by Nya Rawlyns
Arms lifted down the line indicating they’d dispensed what they could. Marcus yelled, “Light it up,” as the crews jumped back and watched the clumps ignited, like firecrackers, popping one after the other. The gap between the lines narrowed to yards, then feet, with everyone hurling dirt onto the growing mound.
A flare-up as the bow echo collided with the new fire line had them all backing up fast. Time slowed. Marcus made out each figure outlined against the hideous orange glare, every one of them holding his breath, waiting to see if the line held. Or would it jump their puny effort to rob the beast of its meal and instead take aim on the house? If it did, blankets and shovels and a hose spitting mud weren’t going to save the structure.
The lean-tos and equipment shed were already gone, consumed in flames. The sound of the shed collapsing was like a cannon going off, and it sent sparks flying in every direction. The more nimble teens raced to extinguish the new threat, burying the embers underneath a hail of dirt and boot soles.
Ted joined Marcus. “Sunny bitch. I think this might work.”
They looked up the line toward a stand of trees lining the stream bed. The rear edge of the burning tinder that had dragged behind the advancing wall of flames was finally close to joining what was left of the line they had started. The two edged together in a pincer movement that would box in the last open area. Once that burned down they were free and clear.
Marcus and Ted trotted toward the open area, pulling along exhausted men in their wake. It was the last area for containment and they couldn’t risk letting the fire do an end run around the house, then pick up fresh fuel for a charge down the valley. They weren’t the only ones with that idea. Leaving only a skeleton crew to watch for hot spots, everyone converged on the fire’s remaining flank.
It was Ted who shouted, “Heads up,” and pointed toward a small rise on the near side of the stream bank. The trees were popping, going off like roman candles. A new squad of men and women with shovels arrived to tackle the job of chasing down flares shot off the tops of the trees and spraying the area downwind.
Marcus checked to see how long it would be before the two lines finally joined and mutually extinguished. Scanning the area between the stationary and advancing fronts, Marcus spied a solitary figure outlined in stark relief by the flames. He was beating the ground with powerful strokes, then stepping back and repeating.
Ted yelled in Marcus’ ear, “Who the hell is that? He’s gonna get himself killed.”
Without thinking, Marcus groaned, “Josh.” There was no mistaking the height and mass of the man, the halting way he stepped onto his left leg.
The flames roared, blocking out any other sound. Eyes tearing, Marcus raced back and forth, screaming Josh’s name. It was pointless. He could no longer see him, the flare too high.
He cried out, “I need to get to him. He doesn’t realize what’s happening.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Colton.”
There was no time for an explanation, so he pulled Ted down and barked, “He was burned. He’s fighting the trigger.”
“Fuck.” Ted grabbed a passing fire fighter and pointed toward a low point in the blaze. “I want dirt there. Make a path. We got a man in there.”
When they realized what was happening, others came running. They managed to punch a hole in the wall but it threatened to close up any minute. Marcus braced himself to take the leap but Ted restrained him.
Marcus begged, “Let me go, man. I need to talk him down.”
“Talking won’t help him, Colton. And you aren’t nearly strong enough to carry him out.”
“He’s a soldier, Ted. He’ll fight you. We need to do it my way.”
Ted muttered, “Fine,” and propelled Marcus through the gap.
Inside was a hell Marcus knew would haunt his dreams forever, if he lived long enough. He sucked air only to find it wasn’t oxygen but a searing rush of hot acid turning his mouth, throat and lungs into raw, aching agony. Disoriented, he searched for Josh but his eyes teared up under the assault of heat and ash. Ted pulled him to the ground and they crawled in the direction they last saw the man.
Seconds turned to hours, their lungs screaming for mercy. Ted tugged at Marcus’ arm, trying to pull him in the direction of the house. A high-pitched wail inside his head blocked out all sound. He was too late. Josh was gone.
