by Grey, Helen
Sometimes I didn't even understand it myself. Still, someone had to fight those fires, didn't they? There were hundreds, thousands of wildfire firefighters scattered throughout the US and I was proud to be numbered among their group. There were still thousands of others who volunteered. The last fire that I had been on had involved over fifteen-hundred firefighters, several retardant dropping airplanes, helicopters, and even military transport planes from a nearby army base that helped with evacuations.
It was a team effort, and maybe that's what drew me to it. The same applied to nursing. It wasn't one person alone who made a difference, but a group of people, a team working together toward a specific end. I had no idea how long I'd be gone, but I didn't really care. When I was fighting a fire, fighting that fire was the only thing that consumed my thoughts. When I was nursing, I felt similar, but sometimes, just sometimes in my quiet, reflective moments, I wondered if someday I would have to choose.
Sometimes I did feel torn. I know that with my choice of career, I needed to dedicate every ounce of my being into being the best ER nurse I could be. But then, the moment I heard of a fire, that I would be helping to fight it, it was as if another part of me was reborn, a part that not only responded to the adrenaline, but to a part of something inside me, buried deep in my past—deep in that tragedy that had changed my life forever.
I was grateful that Matt had invited me to join his crew. I look forward to working beside him. Hotshot crews were made up of teams that belonged to the National Interagency Hotshot Crews funded under national shared resources. Crews were defined by geographic region, such as the northwest, northern or southern California, Alaska, the Northern Rocky Mountains, to which we were headed, as well as the Great Basin, the Rocky Mountains, and the Southwest. Other Hotshot crews were divided into geographic regions to the east as well, including the eastern and southern region.
Some of the Hotshot crews—including the Northern Rockies crew that Matt belonged to—operated under either the Forest Service or the Bureau of Land Management, the National Park Service, or the Bureau of Indian Affairs, depending on the region. Sometimes everyone was thrown into the mix.
Unless we were out in the field, away from base operations, in which case I knew I’d be sleeping in a sleeping bag, I knew that I would be sharing quarters in bunkhouse type facilities. Most of the guys didn't mind, and as the years have passed, more women had joined these crews. Most of the guys, especially the younger ones, didn't even think twice about it. As long as women could pull their weight, and the men as well, they were more than welcome.
In less than an hour, I rushed out of my apartment, my backpack over my shoulder, glancing at my watch as I quickly headed for my Jeep. I was doing okay in regard to time, but nevertheless I was anxious about missing the flight. If the fire got much worse, the authorities might even close more airports or divert flights and we would miss the link up that would take us as close to the base operations of the fire as possible without untold delays.
Thank goodness the Santa Fe Airport was small and I was familiar with the layout. I pulled up into an empty space near the front of the airport terminal and immediately recognized Matt’s truck. His tailgate was down and he was, at that very moment, lifting his duffel bag out of the back. His bicep muscles bulged under his T-shirt sleeve. I felt a surge of heat race through me, niggling at my nipples. I tried to pull my mind from the sex and concentrated on his actions.
Like me, he had slung a backpack over his shoulder. He wore a pair of camouflage style military trousers and a dark blue T-shirt with a gold Hotshot crew emblem emblazoned on the back. It was different than mine, but other than that, we pretty much wore the same type of clothing. Durable. Utilitarian.
I honked my horn and pulled into the parking space, then quickly turned off the engine and climbed out of my Jeep. Matt headed over to my vehicle, put his duffel bag down on the asphalt and reached for the back door as I clicked my remote.
“How are we doing on time?” I asked, slamming my car door and stepping to the back of my car. My heart was racing now, and I could tell I was near to shaking from the adrenaline of heading out. I quickly reached for the duffel bag that I kept folded up and tucked between some of my gear and the side of the Jeep.
“We're doing okay,” he said. “A couple of guys drove up from Albuquerque and they already went inside to check-in. I told them we'd be in shortly.”
