Grounded.
Exactly what he deserved. But what the hell was he supposed to do now?
A hand rested on his back. After a month of living with and making love to Maggie Torres, he knew that touch better than his own.
He couldn’t turn to face her.
“I saw the video.” All of the Firebirds had multiple cameras to record their successes. Now they had recorded his failure. “What happened?”
Since shrugging hadn’t worked, Palo tried shaking his head.
“Don’t you dare brush me off, Palo Akana!” He’d only roused Maggie’s temper a few times over the last month, but she’d given him a deep and abiding respect for it.
“I’m not. I really don’t know what happened.”
With her lightning quick change, the woman who came around in front of him was all sympathy and worry, not anger.
“One moment we were flying clean. Then I lost a chunk of time. Seconds at most. But it was just a blank.” Each word hurt to bring up, but to answer the fear in Maggie’s eyes he forced himself to find them.
“Eleven seconds,” she whispered. “You flew at a hundred and seventy miles an hour for eleven full seconds without a single course change—not even a wiggle in flight. Like you’d been hypnotized by that tree.”
He remembered that tree. An old monster of the forest reached up almost three hundred feet. Every inch of it a roaring torch and he’d flown at it like a moth seeking the flame. He’d come to—eleven full seconds? Unthinkable!—less than a second from the tree. He’d slammed the cyclic sideways, cutting a hard turn, almost putting his rotor blades through Stacy’s helo. She’d hauled back, letting him pass mere feet below her, but her action had Jasper and Drew nearly ramming her from behind. His own correction had been so hard that only a lucky updraft had kept him clear of the burning treetops—though it had almost cooked him alive.
That’s when the shakes hit him.
Maggie wrapped her arms around him and held on. He didn’t deserve it, but she did.
Grounded? He should be cashiered and have his license revoked.
“I really screwed up, Maggie.” He leaned down far enough to bury his face in her hair. “I don’t know why. I just don’t…”
“Shh!” She stroked her hands down his back. “We’ll figure it out. I believe in you. We’ll solve this.”
And that’s when he remembered.
He knew exactly what had gone wrong up there. It wasn’t that tree that had hypnotized him.
The truth was even worse than he’d feared.
Palo tried to push Maggie away. When it didn’t work, he tried harder. When she finally let go, he was pushing her hard enough that she tumbled over backward, landing hard on her butt.
“Steer clear of me, Torres. Oh shit! Please just stay away.”
His Pontiac Firebird was parked by the small hut he’d shared with Maggie whenever they’d been in camp over the last month, as if he deserved to have a place to call his own.
Keys in his pocket.
He climbed in and was headed out of the parking lot before Maggie was even back on her feet. He punched up through the gears until the Redwood Highway was a blur. Fifty twisting miles to the coast at Crescent City, California. Maybe he wouldn’t stop. Just do everyone a favor and plow straight into the ocean and put himself out of everyone’s misery.
Palo knew he wouldn’t. He’d never once thought of suicide, not even listening to his foster mother grunt away for the third trick of the night on the other side of the thin bedroom wall. But there was a part of himself he’d kill if he could.
And it wasn’t the part that had fallen in love with Maggie Torres.
14
Keys! Now!”
Curt pulled them slowly out of his pocket with a puzzled expression on his face. Maggie grabbed them out of his hand and raced over to his classic Trans Am.
“Hey!” Curt shouted after her, but she ignored him. All she knew was that the man she loved had just driven away from her without explanation and that her Denali pickup wasn’t up to catching Palo’s Firebird.
She slammed out of the parking lot spraying a great fan of gravel. She was in second by the time she hit the road and the tires chirped hard on the pavement when they caught.
Hammering through the tiny hamlet of O’Brien, she spotted Carl on the road in his police cruiser. The speed limit for town was down to fifty, just as she was cracking ninety in fourth gear. He chirped his siren at her as she flew by, but the Firebirds all had black cars with red flames on them—except of course Curt’s which had the red and gold Firebird on the hood. They were known and he let her go by. She saw his smile flash when they were just even and he chirped the siren again in greeting. Maggie would have to be extra nice to him next time.