Frantic, blind to all but his need to find Josh, he scrabbled away from the trooper, sweeping his arms back and forth. Moaning, “No, no, please God, no,” Marcus collided with something solid. He whimpered, “Josh,” and grabbed at the man’s leg, pulling himself up when Josh paused long enough to set the blanket for another swat at the flames.
What he feared most—that Josh would be so lost he wouldn’t be aware of anything but the battle raging inside his head—had come to hideous fruition.
Marcus ducked under Josh’s arm and gripped him around the waist, the heat behind him almost unbearable. He murmured and begged and pleaded, repeating over and over...
Don’t die, please don’t die. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Please, Josh, please don’t leave me alone again...
Ted pulled Marcus away, yelling, “We’re out of time.” He held a rock in his left hand and cold-cocked Josh who slumped to the ground in a heap. “Grab his other arm. He’s too heavy to carry. We’ll have to drag him out of here.”
With flames licking at their heels, they half-dragged and half-carried Josh through an opening the crews had somehow made larger while he and Ted had been trapped inside the circle of hell.
After laying Josh on the ground, Marcus surveyed the blood pouring off his friend’s head and growled, “What the hell, Ted...”
“We tried it your way Colton. That was my way.” Ted looked from Marcus to Josh and back again. He wore a calculating look Marcus knew spelled trouble, but now wasn’t the time to confront the man. They needed to get oxygen into Josh's lungs and then transport him to a hospital to have his head stitched up and scan every inch of his skin for burns.
One of the crew yelled, “Ambulances coming.” Ted dispatched a man to flag one down, then he left to check on what was happening elsewhere.
Marcus removed his shirt and tucked it under Josh’s head. Once more time stood still as he gazed at the man lying on the ground, looking fragile and broken. The words spoken in desperation returned to haunt him.
Had he meant them or had it been just a set of panicky phrases he’d pulled out of thin air to try to shock Josh into returning to his senses?
Of course he didn’t want Josh Foxglove to die. That part had been true, but what about the rest? The admission he couldn’t live without Josh had surfaced from a place he’d closed off long ago. A place of caring that went deeper than friendship, deeper than brotherhood, deeper than a partnership. It spoke to a desperation that surprised and frightened him. Why now? He was nearly forty-eight years old, long past the time for adolescent drama and that all-consuming passion of the young.
Feeling foolish, he watched as the ambulance bumped down the lane, then stood back as the EMTs took over, tending to Josh, applying a neck brace, then lifting him carefully into the back of the vehicle.
Someone clamped an oxygen mask over his own nose and mouth. It hurt to breath. Marcus wondered how Josh had managed for as long as he did in that airless hellhole. The prospect of him suffering permanent damage nearly sent him into a tailspin.
He didn’t remember climbing into the ambulance, but as the door closed Ted called out, “I’ll get hold of Becca...” After that he was aware only of the man lying opposite him, a man he realized had become more than a friend.
A lot more...
Chapter Twelve
Mixed Messages
Most times Josh didn't remember. He drew a blank, and that was merciful, but then there were times when the clarity of recall cut like a knife, releasing a haunting revelation of his innermost turmoil. Blowing control, losing himself, a black hole consuming the man he used to be—it was then t
hat he re-imagined a way out, a solution that would end him putting others at risk. People he cared about.
Those had been the darkest of dark days, the selfish days when every thought began with “I” and ended with despair punctuated by a conviction that the world was unfair. He squinted and stared under his lashes at the sprite who’d stood, hands on hips, facing him down, telling him, “Suck it up, buttercup.”
His one and only baby sister had worn a lot of hats when he’d come home, sliced and diced inside and out. Mother, confidant, therapist, trainer, cheerleader. She’d set aside her own turmoil from her divorce and focused on him, dispensing a brand of tough love that had shaken him to his core.
That sprite hovered, like she’d always done, cup of ice water in hand, the straw bent just so, crooning, “Drink, you’ll feel better.”
He drank. He did feel better, except...
Croaking, “How bad is it?” he shoved his torso upright, surprised he was able to move without too much pain in his leg. He made a mental note to talk to the doctor about the meds they were giving him. He needed to get off the crap that had him in a fog half the time and on something that actually allowed some functionality. Moving without hurting was high on his bucket list.
