Pure Heat

by M. L. Buchman

  “You should be on a calendar somewhere.”

  “Never get me to pose, especially not for you.” Her comeback was immediate and near vitriolic.

  Okay, it had been a dumb thing to say, even if it was true. But even her voice was amazing. He thought about asking if she sang but then thought better of it. He didn’t know if his libido would survive this woman heading up a rock-and-roll band wearing, maybe, tight leather.

  The angel turned her attention back to the man’s foot, clearly marked by being the only part of him not coated in the sticky red retardant.

  Steve noted with some chagrin that his new jeans and shirt were going to need a serious discussion with a washing machine. He’d been coated in red and soot all over.

  “Let’s get you over to the medic.” She started guiding the trio to the main building.

  “Just a sprain.”

  “Just an old man being luckier than he deserves.”

  Had he just saved the angel’s father? That had possibilities. Together, they hobbled TJ toward the main building.

  A guy met them as they neared the cluster of weather-beaten picnic tables for eating outside during nice weather.

  “Set him down there.” The man pointed at the nearest bench. “Betsy won’t want him messing up the dining room until we hose him down some.” His voice slow and easy.

  A big guy. The kind who could bench-press the picnic table. His eyes hidden behind mirrored Ray-Bans.

  “Where’s Rick?” Angel was in full protective mode, interposing herself between her father and the rest of the world.

  “And who are you?” Then she turned on Steve. “And you?”

  Steve held out a hand, only a little red-smeared. “Steve Mercer, but everyone calls me Merks.”

  She ignored the hand. Left it hanging there and turned back to face the other.

  “I’m your new ICA,” the big guy informed her.

  Steve reeled his hand back in unshaken and decided to sit down on the bench next to TJ. Clearly the man was enjoying the entire scene. He nudged an elbow into Steve’s side, leaving a round, red smudge on the only clean spot on Steve’s shirt.

  “No, Rick is our Incident Commander—Air.” Angel went toe to toe with the big guy.

  Steve wasn’t sure he’d be arguing with the man in the mirrored shades. He looked like a serious piece of work, lethal through and through.

  “No.” The guy looked like he might be enjoying this too behind that serious expression of his. “Rick is now your Incident Commander, period. With me onboard, they’re expanding the region and he’s overseeing both Hoodie One and Hoodie Two camps. He just took the Beech Baron plane to lead the tanker drops onto your Saddlebag Gap fire. Then he’s swinging down to the camp near Crater Lake. Party to celebrate his promotion is tomorrow, if you get that fire killed by then.”

  “It’ll be dead tonight and mopped by the end of tomorrow, if the tankers are really inbound.” She managed to say it in a way that clearly implied it was none of the new ICA’s doing even if he might, possibly, by pure accident, have gotten the facts right.

  Damn, she was incredible. She seriously reminded Steve of a mama bear he’d spooked in the Montana wilderness a couple years before. Closest he’d come to dying. Until last summer’s fire, anyway.

  “Don’t even need the Firehawk anymore on this one, though it’s nice we had a chance to break her in on a little fire,” the ICA informed her comfortably, his big hands tucked in his jeans pockets. “MHA’s air tankers are on site and will punch this one down hard.”

  MHA had several big airplane tankers, a converted DC-7 and a couple of BAe-146s. Hell of a hammerblow when there was space for the big jets to get in.

  “Great. So now I’m saddled with some knothead ICA who thinks he knows what he’s doing because he’s read a year of Fire Chief magazine.”

  “I’ve also read the last year of Wildfire and get the biweekly Wildfire Express. Does that count? Do you want to check my subscription to the Wildfire Today blog? It’s a good one. Glad to give you the link if you don’t have it. Or do you want to see the list of sixty-four fires I flew to last year for training?”

  “Sixty-four?” Steve couldn’t help interjecting. That was a buttload of fires for a single season.

  “I think the most interesting one was jumping with the Avialesookhrana.”

  “You jumped with the Russians? I hosted a couple of their guys last summer on an exchange program. They couldn’t believe the equipment we had. Sacramento had just gotten their first Firehawks. I was supposed to go back this season…” Steve let the words dribble off. He’d been in his third surgery when the deadline for sign-ups had passed him by. He took a breath when Carly inspected him strangely. “…but I’m here instead.”