After she caught and killed that Finnish-Hawaiian bastard street punk from San Francisco, Palo Akana.
She spotted his car just after the long straightaways of Oregon ended and they flashed across the California border. The narrow two-land road grew narrower and began twisting down a sharp canyon between densely forested hills. She kept her foot in it and would have to remember to tell Curt that his right front suspension needed to be tightened up and his carb was running a little lean—because damn this was a sweet ride and it should be treated right.
California CHIPS were notoriously less tolerant than Oregon’s Staties. Thankfully, Palo wasn’t pushing it, so she caught up fast.
She took him on a blind corner, then slammed on her brakes as she cut in front of him. He skidded into a four-wheel drift, leaving long black streaks on the pavement before he bounced into a dirt pullout high on a curve. Lucky for him she hadn’t caught him on the other side of the curve or he’d be nose down in Griffin Creek right about now which sounded fine to her.
She thought about ramming him, but didn’t want to ding the boss’ pretty car. If she’d been in her Denali she have run right over the top of Palo’s old Firebird.
“Who the hell taught you to drive, woman?”
“Mi papa, so don’t go there!” She’d never been so mad in her life as she stormed up to him.
He leaned back against his car with folded arms over his chest and glowered down at her.
“And don’t be trying that shit either, Akana. You do not walk away from me. You can yell at me, cry on me, make love to me, but you do not walk away. Ever!”
Palo watched her for a long moment. Then he reached out a hand and it was all she could do to not flinch away as he brushed her cheek. “Never seen you cry, Maggie.”
“I don’t.” Ever! But his finger was wet. She brushed at her cheeks and felt the hot water there. “I don’t!” Insisting sounded stupid, but it was all she had.
“Okay,” Palo shrugged and refolded his arms.
No point in hitting him, her fist would just bounce off. “Where’s a crowbar when I need one?”
He crossed to his trunk, opened it and pulled out a car jack handle. He handed it to her.
“Do your worst.” And he looked even sadder than she felt.
“You just don’t walk away,” she threw the jack handle into the dirt where it stuck point first and quivered. “Mama did that. I can’t have that twice in my life.”
He blinked, just once. Palo might not talk much, but he wasn’t slow. “But you said…”
“After we were all grown and gone. One day she just—left. Her note to Papa said, ‘Don’t come looking for me.’ That’s all. Took her car, her clothes, and one half of the bank account. Nothing else. I mean nothing. Not photo albums, not a can of god forsaken soup. We never heard from her again. Just about killed Papa.”
“Aw, shit, Torres. Okay, never walk away from you. Got it.”
Struggling for air, refusing to give in to the sobs that wanted to follow the tears, she forced herself to look once more at Palo. Unable to speak, she could only wait.
“So why did I, huh?” He grunted to himself.
Maggie could only nod in response.
He looked up at th
e sky so long, that she too looked aloft. Low alder and high Douglas fir. The two-lane road was deep in the valley cut by Griffin Creek. She could hear it bubbling away in the background. Above was a slice of blue. It was an Oregon blue, pure except for a dusting of sea mist, softening without stealing the beauty of the color.
“The only place my life has ever made sense was up in that sky. Flying with my foster dad. Working the lines after he went down. Flying to fire with Curt. I don’t know how to be down here on the ground.”
Again he reached out to brush a finger along the line still warm from her tears, but this time it was a caress.
“I love you, Maggie. That’s what happened to me up there. It wasn’t the damned tree. I figured out that I love you. Nothing in my life prepared me for the power of that realization. You share your bed with me, which is a gift I never imagined. But how can a lost cause like me ever give you what you want? What you deserve? Family? Children? Happy ever after? I can hear it in your voice. I can see it in the way you breathe. I can’t give you that.”