Becca dug in her purse and extracted a compact that she flicked open and held it in front of his face. He snorted, “Lord, you are such a girl,” then winced when she moved the round mirror in a slow circle so he could see the damage for himself.
“They had to shave some of that pretty hair of yours.” He poked at the bandage. “You have like four or five stitches...”
“Six actually.”
They both looked toward the door where Marcus stood, his face unreadable. Josh felt a familiar unease seize his chest, causing it to tighten with embarrassment and shame. He’d give anything to draw a blank about why he was here in a hospital bed feeling like he’d been left to turn on a spit until he was medium rare.
Becca chirped, “Hey, Mr. Colton. Come on in and grab a chair. I’m just showing the brain trust of this outfit what happens when you decide to be a damn army of one and take on a wildfire all on your lonesome.”
Great, Becca was angling to lay on that tough love again. The last thing he needed was to go to the woodshed with Marcus as witness. Or maybe his friend would like to take part. He certainly deserved a shot at kicking some Foxglove butt after the stunt he’d pulled.
Damn, I need to learn how to control it.
Becca pulled his chin around and prodded at the scar tissue. “You’re lucky, you know that, don’t you? You still have most of your eyebrows and some chin whiskers...”
He wanted to look away from the parallel raised ridges he’d been trying to hide behind a beard but were now mostly exposed so everyone could be reminded that he was the local poster boy for the walking wounded. As if his hitching gait wasn’t enough evidence of that.
Marcus joined them, pulling the chair from behind Becca and setting himself up on the side of the bed nearest the door. He sat, though it looked more like perching, as if he was preparing to bolt. He kept his eyes hooded, staring down at hands clasped in front of his knees. Josh noted they were reddened, the skin flaking off his knuckles.
Becca flicked the compact shut, looked from him to Marcus and said, “I need to call Petilune and make sure the girls are behaving.”
Josh swallowed his dismay. He’d completely forgotten about the kids, never thinking to ask who was looking after them. The thought occurred Becca might have assumed Petilune could take on the mantle of babysitter, so he stuttered, “You, uh... You didn’t leave Petilune...?”
Becca smirked. “Do I look stupid to you, bro?” She held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. Polly sent Suze to pick them up and take them to the restaurant. They’ve been conscripted to help make bag lunches for the cleanup crews.” She checked her watch. “That reminds me. I need to get home, feed critters, and then head over to the Barnes place and see if they need anything. After that, I’ll get the girls and we’ll all come back to pick you up.”
Marcus finally looked up, though he directed his attention to Becca. “Is he being released today?”
He? I’m right here, Marcus. Why won’t you look at me?
“Yeah, the doctor said around two o’clock. Why, you need a ride too?”
Marcus hesitated, then shook his head yes. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Becca slung her capacious purse over her shoulder and slipped around the bed. She paused in front of Marcus, bent over and gently brushed her lips over the top of his head. Murmuring, “Thank you for saving the lunkhead, Mr. Colton. I won’t forget it,” she squeezed his shoulder and waltzed out of the room leaving both of them with their mouths hanging open.
Marcus coughed, the sound as raspy and ugly as Josh’s throat felt. He shoved himself out of his seat, still not making eye contact, but when he turned to leave, Josh begged, “Marcus, wait. Please.” The man’s shoulders hunched, but he paused long enough for Josh to continue, “I, uh, just want to add to what Becca said.”
Marcus waved his hand dismissively. “It was nothing.”
“Fuck that, Colton. It was everything. You risked your life for me. I think that’s pretty fucking awesome.”
“Well...”
“No, I mean it. If you hadn’t...” His throat closed on the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. He might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but if he had to guess, instinct told him Marcus was wishing he hadn’t said those words... Josh, please don’t leave me alone again.
What Josh wanted to know was if Marcus had meant them, because if the answer to that question was yes, then that moved their friendship in a direction that was leaps and bounds away from them simply laying their cards on the table the other night at dinner.
