. I know you put lives before property, and that’s as it should be. But I don’t want Copper Lake to be a frequent call for you.”
Mark thought the guy seemed too friendly, too eager to show that this neighborhood was his moneymaker and that he was the big cheese around here. And if he kept pointing that arrogant finger at Mark’s mother, Mark was going to break it.
“Mr. O’Brien, please,” his young brunette assistant pleaded. “I need to get back to the city and run some errands before my date tonight.” She nodded over her shoulder to the pair of men waiting at a beat-up blue sedan near O’Brien’s office trailer. While one man lounged on the hood of the car, watching the firefighters work, the other paced beside the car, more focused on the conversation between O’Brien and Mark’s mother. “You promised Brad and Richie a paycheck today.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy, Lissette?” the portly man snapped.
This time, Lissette’s sigh held a hint of impatience as she shoved the checks into his chest. “If you want me to work a miracle and make the books balance this month, then you need to pay them. Everyone else gets direct deposit, but you insisted that those two get paid out of petty cash. I won’t be responsible for any shortfalls this month. You have to sign.”
“Fine.” He grabbed the pen, glared at the two men who were now watching intently for his response, then scribbled a line across the bottom of each check. He shoved the notebook back to the young woman and dismissed her. “Tell them they don’t need to report for work again until I call them. That’ll be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mark watched her hurry over to the two lookie-loos and hand them their checks. The two men made an effort to chat her up after thanking her for getting them paid, but she waved aside their thanks and hurried into the office trailer to deposit the notebook and retrieve her purse before quickly driving away.
The rest of O’Brien’s men—the ones not getting paid out of petty cash—had packed up their work trucks. Maybe those two had been waiting around for the chance to get a few more hours in on their paychecks once KCFD cleared the scene. But with black smoke still coiling across the horizon, gusting winds threatening to reignite fires, and some of the access roads into the farm country and public woodlands blocked by firefighting equipment and crew vehicles, he didn’t anticipate anyone getting back to work before the next morning.
Once the hose was secured, Mark slid down the ladder at the back of the Lucky 13 truck and grabbed his turnout coat and helmet. Instead of heading to his truck, he lingered to hear a little more of the conversation the contractor insisted on having with the captain.
“I warned my crew about smoking in the dry grass,” O’Brien announced. “And to police the sparks from their power tools. They’re supposed to work over a paved area or the dirt. But I can’t keep my eye on them 24/7. Nothing out here a good rainstorm wouldn’t cure. An end to this drought would make life a lot easier for all of us.”
Meghan Taylor shook her head. “These fires didn’t start where your men are working. The fires are coming from the other direction, across the lake where that farmland is. The wind is what moved the fire toward your property.”
Mark scanned the far side of the lake as O’Brien pointed across the water to the hilly landscape. “A lot of that is my land, too. Or will be. The landowner, Mrs. Hall, is selling it off in chunks as we build the new homes out here. She’s a widow now and getting on in years, can’t keep up with it all. I expect when she’s ready to move into the city and sell off the rest of it—I mean, it’s not like she’s farming it herself—I’ll own the property around the entire lake. We’re building quite a nice bedroom community out here. Quality homes with an easy commute into downtown.”
Mark knew that his mom wasn’t interested in O’Brien’s sales pitch. She pointed to the empty lots beyond the newly built model home and the two houses that were already under construction on either side of the street. “You’ve got all the proper permits here? There’s only one hydrant on the north side of the lake.”
“The city hasn’t repaved the street and updated the water main there yet. Those houses are on well water.” Had O’Brien dodged the question about permits? Or was he still intent on impressing Mark’s mom with his grandiose plans? “Once I tear them down and build new homes, the view to the north will improve one hundred percent.”
Mark eyed the dilapidated string of houses on the far side of the lake. Besides the burned one, another had a listing boat dock, making those homes look like the poor neighbors of O’Brien’s fancy new lakeside community. Only one of the tiny houses had a decent roof. The farmhouse at the top of the rise beyond them looked in better shape. But that might be deceptive since the front of the house was camouflaged by scaffolding. It was painted an antique white about halfway down the shingled siding of the two-story colonial, while the bottom half just looked antique, as in peeling, warped and faded. But the roof was new, a shiny warm corrugated copper that gleamed with the orange-red glow of the late summer sun. And the whole thing sat in a patch of green grass, an indicator that the homeowner cared more about the property than O’Brien claimed. Not only was the old woman fixing up the house, but she had watered the yard more frequently than any of the newly sodded properties O’Brien had built.
“I just want to know that my men are safe out here,” O’Brien added. “And that they can get back to work sooner rather than later. Idle time is wasted money.”
