Blaze Atop Swallow Hill Lookout

by M. L. Buchman

  8

  Her final glimpse before shutting the lid was of thick black clouds of smoke colored with the deep orange of fast-approaching flame.

  “And I had so hoped, Ms. Swallow Hill, that my first water adventure with you might include something like skinny dipping. Seems my imagining came close. Care to complete a man’s wildest dreams, Ms. Hill?” She could hear his gentle smile even if she couldn’t see it in the pitch black.

  Marta appreciated it all the more because there hadn’t been time to move Tyler gently. The sweat of pain poured off him, but he’d kept his tone light and friendly despite the anguish of getting him in here. Whether the effort or the terror had done it, he was shaking off the shock. At least for the moment.

  They were submerged up to their necks in the concrete cistern of her lookout tower’s drinking water. The heavy steel lid above them was closed, for whatever protection it might afford. Then, draped like an air bubble over their heads, she’d spread her fire shelter. It was the only chance they had. Santa Maria Madre di Dios. Childhood prayers weren’t helping her much. She focused back on Tyler, except she couldn’t see him in the dark.

  “How about a rain check on the skinny dipping?” She barely managed the thought around her raw nerves. Now that she had done everything she could other than wait, the impact of their precarious position was striking home.

  “Rain, might help some. Douse this fire down a bit,” it helped that his tone had finally taken on an anxious note. His voice was becoming clearer, recovering from his shock. Sharing her fear with someone else made the situation a bit more bearable. A very tiny bit.

  A silence formed between them but she wasn’t feeling very comfortable in it. The cistern was seven feet deep and, thankfully, she’d used up the top two feet of it in her first two months here. Thankfully, they were both tall enough to stand in the five feet of water still remaining, rather than Tyler having to tread water with a broken ankle. It was also just four feet square so they were jostling and bumping underneath the water despite having their backs pressed against opposite sides.

  The water was cool, without being cold. At least not at first. It was starting to chill her and she could feel the panic approaching and…

  “Talk to me, please!” She begged before she went off the deep end. The fire’s roar beyond their shelter blanket and the steel lid over the cistern was muted, but growing fast.

  “Right, my apologies, ma’am,” his tone which had thinned a little under the pain had shifted back to more solid. “I was just a bit perplexed is all. By our current situation. It’s awkward to be bumping hips and, uh, other things with a beautiful woman under such circumstances.”

  “Which are?”

  “Ms. Swallow Hill, I don’t even know your name.”

  Before she could answer, he hurried on.

  “But your voice, you could make a man die happy just to hear such a thing over his grave. So sure and confident and female. It’s an amazing thing, I’m telling you. And then when I finally saw you,” he let out a low whistle. Not a wolf whistle, but rather one of deep appreciation. “I didn’t know anyone built women who looked like you. One who stood as tall and straight as a ballerina but shaped like a goddess.”

  “Huh!” She tried to pull herself together. She really did. It wasn’t working. “That can’t be.”

  “But it’s truth.”

  “But it can’t,” and she felt about as naïve as a swallow first leaving its nest.

  “Tell me why?”

  “Because…” She didn’t even know why. “Because—” she tried again with no more success, having to raise her voice as the fire’s roar built. “Because I’m no more ballerina than goddess. I guess the confident part is right…maybe. It must be, because it pushes men away like mad.” And he saw the dancer in her? She could still feel that deep inside, but no man had ever said such a thing to her.

  “Then you have been—and please don’t take this wrong, Ms. Swallow Hill—spending your time with a bunch of fools.”

  She reached out in the dark, lost for a moment in the disorienting darkness, and tentatively brushed a hand down his chest. It felt safe and right, huddled together in here as the fire burned toward them. She suppressed a shiver against the cool water.

  “Living in my glass tower, can’t say I’ve been spending time with much of anyone.”

  “I like the sound of that even better. Less competition for me. Not so long ago I swore I was going to get to know the lady of Swallow Hill before this summer was over.”

  Marta could feel the heat rising to her own face and was glad for the darkness. “I, uh, might have made a similar swear about this certain deep-voiced pilot I know.” Which she couldn’t believe she’d just admitted. “Say something else. Anything else.”

  “Well…” he tried to keep his tone light despite the tension she could feel where her hand still rested against his chest. A good man to have around in a bad situation. “The skinny dipping wasn’t a completely idle suggestion. I have a pal with a big ranch down in Texas. Horse ranch. Do you ride?”

  “Willing to learn,” she didn’t let loose the bubble of a laugh building in her throat for fear that it would emerge as a babble of panic instead.

  “Some fine places there to take a lady,” Tyler continued resting a hand over hers, “if she’s of a mind. Fine places. Not another soul for miles in any direction.”

  “I might be open to that,” Marta slapped her free hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that.” The heat flashed back into her cheeks.

  Then her face kept heating.

  And heating.

  Their breathing air was—

  “Okay, Swallow Hill. You listen close,” Tyler’s smooth and calm disappeared and he started speaking quickly. Dead serious now. “It’s going to get hot in here, unbearably hot. And then it will get hotter. You hold down the corners of the fire blanket, keep its edges under the water. I’ll do the same with my end. You’re going to want to rip off the blanket. Don’t! Our lives may depend on that.”