God, dinner. Them agreeing he’s not my type and knowing, inside—in the very private spaces where that admission meant opening themselves up to a very raw, very dangerous world of options and opportunities—that somehow trust had taken center stage.
In less than twenty-four hours, what passed for normal in their world had turned upside down and inside out. Events were moving at Mach speed, rapidly getting out of control. What Josh wanted was to throw caution to the winds, to tell Marcus Colton how much he was attracted to him, that it had been like that for almost two years. Two years of visits to the store. Two damn years of them just making small talk, with him trying to find a way to linger in the store aisles, praying Marcus would come to offer help, ask him about the ranch, and maybe even say he’d love to come visit sometime to see the reining stock.
Instead, he’d been tongue-tied the whole time. It hadn’t been until he’d gotten his back up against the wall and had to ask Marcus for an extension of time on the ranch’s accounts that he’d finally hit pay dirt. Not on his own account but because Marcus seemed to know how to be with him, how to ask a personal question without making it seem intrusive. And Marcus had shown Josh a side of himself he’d never known—his humor, his way of cutting through the bullshit, of looking trouble in the eye and daring it to mess with him or the people he cared about.
Marcus Colton had seen Josh dive down the rabbit hole, but he’d kept a hand on his shirt collar and refused to let go, talking him out of the spiral of crazy and back into the light. That Josh remembered everything from the moment Marcus had crawled up his leg to him wrapping his arms around him, to the way he’d handed over his heart and soul with a few words, it’d been enough to both break him and put him back together.
Marcus thought he’d failed, but he hadn’t. If Sorenson hadn’t popped him one, the fear and hate and irrational need for revenge might have loosed its hold. Might...
But what if it hadn’t?
Maybe it was a good thing the trooper had taken matters into his own hands. That still begged the question—was Marcus regretting those words or was he simply feeling like he’d failed, or both?
Josh hated lying. He wasn’t good at it. Becca and the girls were always catchin
g him in his fibs.
No, it’s fine, sis. Doesn’t hurt. Sure, I can do that. No, it doesn’t bother me so much now. Nah, I don’t need the meds...
The pain pills were wearing off. His head throbbed and the places on his face and arms that had gotten singed stung enough to make his skin crawl. He wanted a cold shower to take away the irritation, and then he wanted Marcus to take him in his arms again, but this time... God damn it, this time he wouldn’t let go.
Aware Marcus was running out of patience, Josh made a decision. He would lie and keep their friendship under false pretenses rather than admit to hearing the man’s confession and risk losing him to regret and a feeling of obligation neither of them was prepared to accept.
Josh cleared his throat and tried to relax. He said, “I have no idea what the hell I thought I was doing. It wasn’t until Becca explained what had happened and told me you and Sorenson saved my worthless ass...”
Visibly relaxing, Marcus shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, um... You don’t remember anything?”
“Not exactly.”
Marcus ducked his head, once more wary. Josh knew he needed half-truths to make it credible. Marcus wasn’t dumb, he’d see through a bald-faced lie easy enough.
“I was helping set up a triage station, thinking how once it was done I could join one of the crews. But...”
Marcus approached the bed. “But what?”
“I saw how they chased it, the flames, moving like zephyrs, just shadows against a wall of color. It was picking up speed and I recall you saying about a backfire, how it might stop it. And I knew that was right, it was the way to turn it all around. Save John’s place. And mine and Becca’s and all the other folks in the valley.” He took a breath. Talking hurt his throat. Lying was going to hurt too. But losing Marcus wouldn’t just hurt, it would devastate him.
Marcus spoke quietly, asking, “Why didn’t you come find me?”
“I think I intended to. Or tried, anyway.” The man raised his eyebrows, curious. This was where the lie—and giving Marcus an out—began. “All I remember was feeling angry and frustrated. At the fire, at whoever’d done something so careless as to put good people at risk. Destroying what a man’s worked hard for his entire life, like it meant nothing. I just...”