I began to pack as much gear as I could cram into my duffel, keeping in mind that I had to carry it. I was forced to leave some of it behind. Matt didn't have any room left in his duffel, and I wasn't about to ask him to stow some of my gear in his anyway. What I didn't bring with me, I was sure would be supplied.
In a matter of minutes, I had stuffed everything I could into my duffel and then closed and locked my Jeep. I slipped the keys into a side pocket of my backpack. Matt bent down to grab his duffel and then reached for mine as well.
“I've got it Matt, thank you,” I said. While I appreciated the gesture, I had to carry my own gear. Nothing would raise eyebrows faster than me walking into the airport, or anywhere for that matter, as a Hotshot crew member having someone else carry my gear. I knew my duffel would be heavy, but bending my legs and taking a deep breath, I wrapped the straps around my forearm, tucked my arm upward, tightened my butt cheeks and then exhaling, stood upright. I situated my balance between the backpack slung over one shoulder and the duffel bag over the other. Between the two of them, I figured everything weighed just over fifty pounds.
It had been a while since I'd been called out on a wildfire, but at this moment, I was glad that I had kept up with my workouts, my running on the treadmill, and my strength training. If there was one thing that a Hotshot crew demanded of its firefighters, it was stamina, strength, and endurance. I had no intention of letting anyone down, especially Matt or other members of the crew.
We quickly entered the airport, identified ourselves, and were quickly guided through check-in after declaring the type of equipment in our bags. The airport had been alerted to our presence, and because stories of the wildfire had made national news, the TSA and staff at the airport were well aware of our presence. Matt and I still had to go through the personal x-ray machine thing, but I didn't mind. Everyone at the airport, including passengers, were courteous, allowed us to go ahead of them, and we were whisked through security as quickly as possible and then directed to the gate number where the plane waited.
When we got to the gate, I saw two other men standing slightly off to the side, wearing the same dark blue T-shirt as I was, although their Hotshot crew emblem, like Matt’s, was a little different. The two men recognized us by our own dark blue T-shirts and nodded. We joined them, exchanging names and shaking hands. They were from the Southwest Interagency Hotshot crew out of Flagstaff, overseen by the Forest Service.
I knew that just two years prior, their fellow Granite Mountain Hotshot crew had lost nineteen of its members, the greatest number of firefighters to die fighting wildfires in nearly eight decades. Only one member of that Hotshot crew had survived the huge Arizona fire when the winds shifted and engulfed his friends. In fact, the horrible tragedy had involved the greatest number of firefighter deaths since the FDNY lost over three hundred firefighters on 9/11.
We had just completed introductions when the flight announced boarding. One of the boarding personnel at the airport approached us and told us to board first. We weren't charged for any carry-on baggage, and she assured us that our duffel bags would be stored near the front of the baggage area of the plane so that they could be offloaded quickly after our arrival at the airport in Montana.
Matt gestured for me to go ahead, and I led the way as I walked through the gate and down the covered walkway toward the airplane, followed by three men who towered over me. Once again I felt a little self-conscious, but not unconfident. In fact, I was feeling quite comfortable. I wasn't a newbie at fighting wildfires and I carried myself with confidence and assurance that I would be able to
tackle any job they gave me.
The first couple of years on the Hotshot crews hadn't been easy, but I had proven myself. While I wasn't as strong as many of the guys, I made up for it in determination. In fact, the last time I had been out, I found myself able to outperform several of the other crew members on the team. It didn't take long for any attitudes or doubts from any of the other crew members to recognize my abilities or vice versa. Every member of the Hotshot crews was dedicated to one thing, and one thing only—dealing with wildfires. There was very little “attitude” among the members of any crew and most of us got along well together.