  Marta ducked her face down into the cool water, which only made the air feel twice as hot when she surfaced. She reached around Tyler, grabbed one end of the foil fire shelter and held it firmly behind him under the water. He did the same behind her. They were embracing…to save their lives. Don’t get stupid, Marta!

  “It all depends,” Tyler continued hurriedly, “how fast the concrete and the water heat up. But do not pull the blanket aside until I tell you. No matter what. Do you understand? Do you…”

  She nodded, which was pointless in the dark. They were going to be boiled alive. But she couldn’t speak.

  The concrete wall she was leaning against was no longer cold, it was comfortably warm. She shifted away from the wall, the warmth was creepy, felt dangerous.

  Bumped into Tyler, chest to chest, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Kiss me.”

  “What?” She had to shout to be heard over the building roar.

  “I want to have kissed you before we survive this.”

  She wished she could see his face, his eyes, how he was looking at her.

  The wall behind her was definitely warm now.

  But she hadn’t needed to see him before this moment. She heard his voice, just as she had all season; it became the center of her thoughts.

  She leaned in and kissed him as the roar deafened her. She clung to him as long as she could, but she had to break apart to get air.

  It was so hot.

  She dragged in a breath.

  The air was fire in her lungs.

  “Scream!” He shouted at her. “It’s okay!”

  The wall behind her was now hot when she bumped it. The water was starting to warm up. She held onto Tyler. Held onto their fragile shelter where it had been pulled down behind him. The air inside the small bubble of the fire shelter inside t
he concrete cistern was so hot it scalded her lungs. It—

  The scream that ripped from her chest was echoed by the scream from his as the fire rolled over them.

  9

  At some point Marta stopped screaming.

  The pain had eased.

  The agony of each breath.

  She floated in the dark, wrapped tight around a man. Around Tyler. Her end of the foil shelter was still tight in her fists.

  “Am I dead?” Then a horrible thought struck her and she gasped out, “Are you dead?”

  His soft chuckle reassured her infinitely.

  “Can we open the shelter yet?”

  “Not yet,” his voice was a whisper.

  “But the fire’s roar…” It was gone.

  “The area around us is still too hot. Give it a few minutes. Besides…”

  “Besides what?”

  “I wouldn’t mind kissing you after we survived this.”

  Marta decided she wouldn’t mind either, not with a man who kissed as well as he did.

  They only had a few moments, that she thoroughly appreciated, before the heavy pounding of an approaching helicopter sounded loud outside the cistern.

  Tyler broke off the kiss, but didn’t release his tight hold on her.

  “That, Ms. Swallow Hill, is how we know it’s cool enough to leave.”

  Together they pushed the blanket up against the heavy steel lid and levered it open. It dropped aside with a loud clang of steel on concrete.

  They tossed the foil blanket over the hot concrete and she pulled herself up to sit on the broad rim, and then helped Tyler up to join her. He flinched when he banged his broken ankle against her, but remained stoic. A good man to have beside you…beside her. A Black Hawk was settling onto the flat spot just below the tower. Everywhere around them was black char. The fire had burned every living thing in its path. Even now, other helicopters and a pair of tankers were battling the flames farther down the slope.

  The tower!

  She looked up. It still stood. The soaking Tyler gave it right before he crashed had saved it. The swallows swooped in, complained that the box was gone, had been burned away, and then all flew off again.

  “I’ll bring you a new one next year,” she called after them.

  A silence settled as the Black Hawk’s engines wound down.

  “You’re all red, Ms. Swallow Hill.”

  They only had moments before his friends arrived from the helicopter.

  She was worried about facing Tyler. They had been through the heart of a fire together. They didn’t know each other—but they’d said things. Shared things.

  Be brave! She forced herself to look at him.

  “You too.” Bright red. His skin flushed brighter than a sunburn though she could see it was easing already. “Cooked like lobsters.”

  “Could be our first dinner date,” he noted in that dry tone of his.

  “Not a chance. Never had lobster and now I never will.” Then she thought that, of course, she should have known—her Mama was always right. She nodded up toward the tower, “But you come visiting and I’ll make the best spaghetti sauce you’ve ever had.”

  His smile was deep and proved that rugged and handsome could definitely be on the same face.

  “Tell me one thing, Ms. Hill.”

  Her courteous, deeply-voiced Coloradan was back. With his easy humor and very good face. A man she wouldn’t mind getting to know much, much better.

  What secrets could she keep from such a man?

  Tell him one thing?

  “Anything,” and she knew it was a promise.

  “What’s your name, Ms. Swallow Hill?”

  “I offer you ‘anything,’ and that’s the best you’ve got?”

  She tried to shove him back into the tank, but he caught her up in his arms and gave her one of those deep, desperate kisses. Just like when they’d been at death’s door, except now he was just doing it because he wanted to.

  Because she wanted him to.