“Why not?” Maggie barely breathed the words. Had her mother ever loved her father as much as she loved this man? Impossible, or she’d never have left. She’d married a Coastie who loved his job as much as his family and been unable to live with that choice.
Palo just flapped his hands at himself, then let them fall by his side.
“I…” why were these things so hard to say? Maggie tried again. “I love you, too. I love Palo Akana.”
He squinted at her. Because, like the good man he was, he’d never looked away.
“Yes, he pulled a crappy set of cards, but look at who he’s become. And don’t give me any mierda about genetic heritage. Whether they were teens in a gang or a drug-blasted whore, look at who you made, Palo. Palo is—you are an incredible man. And if you don’t believe me, ask any one of the Firebirds.”
“Don’t think any of them are real happy with me at the moment.”
“Feh!” Maggie waved that aside. “That’s only because you almost killed them today. They’ll get over it.”
As if in answer, Drew and Amos rolled up in their black-and-flame GTOs. Stacy, Curt, Jana, Jasper, and Ty piled out as well.
“What are you all doing here?” Maggie knew from a month’s experience that she needed peace and quiet to deal with Palo. She didn’t need this!
“The way you tore outta there, Torres,” Curt stuck his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I figured Palo might need some backup.”
“And them?” Maggie waved a hand at the others.
“We’re talking Maggie Torres here. You don’t think I’m dumb enough to take you on by myself.” The others were grinning at her. Wasn’t a man or woman in the outfit that didn’t top her by at least six inches.
She considered reaching down and grabbing Palo’s jack handle out of the dirt.
To hell with them all. She turned back to Palo.
“Well, looks like we get to do this in front of everyone.” Maggie knew she was right and not even the collected Firebirds were going to stop her. “Are you spending the rest of your life with me? Or are you chickenshitting out because you had a crappy past? In which case, you can just keep right on driving.”
Palo looked at her a long time, then glanced at all the cars pulled up around his. “Looks like I’m all parked in.”
“Not good enough, Palo.”
He grunted. “That’s the challenge. Who’s good enough for Maggie Torres?”
“C’mon, Palo.” “Do it, Akana.” The others were soon making so much noise that she knew there was no way for him to hear what she said, but she said it anyway, as one final plea.
“You are.”
After a long pause—just looking her directly in the eyes—he nodded. Exactly like that time before he disappeared into the darkness around the campfire.
Maggie could feel her heart breaking.
But this time, he looked back up at her.
“You sure?” he mouthed silently.
Now it was her turn to nod—just like the repeat after me of a wedding.
He took a deep breath, then moved a single step forward and went down in front of her on one knee.
If the rabble of the Firebirds had been loud before, they exploded and Maggie could barely hear herself think.
So, when Palo reached out his hand, she took it and knelt before him.
“Together,” she told him as the applause took over from the cheers.
Being a man of few words, he just pulled her into the safest place in the world and held her tight against his beautiful chest, just as she knew he would for all their days.
Fire Light, Fire Bright (excerpt)
If you liked this, you’ll love the Hotshot short stories!
Fire Light, Fire Bright
(excerpt)
Hi, I’m Candace Cantrell. First Rule: anyone who calls me Candy, who isn’t my dad,” she hooked a thumb at Fire Chief Carl Cantrell standing at-ease beside her, “is gonna get my boot up their ass. We clear on that?”
A rolling mumble of “Yes, ma’am.” “Clear.” and “Got it, Candace.” rippled back to her from the recruits. Some answered almost as softly as the breeze working its way up through the tall pines. Others trumpeting it out as if to get her notice. A few offered simple nods.
She surveyed the line of recruits slowly. Way too early to make any judgments, but it was tempting. Day One, Minute One, and she could already guess five of the forty applicants weren’t going to make it into the twenty slots she had open.
The one thing they all, including her dad, needed to see right up front was their team leader’s complete confidence. Candace had been fighting wildfires for the U.S. Forest Service hotshot teams for a decade. She’d worked her way up to foreman twice, and had been gunning for a shot at superintendent of a whole twenty-person crew when her dad had called.