  “What did you do, ride copilot on sixty-four flights?” Carly was undaunted.

  Steve had to admire the man’s confidence. He remained positively cheerful behind his shades while the most beautiful woman Steve had ever seen spit venom at him. Steve raised an eyebrow at TJ, then nodded down toward the man’s ankle.

  TJ laughed, stopping whatever the next round might be. Fisticuffs, maybe?

  “Don’t suppose,” the smokie offered laconically, “anyone wants to get me a beer? After that, maybe someone can tell me what I did to my goddamn ankle.”

  The focus shifted neatly. The ICA knelt down and began unlacing the boot.

  “Do you know what—” the beautiful angel started in, still in full mama-bear mode. Damn she really was incredible, a mix of beauty and danger. She was definitely hitting deep and solid into the field of Steve’s personal preferences in women. Not what he usually ran the bases with, more like the ones he sometimes admired from just a bit too far away. This time he was up close and personal.

  “Just go and get me a bag of ice and a pair of crutches,” the unflappable ICA told her. “Ace bandage, too. Then we can see if we need a trip to the hospital.”

  “And don’t forget my beer,” TJ called after the woman running off to get supplies.

  The way she ran was heart stopping. Not some girlie trot; this was an outdoors woman on a mission. Steve’s attention was drawn back by TJ’s hiss of pain as the ICA slipped the boot free. Then TJ huffed out a breath of relief.

  “Don’t need no hospital. Just a sprain. My boy Merks here was right quick.” TJ slapped him on the back, no doubt leaving a broad, red palm print.

  “That was quick thinking.” The pilot came up beside the ICA. Steve had been right on about her on both points: a serious looker, maybe even in his angel’s league. Also clearly a force of nature; it looked as if the woman didn’t even bend. And she’d slipped on a gold band with a simple diamond that indicated the tan line on her finger was honestly earned. How close she stood to the ICA told the rest of that story clearly enough.

  “Quick is my trademark. Merks Mercer. Mercer, Mercury, Merks,” Steve gave the origin of his nickname. Or he was quick, before he’d lost his knee.

  “Also,” the pilot looked down at him and continued with no change of tone, “if you ever jump into a fire from my chopper again without full gear, I’ll have you dreaming about the day we’ll let you put out anything as dangerous as a book of matches. Am I clear?”

  Steve wanted to laugh, but looking at his reflection in her mirrored sunglasses, all of the blood ran out of his system. “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

  With no change at all in manner, just as calm as could be, she turned to her husband.

  “Where’s Tessa?”

  Somehow, that changeless tone made her reprimand all the more painful.

  “Betsy wouldn’t give her up.” The ICA grinned up at her, running an idle hand down the back of her leg where she stood by him while Steve tried to recover his breathing.

  “She’s in her cradle in the kitchen. Probably getting hungry. Betsy found a cute hat for her. She said every baby needs a hat.”

  The pilot leaned in to kiss her husband soundly on the mouth, then headed off toward her daughter.

>   “Is she for real?” Steve whispered the question only after she was out of earshot. Even then, he waited until she was inside the building and was glad a helicopter came roaring in behind them for a refuel, though the chopper made his whisper have to be more of a shout.

  The guy just smiled at him. “What do you think?”

  Steve decided he’d make certain a spare Nomex suit including a fire shelter was stashed on whatever chopper he ended up in. Maybe he should pack a parachute as well, in case she chucked him out at altitude.

  “Well,” the ICA addressed TJ, “you, sir, aren’t going to be running anywhere soon.” He was watching TJ’s face as he shifted the ankle back and forth. Winces and pained looks, but nothing worse than a hard grimace. “But I’d agree with your diagnosis of a sprain. We’ll ice it overnight, then ship you to the doc if it isn’t on the mend in the morning.”

  “Thanks, young man.” That made the ICA smile.

  “Mark Henderson.” They shook hands. Then he glanced at Steve. “And you must be my stray pilot.”