Fighting wildfires didn't leave much time for conversation or getting to know people. In fact, the minute we landed, I was sure I’d be stepping into controlled chaos. We would be given assignments, and we would do the work, knowing that the person beside us would do his or her best to provide support. At the end of long days and nights, conversation with sparse. Shoveling a hot meal—if we were lucky—into our stomach and then getting some sleep were pretty much the only things that encompassed our thoughts when we did take a break.
I was prepared for the primitive living conditions. I knew that a soft bed, showers, and fresh cooked meals would be nonexistent. Daily work shift averaged sixteen long, hard, exhausting hours, but sometimes longer. It all depended on which side of the line I would be assigned, the tasks I would be given, and of course, the size, ferocity and determination of the fire to jump fire lines and surge unabated through the wilderness. Protecting property was a major goal when it came to fighting wildfires. Sometimes, they were allowed to burn, depending on location and situation, as well as what had caused the fire in the first place.
I didn’t know yet what had sparked this fire. A lightning strike, a carelessly thrown match or cigarette, or an unattended campfire. Right now, it didn’t really matter. The fire was being driven by wind, never a good thing. No rain forecast. Hot, dry weather… the bane of wildfire fighters around the world.
A stewardess waited for us at the door of the airplane. She smiled and then gestured for us to take the first four seats of the plane, two on one side of the aisle, the other two on the other. I felt bad for the first-class passengers who had given up their front row seats, but knew that they would be compensated, most likely with a free voucher to fly anywhere within the domestic United States within the next year. That's usually how it worked anyway.
We stowed our backpacks in the overhead bins, and then I glanced at Matt. “Do you mind if I take the window seat?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. The flight won't take long anyway. Maybe a couple of hours.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You can have the window seat on the way back.”
He nodded and we settled in. We watched as other passengers boarded, many of them nodding and smiling at us as they passed, while a couple stopped to briefly stop and thank us. One older gentleman shook Matt’s hand. It was nice, and I can't deny that I gained a sense of pride and gratitude for the recognition.
Eventually, everyone was loaded, the door closed, and the engines started up. I wasn't too thrilled with flying, but as it was the quickest way to get from point A to point B, I knew that it had to be done. Nevertheless, by the time the plane started taxying toward the runway, I automatically placed both my hands on the armrest, my fingers cupping the ends, nervous.
“Don't tell me you're afraid of flying?”
I looked up at Matt to find him gazing down at me with a look of amusement. I nodded.
“You rush into burning buildings, don't blink at the sight of blood and trauma, and you're afraid of flying?”
I shrugged. “What can I say? It's not my favorite mode of travel.”
He laughed, a low, rumbling laugh in his throat that made my pussy tingle with desire. Stop it! He must think I was nuts. I was about to reply when the plane turned onto the runway and then the engines accelerated. The plane picked up speed. My grip on the armrest tightened still more and I stared straight ahead, not looking out the window as the tarmac raced past below us. I tried to ignore, from out of the corner of my eye, the buildings of the airport passing more quickly with every second. What I wanted to do was grab onto Matt’s hand or arm, but that just wouldn’t do. Dammit!
Then, just when I thought that the plane had picked up enough speed to take off, I felt Matt's right hand settle over my left, now gripping the armrest tightly. I felt an immediate sense of security, safety and wordless support. I didn’t glance at him, but concentrated on the feel of the plane bouncing gently under my ass. I wasn't panicked or anything, just anxious. Still, his hand on mine brought a sense of comfort.
I think the worst parts of flying for me were taking off and landing. I didn't like the sensation I got when a place suddenly left terra firma and became airborne, or when the plane headed down for a landing. More than that, I hated turbulence. At that instant, the wheels left the ground, the nose tilted upward, and I was pressed into the back of my seat.
This time, I did look out the window, especially when the plane banked. That’s why I usually asked for a window seat. Doing so, I could focus my gaze on something on the ground, helping me to maintain my equilibrium. If I didn't do that, I would feel dizzy and unbalanced. I didn't like the sensation one iota.