  About the Author

  M. L. Buchman has over 40 novels in print. His military romantic suspense books have been named Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the year” and Booklist “Top 10 of the Year.” In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.

  In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife. He is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing by subscribing to his newsletter at

  www.mlbuchman.com.

  Wildfire at Dawn (a Firehawks “Smokejumpers Trilogy” romance excerpt)

  Mount Hood Aviation’s lead smokejumper Johnny Akbar Jepps rolled out of his lower bunk careful not to bang his head on the upper. Well, he tried to roll out, but every muscle fought him, making it more a crawl than a roll. He checked the clock on his phone. Late morning.

  He’d slept twenty of the last twenty-four hours and his body felt as if he’d spent the entire time in one position. The coarse plank flooring had been worn smooth by thousands of feet hitting exactly this same spot year in and year out for decades. He managed to stand upright…then he felt it, his shoulders and legs screamed.

  Oh, right.

  The New Tillamook Burn. Just about the nastiest damn blaze he’d fought in a decade of jumping wildfires. Two hundred thousand acres—over three hundred square miles—of rugged Pacific Coast Range forest, poof! The worst forest fire in a decade for the Pacific Northwest, but they’d killed it off without a single fatality or losing a single town. There’d been a few bigger ones, out in the flatter eastern part of Oregon state. But that much area—mostly on terrain too steep to climb even when it wasn’t on fire—had been a horror.

  Akbar opened the blackout curtain and winced against the summer brightness of blue sky and towering trees that lined the firefighter’s camp. Tim was gone from the upper bunk, without kicking Akbar on his way out. He must have been as hazed out as Akbar felt.

  He did a couple of side stretches and could feel every single minute of the eight straight days on the wildfire to contain the bastard, then the excruciating nine days more to convince it that it was dead enough to hand off to a Type II incident mop-up crew. Not since his beginning days on a hotshot crew had he spent seventeen days on a single fire.

  And in all that time nothing more than catnaps in the acrid safety of the “black”—the burned-over section of a fire, black with char and stark with no hint of green foliage. The mop-up crews would be out there for weeks before it was dead past restarting, but at least it was truly done in. That fire wasn’t merely contained; they’d killed it bad.

  Yesterday morning, after demobilizing, his team of smokies had pitched into their bunks. No wonder he was so damned sore. His stretches worked out the worst of the kinks but he still must be looking like an old man stumbling about.

  He looked down at the sheets. Damn it. They’d been fresh before he went to the fire, now he’d have to wash them again. He’d been too exhausted to shower before sleeping and they were all smeared with the dirt and soot that he could still feel caking his skin. Two-Tall Tim, his number two man and as tall as two of Akbar, kinda, wasn’t in his bunk. His towel was missing from the hook.

  Shower. Shower would be good. He grabbed his own towel and headed down the dark, narrow hall to the far end of the bunk house. Every one of the dozen doors of his smoke teams were still closed, smokies still sacked out. A glance down another corridor and he could see that at least a couple of the Mount Hood Aviation helicopter crews were up, but most still had closed doors with no hint of light from open curtains sliding under them. All of MHA had gone above and
beyond on this one.

  “Hey, Tim.” Sure enough, the tall Eurasian was in one of the shower stalls, propped up against the back wall letting the hot water stream over him.

  “Akbar the Great lives,” Two-Tall sounded half asleep.

  “Mostly. Doghouse?” Akbar stripped down and hit the next stall. The old plywood dividers were flimsy with age and gray with too many showers. The Mount Hood Aviation firefighters’ Hoodie One base camp had been a kids’ summer camp for decades. Long since defunct, MHA had taken it over and converted the playfields into landing areas for their helicopters, and regraded the main road into a decent airstrip for the spotter and jump planes.

  “Doghouse? Hell, yeah. I’m like ten thousand calories short.” Two-Tall found some energy in his voice at the idea of a trip into town.

  The Doghouse Inn was in the nearest town. Hood River lay about a half hour down the mountain and had exactly what they needed: smokejumper-sized portions and a very high ratio of awesomely fit young women come to windsurf the Columbia Gorge. The Gorge, which formed the Washington and Oregon border, provided a fantastically target-rich environment for a smokejumper too long in the woods.

  “You’re too tall to be short of anything,” Akbar knew he was being a little slow to reply, but he’d only been awake for minutes.

  “You’re like a hundred thousand calories short of being even a halfway decent size,” Tim was obviously recovering faster than he was.

  “Just because my parents loved me instead of tying me to a rack every night ain’t my problem, buddy.”

  He scrubbed and soaped and scrubbed some more until he felt mostly clean.

  “I’m telling you, Two-Tall. Whoever invented the hot shower, that’s the dude we should give the Nobel prize to.”

  “You say that every time.”

  “You arguing?”

  He heard Tim give a satisfied groan as some muscle finally let go under the steamy hot water. “Not for a second.”

  Akbar stepped out and walked over to the line of sinks, smearing a hand back and forth to wipe the condensation from the sheet of stainless steel screwed to the wall. His hazy reflection still sported several smears of char.