“We’re got permission to form up an IHC in the heart of the Okanagan-Wenatchee National Forest,” he never was long on greetings over the phone.
Her mouth had watered. A brand new Interagency Hotshot Crew didn’t happen all that often.
“I talked to the other captains and we want you to form it up.”
Now her throat had gone dry and she had to fight to not let it squeak.
“Me?”
“You aren’t gonna let me down now, Candy Girl?”
“You shittin’ me?” Not a chance.
Then he’d hit her with that big belly laugh of his.
“Knew you’d like the idea.”
And simple as that, she’d been out of the San Juan IHC at the end of the Colorado fire season and back home in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State. She’d grown up in the resort town of Leavenworth—two thousand people and a ka-jillion tourists. The city fathers had transformed the failing timber town into a Bavarian wonderland back in the sixties. But that didn’t stop the millions of acres of the National Forest and the rugged sagebrush-steppe ecosystem further east in central Washington from torching off every summer.
The very first thing she’d done, before she’d even left the San Juan IHC, was to call in a pair of ringers as her two foremen. Jess was short, feisty, and could walk up forested mountains all day with heavy gear without slowing down a bit. Patsy was tall, quiet, and tough. Candace had them stand in with the candidates for the first days because she wanted their eyes out there as well.
“Second, see that road?” she asked the recruits and pointed to the foot of National Forest Road 6500. She’d had their first meet-up be here rather than at the fire hall in town. A gaggle of vehicles were pulled off the dirt of Little Wenatchee River Road. Beater pickups dominated, but there were a couple of hammered Civics, a pair of muscle cars, and a gorgeous Harley Davidson that she considered stealing it was so sweet.
The recruits all looked over their shoulders at the one lane of dirt.
“We’re going for a stroll up that road. We leave in sixty seconds.”
Like a herd of sheep, the
y all swung their heads to look at her.
“Fifty-five seconds, and this ain’t gonna be a Sunday-type of a stroll.”
You could tell the number of seasons they’d fought fire just by their reactions.
Five or more? They already wore their boots. Daypacks with water and energy bars were kept on their shoulders during her intro. And despite it being Day One of the ten-day shakedown, all had some tools: fold-up shovel and a heavy knife strapped to their leg at a minimum. Only she, Jess, and Patsy had Pulaski wildland fire axes tied to their gear, but all the veterans knew the drill.
Three to four seasons? Groans and eyerolls. Packs were on the ground beside them. No tools, but they knew what was coming now that she’d told them—ten kilometers, at least, and not one meter of it flat.
One to two seasons? Had the right boots on, but no packs. They were racing back to their vehicles to see what equipment they could assemble.
Rookies? Tennis shoes, ball caps, no gear, blank stares.
“Forty-five seconds, rooks. Boots and water. If you’re not on the trail in fifty seconds, you’re off the crew.” That got their asses moving.
There was one man on the whole crew she couldn’t pigeonhole, the big guy who’d climbed off the Harley. His pack and the fold-up shovel strapped to it were so new they sparkled. But his boots and the massive hunting knife on his thigh both showed very heavy use.
A glance at her Dad’s assessing gaze confirmed it. Something was odd about the Harley man and his easy grin. Not rugged handsome, but still very nice to look at. Powerful shoulders, slim waist. Not an athlete’s build, but rather someone who really used his body. His worn jeans revealed that he already had the powerful legs that every hotshot would develop from endless miles of chasing fire over these mountains and steppes for the next six months. It was like he was a Hollywood movie: some parts of him were so very right, but a lot of the details were dead wrong.
***
Luke Rawlings looked at the team superintendent. Couldn’t help himself, ‘cause damn she was a treat to look at. Her white-blond hair was short and sassy, her body was seriously fit, but curved like a sweet-Candy dream girl. Her no-nonsense attitude just cracked him up; he could hear that natural state of command that you only learned the hard way, by doing it. Not something he’d ever expected to find in a hot civilian babe.
For All Their Days Page 4