It was just a couple of minutes before the plane quit climbing and obtained altitude. The wings leveled off. Only then did I relax and glance at Matt with a self-conscious smile. “There, I feel better now,” I said. I felt a surge of disappointment when he removed his hand from mine.
I had never flown this specific route, but I knew that our flight path would naturally take us along the eastern part of the Rockies and the Front Range of Colorado, and then up into Montana. I had a feeling that we would have to deal with a little bit of turbulence, but hopefully, not much. In an effort to distract myself, I turned to Matt.
“So, tell me about your crew.”
“There's a number of crews that make up the Rocky Mountain Hotshots,” he shrugged. “Seven actually. We’ll be joining forces with the Northern Rockies teams.”
I hadn’t had much experience with the Hotshot crews in the Rocky Mountains or the Great Basin. I knew the Southwest region encompassed about twenty crews, several of them operating under the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the rest under the purview of the Forest Service.
“I've never been permanently assigned to a Hotshot crew. I pretty much bounce around as I’m needed,” I said.
He nodded. “I did too, for a couple of years. My crew, based in Ft. Collins, will join the Bitterroot crew from the Northern Rockies’ teams and join up in Darby.”
From the airport, I knew we would likely take one of the choppers provided by the National Park Service to the base camp. Once we arrived at the base camp, a crew truck would take us to a specific location where we would be assigned to a fire line. I didn't know what I would be assigned to do, or whether I would be partnered with Matt, but I certainly hoped so. It would be a good opportunity to work beside him.
I glanced up at him, realized that he was relaxing, his head resting against the seat, his eyes closed. I didn't bother him, but tried to relax myself, knowing that our opportunities for doing so would be severely limited in the coming days. However, as I leaned my head against my arm, braced against the window frame, I glanced at his profile.
To my surprise, my heart gave a little thump. My thoughts turned inward. Suddenly, I came to a starting realization. I was falling for him.
I was falling for Matt Drake.
For an instant I felt a thrill of excitement, and then my heart sank. What the hell was I thinking? I hadn't been involved in a relationship for quite some time, and I wasn't exactly looking for one. Despite the fact that Matt and I had enjoyed a couple of very close encounters, and pleasurable ones at that, I wasn't sure if it meant anything to him. In fact, I wasn't sure if it meant anything to me, other than what it had been. Sex. Plain and simple sex. But was that all there was to it? I certainly didn't make a ha
bit of sleeping around, and certainly not as quickly as I had done with Matt.
As the plane propelled us northward to meet uncertain days, I had to ask myself some hard questions. Why had Matt asked me to join his crew? He would have known that as soon as I heard of the fire, I would be on my phone, as I had been, prepared to call the agency and get myself assigned to whatever crew needed me. Had he asked because he liked me? Wanted me near him? And what kind of pull did he have with his captain anyway? Or was I overthinking it?
I also had to deal with this undeniable attraction to him. I recalled what Jeremy told me back at the fire station. Could he be right? Could Matt be a billionaire? And if he was, did it change my feelings for him, or encourage them? Was the fact that he might be bloody rich have anything to do with the sudden realization? I didn’t think so. When I thought of Matt, the first thing that popped into my head was the word ‘comforting’. I remembered his hand on mine as the plane took off. I remembered the smell of his shoulder as he held me close in his truck while I poured out the memories of my tragic past. I recalled the worried look in his eyes after he’d pulled me from the burning house.
Those were the thoughts that came into my head when I thought of Matt. Not money. After all, I hadn't found out the possibility that he might be rich until yesterday anyway, and before that I was already attracted to him.
I wanted to ask him questions, but I didn't want him to know that I knew how rich he was. After all, if he had wanted everyone to know, he probably would have said so. Still, I had to wonder. Why did somebody who made so much money feel the need to become a nurse, or a firefighter? Then again, I had to ask myself the same question. If I had so much money I didn't know what to do with, would I want to sit around idle, or would I want to be useful and productive?