  The angel-bright woman had returned with ice, bandages, crutches, and a six-pack of beer, the bottles already sweating with the midday heat.

  “Bless you, Carly.” TJ took one of the beers, knocked back a long swallow, and then rested his elbows on the table behind him. His breath hissed a bit as she knelt and wrapped the ice bag around his ankle. Then he relaxed into it and took another slug of beer.

  Carly. His angel had a name that somehow was precisely her. She must have noticed his attention.

  “That’s Ms. Thomas to you.”

  Mark pulled the ice bag off for a moment and wrapped the bandage around TJ’s ankle with a neatness and efficiency that spoke of much practice. Even Carly didn’t fault him.

  “Are you sure about—” Carly was cut off by a loud squawk from the radio dangling at Mark’s hip. Mark pulled it free.

  “Base here.”

  “This is Ground Two. We’re a hundred percent contained. The tankers stopped all three heads short of the ridge and they burned out on the walls. The 212s wrung its neck and are driving in the nails right now. Hotshot crew and a bunch of red cards just arrived to help with mop-up. We’ll be hanging on for the first round of dousing, which will take most of the afternoon. Then we’ll let the Type IIs follow it through the night and tomorrow. Should be truly dead this time tomorrow. Tell Betsy we should be home for dinner.”

  “Roger that. Well done. TJ’s fine, already knocking back a cold one.”

  TJ raised the bottle in silent salute.

  “Damn it! Make sure he saves some for us. Ground Two out.”

  “Roger and out.” Mark clicked it off.

  The ICA had the decency not to flaunt his knowledge of the situation, which left Carly still as hot as one of her fires and looking for another target. Steve figured he’d best lie low for a bit until she cooled down.

  He pulled a pair of beers from the six-pack that the angel had dropped on the table and held them out to Carly and Mark. They were readily accepted. He snagged himself one and twisted off the cap.

  Steve knocked back a mouthful and decided this was near perfection. A small fire quickly beaten. Busy helibase going on behind him. A new friend sitting beside him. A stunning woman settling to sit on the bench at the next picnic table over. Sitting facing them so that he could really enjoy the view.

  Damn, she really was perfect. Well-worn boots attached to the longest damn legs he’d seen in a long time wrapped in jeans that showed she worked for a living. All those slipstream curves and a crystalline-blue glare that threatened to strike him out before he even got to the on-deck circle, never mind the batter’s box.

  The best thing about the day, though, was that he’d been in the field again.

  Definitely the best part.

  Knowing that his nerve had stood the test of time when it came down to it. When life was on the line, he’d managed to face the fire demon again. Hadn’t even thought of it, even after months in bed and physical therapy with far too much time to wonder if he’d lost the edge or not.

  That would be “not.” Steve felt as if he could breathe for the first time in months, in a year. Then he looked over at the angel as she mellowed a little, as if the beer had soothed a throat gone too dry. Okay, still having his nerve was the best part of this day, but she was a damn close second.

  Mark took a small taste of his beer, then stood from squatting over TJ’s ankle and stretched out his legs. A bit over Steve’s six feet and seriously fit. “Still not used to the fact that it’s okay to take a drink.”

  “Why not?”

  The ICA settled on the bench next to Carly. Steve almost managed not to envy him the position, but he did. Though the view was better from where he sat two whole feet farther away.

  She shifted down the bench from Henderson, making it clear she wasn’t done lambasting the ICA yet.

  “We lived on twenty-four-hour call for months at a time. And with twenty-four hours from bottle to throttle, it didn’t leave a lot of opportunity to just enjoy a beer.”

  “The FAA rule is eight hours between your last drink and when you can fly.”

  Mark tipped his bottle in acknowledgment. “Spoken like a civilian pilot.”

  “Are you SOAR, too?” Carly’s voice changed. No note of derision now, her anger washed away with the simple question.

  “Major Mark Henderson, retired, at your service.” He bowed his head politely.

  Steve wondered about the attitude change. Army guy. So? Tons of Army guys flew helitack when they were done with their tours.

  “Then you and Emily…” She nodded toward the main building.