About the time Mark decided to interrupt the conversation to tell O’Brien to clear out with the last of his men, and give his mom an excuse for ending the stocky man’s gripe-and-brag session, the door to the farmhouse flew open and a woman ran out.
Even if he hadn’t heard the slap of the door slamming shut behind her, he couldn’t have missed the flag of a copper-red ponytail flying out behind her as she ran to an old blue-and-white pickup parked in the gravel driveway. Although he couldn’t make out the details of her face, the stretch of long legs between khaki shorts and hiking boots pounding down the steps and front walk screamed that something was wrong. The hackles on the back of Mark’s neck went up another notch as she executed a quick three-point turn and gunned the engine, racing down the driveway toward the weathered asphalt that separated the farmhouse from
the run-down lakeside buildings.
“What the hell?”
Mark was already skirting around his mom and Mr. O’Brien when the woman made a sharp left turn onto another gravel road, churning up a cloud of dust in her wake as she crested the hill and headed down the other side. Speeding her way north. Away from the subdivision. Away from the lake and the farmhouse.
Driving toward the brush fire.
His mom flanked him for a moment, both watching as the woman headed straight toward the danger they’d worked so hard to avert. Meghan Taylor turned her head to the radio clipped to her turnout coat and asked for a sit-rep, a situation report. “Were all civilians evacuated from the area north of the lake?” She turned back to Dale O’Brien. “Do you know who that young woman is?”
He chuckled. “Crazy Amy. She lives there with her grandma.”
“Do you have a last name for her? Contact information?”
Mr. O’Brien shrugged. “In my trailer. I’ve got the home number for her grandmother’s house in my phone.”
“I need that.” She tilted her brown eyes to Mark. “We have to stop her. I’ll work on calling her and get over to the house to make sure the grandmother isn’t still inside. You—”
“I’m on it, Captain.” Mark ran to his truck and tossed his helmet and turnout coat inside before climbing in.
But a large hand clamped around the edge of the door, preventing him from closing it. Big brother Matt had a habit of showing up without announcing himself. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Mark started the engine. “After that woman. She’s driving straight into wildfire territory instead of away from it like anyone with a lick of sense would.” When Matt’s suspicious glare didn’t so much as blink, Mark grumbled a curse under his breath, knowing what his brother must be thinking after their conversation earlier that day. “I don’t have a death wish. But I think maybe she does.”
“You don’t have to save everybody.”
This wasn’t about Grandpa Sid and the guilt he felt. “I’m doing my job, Matt.”
Matt arched a questioning eyebrow, but this wasn’t the time to psychoanalyze him. It was time to act. “Make sure that’s all it is.” He closed the door, but he didn’t release it. “Want me to go with you?”
Mark looked beyond him to see O’Brien futzing with his phone, while their mother waited for the promised phone number. “No. Stay with Mom. I can’t tell if that O’Brien guy is up to something, or if he’s worried about his investments burning down out here. He sure as hell has no clue how to talk to a lady. I know she can handle herself, but—”
“She’s our mom. I’m on it.” Matt shoved his hand through the open window to trade a fist bump with Mark. “Eyes open, bro. Keep us apprised of your twenty.”
Mark tapped his fist against Matt’s, understanding the friendly warning to stay aware of any shift in the winds kindling a new fire or catching behind him and cutting him off from his escape. “Will do.”
Mark shifted into Drive and took off, reassured to see Matt joining their mother and Mr. O’Brien in his rearview mirror. By the time he’d left the new pavement and circled around the lake, he’d lost sight of the red-haired woman. But there weren’t that many places she could go out here, were there?
He turned off the asphalt, pressing a little harder than he probably should on the gravel surface. After fishtailing around the turn, he crested the road she had taken, and discovered the remains of what had once been a working farm. He passed an old horse paddock with charred broken railings and a stable whose roof had partially collapsed in on its brick walls. The blackened studs and surviving beams at one end indicated the fire in the paddock had climbed the exterior walls and taken down the roof. Idly, he wondered if the fires had caused the property on this side of the lake to look run-down and abandoned—or if abandoning the farming and caring for the structures had led to the fires.
But it wasn’t all run-down. Beyond the stable was an equipment shed that was built in a similar design. The barn wood had a fresh coat of white paint on it, a new corrugated metal roof that matched the house, and a padlocked door. Clearly, that building was still in use, but the padlock on the outside told him the mysterious redhead hadn’t gone in there.