  A beatific smile lit his features. “Oh yeah. Definitely.”

  Carly glanced back and forth between them and then lowered her voice. “She’s kind of scary, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “No kidding.” Steve couldn’t agree more.

  Henderson’s smile grew. “In all the best ways.”

  Steve laughed because the man was just too happy. “What’s SOAR?”

  Carly opened her mouth, but the Major cut her off, not hard, just not interested in the topic.

  “Story for another time.”

  Steve had been hoping to draw Carly into conversation. So with that avenue closed, he sought another opening. He leaned toward the man slouching at ease beside him.

  “So, TJ, any other daughters or sons in the service?”

  It was as if he’d dumped a half ton of icy, mountain-lake water on the group.

  Carly scowled at him, and Steve was suddenly glad that looks couldn’t kill. Then she exploded to her feet, leaving her beer behind as she headed toward the barracks.

  He almost went after her. Would have, if his knee hadn’t frozen up with sitting still after the hardest day in a year. Still, he’d have struggled upright but for the slight shake of TJ’s head.

  TJ was inspecting his beer carefully. Rolled the bottle briefly between his palms.

  A quick glance at the ICA showed that Henderson didn’t know what had just happened either.

  TJ rolled the bottle back and forth once more.

  He clambered to his feet, Steve helping him and Henderson offering him the crutches.

  Having no way to carry the bottle, TJ drained it and handed the empty back to Steve before turning away. He stopped with his back turned before taking the first step.

  “I don’t have any kids in the service, thank God.” TJ remained staring at the ground in front of him. “And I don’t have the privilege of calling her mine.” And then he headed off without looking back.

  Steve and Henderson watched him hobble out of sight.

  The ICA then rose and patted Steve’s shoulder before heading over to the main building and the woman nursing a baby outside the back door with a towel over her chest and the baby’s head.

  Steve was left alone to await the return of the crews.

  Talk about throwing a pitch in the dirt. What the hell had he just stepped in? />
  Chapter 4

  Carly sat by her uncle at dinner.

  TJ was holding court at the head of a picnic table, his foot propped up on a five-gallon plastic bucket of foam mix that had been dragged over. It was a fine evening, warm but no longer hot. Twenty or so people ranged around the half-dozen tables. The blue sky and dry air said that the arrows on the roadside fire-danger-level signs weren’t going to be moved down from red anytime soon.

  Betsy had served up her famous baked potato bar, being loud and flirty the whole time, a skill Carly had never acquired. She shouldn’t have tromped on the new guy so hard. After all, he rappelled down to save her uncle, not reluctantly but rather demanding to be lowered immediately. That he kept looking at her as if she were some pinup girl had ticked her off, though. That and her nerves over TJ.

  The potato bar selections included so many awesome toppings that it always took a while to dig down to the potato itself. Carly had gone light tonight with roasted cauliflower and a pesto salmon sauce to die for, so rich and aromatic she hadn’t been able to pass it up. Still, she’d had trouble getting it to settle in her stomach. She’d brought TJ his favorite shredded steak and a fried-egg topper rather than what he should be eating. But he’d earned it tonight. Earned it for scaring her half to death.

  The hotshots were still out on the site, chasing old embers and dousing smoldering areas, but the smokejumpers were all back. The pilots were all in, as well. The sun was setting, and Forest Service shut down all non-night-equipped flights a half hour before sunset.

  All of the senior jump crew had gathered at the head table with her and TJ. Their stated intent: to harass the old man for his injury. But the relief shone bright and clear across all of their features. They were really gathered to prove to themselves he was okay. He’d been jumping since the beginning, the first one signed on to MHA. He’d helped to form the Goonies. Ever since her father—

  Carly doused that thought, hard, before it could start to burn yet again.

  “We’re gonna have to change your para-cargo, TJ.”

  “Why’s that?” He aimed a smile down the table at Chutes McGee, their loadmaster. He was responsible for what was in each cargo load parachuted down to the smokejumpers once they were on site, making the nickname fairly obvious. Pumps, hose, food, tents, and sleeping bags for the long fires. All of the Goonies’ para-cargo passed through Chutes’s gnarled hands.