Mark looked ahead to the rolling hills that had gone wild with brittle brown prairie grass and scrub pines that dotted the sea of brown with tufts of green. A row of charred fence posts swept over the hills like a gothic version of holiday garland. Nothing he could see was tall enough to give shelter or hide the redhead’s truck. He looked to his left to see the undulating line of black crossing the nearest hilltop, indicating the line the fire had reached before the winds had moved the flames in another direction. He spotted the flames climbing the next hill, and the team of volunteer firefighters spaced along the front line to keep it from advancing. While the trench his own team had dug, and the lake itself, would protect the subdivision for now, that farmhouse and the buildings on the north side of the lake were still vulnerable. Anything between the lake and the natural firebreak of paved and gravel roads to the north and west was still vulnerable to the mercurial path of the fire.
And that woman with the striking copper hair had driven right into the heart of it.
A wary alertness pricked the nape of Mark’s neck as he discovered a crossroads at the base of the next hill. He didn’t have eyes on her yet, but Mark didn’t hesitate to turn left. The dry earth formed a plume of dust behind her truck that was as easy to spot as the woman’s red ponytail.
“Finally.” He spotted the dust cloud settling around the blue-and-white pickup near a burned-out bridge over a narrow creek. The woman had stopped at the roadblock warning drivers to steer clear of the wildfire area. Mark skidded to a stop behind her battered truck. But as their cumulative dust cloud drifted past him, he saw that she was out of the truck, climbing over the barricade. When her hiking boots hit the charred grass on the opposite side, she took off running again.
Even though his truck could handle a little off-roading, with no clear line of sight to determine the current location of the fire, Mark couldn’t risk driving after her. In seconds, he was out of his truck, swearing at her persistence and chasing after her. “Hey! Lady, stop!”
If anything, those long legs of hers picked up speed as she climbed up the opposite side of the embankment. Mark swore. Either she was deaf, purposely ignoring him or actually was crazy, like O’Brien had said.
Although he’d stripped down to his T-shirt and suspenders in deference to the heat, Mark still wore his bunker pants and boots. Their heavy, protective weight was necessary for fighting fires, but not the best gear for a cross-country race. But Crazy Amy’s reckless charge left him little choice but to go after her. Lengthening his own strides, he climbed the bank of the creek and closed the gap between them.
“Ma’am?” he shouted. He was close enough to hear her labored breathing now. She’d been running hard. Or maybe the stranger chasing her down had panicked her. “I’m KCFD. I don’t mean to frighten you, but you’re entering dangerous territory. I need you to stop and come with me.”
“I can’t.” She stumbled over the slick mix of dirt and ash, swore at her clumsiness and relentlessly pushed herself back to her feet.
But her tumble slowed her enough for Mark to reach her. He caught hold of her arm beneath the rolled-up sleeve of her blouse, abruptly stopping her ascent and pulling her around to face him. “I believe I’m the authority here.”
She shoved long coppery bangs off her face, leaving a streak of soot on her freckled cheek. “I believe this is my land. Well, my gran’s.” She made a fussy noise and twisted her elbow from his grip before lunging up the hill again. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk to you right now.”
“Can’t...?” In two long strides he was in front of her, holding out his hands, hoping to calm down this flight response and reason with her. “My name is Mark Taylo
r.” He pulled aside one strap of his suspenders and pointed to the logo on his T-shirt. “I’m with the Kansas City Fire Department.”
“Good for you.” She darted around him.
“Hey!” This time he grabbed her with both hands, keeping a firm grip on each upper arm. A unique pendant, which looked like a knotted rope of silver, rose and fell with every breath against the freckles dotting her ample chest above the tank top she wore beneath her blouse. But the shiny metal wasn’t nearly as bright as the gold flecks sparking against the green irises of her eyes. He glanced over his shoulder, thinking maybe that was the encroaching fire he saw flickering there. But no, she was just pissed that he’d outmuscled her for her own good. Easing his grip on her, and taking a deep breath to calm his demeanor, Mark explained the danger so she would understand his concern. “KCFD and the Platte County Volunteer Fire Department has the fire contained for now. But it covers acres, miles, maybe. And it’s still burning. Plus, the way this wind is blowing, we don’t know if it will stay contained or head back this way.”
Mark was six-two, and even though he stood slightly uphill of her, the woman barely tilted her chin to maintain eye contact with him. That height explained the mile-long legs. “Thank you for that PSA, Mark Taylor, but I’m willing to risk it.” She waved her hand as though she was shooing him away, flashing a variety of chunky rings on her thumb and fingers. “I absolve you of responsibility. Be gone with you.”
She scooted around him again.
“Be gone with...?” Had he slipped into some universe populated by flakes and stubborn women who wouldn’t listen? He grabbed her one more time, pulling her closer to his body so she couldn’t twist away. That didn’t stop her from pushing at his chest and trying. “You’re nuts, lady. I’m trying to rescue you here.”
