Forged (Missoula Smokejumpers Book 3)

by Piper Stone

  He’s an attorney, goofball. True enough, but her inner voice continued to nag, picking at her damaged psyche. After taking another gulp of wine, she picked up the kitchen phone, dialing the number on the card. “Yes, I just received some beautiful roses and I’d like to know who sent them.” She kept her eyes on the flowers, half expecting nasty bugs to crawl out, swarm her counter. “Laney Cavanaugh. Yes, I’ll hold.”

  The wait seemed like forever, minutes ticking by in her head. She closed her eyes, visions of the past rolling into the front of her brain. “Yes, I’m here.” Hopefully they could her the details. “I don’t understand.” Her legs were shaking as an adrenaline rush crowded into her system. “Okay. Thank you.”

  As she fumbled to put down the phone, she held her breath. The sender was from out of state and had left no information.

  She finished her wine and gripped the counter, slowly sliding to the floor.

  The nightmare had returned.

  Chapter 2

  “Jesus Christ. You had us all worried there for a while, buddy.”

  Garcia removed the ice pack from his forehead, wincing as he tried to stand. The two firefighters stood shaking their heads. The men were from his old engine company. He shifted forward only a few inches and had to grab onto the door of the ambulance as pain shifted against his bruised hip. “I’m fine. You know I’m tough.” Even his usual banter had no inflection. The fire had been more than just draining. He’d been lucky Stoker was able to get him out just before the barn collapsed.

  “Whoa. Why don’t you stay put?” Stoker asked as he grabbed Garcia by the arm, keeping him steady. “You know he’s stubborn, Markus.”

  Markus snorted and wiped his face. “Yeah, always has been. Good thing you guys were out riding. The old man wouldn’t have survived.”

  “Let alone the horses,” the second firefighter chimed in.

  Garcia glanced over at what was left of the barn. Both the house and the outlying structures were mere rubble, reduced to embers and ash. “Damn hot fire. Too much so if you ask me.”

  “Offering up a conspiracy theory now?” Markus laughed then lost his smile seeing the serious look on Garcia’s face. “Old buildings. You know the timber goes up fast. We’re going to check everything but at this point, there’s nothing to suggest a suspicious fire. Looks like the kerosene heater was the culprit. That’s why the house exploded.”

  “Shouldn’t have occurred that way,” Garcia mumbled and took two more steps closer to the field.

  “What are you thinking?” Stoker asked as he flanked Garcia’s side.

  “I don’t know, but something’s off. Granted, I know you saw the kerosene heater in the other room.” He glanced into Stoker’s eyes.

  Stoker raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. That’s at least what I thought I saw.”

  “You’re never wrong about details, Stoker. That’s not you.”

  “Hey, we need to finish, but glad you’re both okay. Let’s grab a beer over the weekend,” Markus suggested as he gave a curt wave.

  Garcia nodded, trying his best to offer a smile. “Sure. Sounds good.” He limped forward and closer to the second ambulance.

  “Where are you going?” Stoker asked.

  “Just want to check to see if Mr. Hatcher is all right.”

  “He’s going to live. We got to him in time. Cuts and bruises, and he may have suffered a mild heart attack.”

  “What if this was arson?” Garcia asked absently.

  Stoker moved in front, slowing him down. “Whoa. That’s a serious accusation.”

  “You and I both know the kerosene heater had nothing to do with this fire.”

  “At this point, we don’t know anything for certain. If you have some suspicion, then mention your concerns to the captain. After you go to the hospital to get checked out.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Right. Don’t be a martyr.”

  Issuing a stern look, he moved past Stoker and toward the ambulance. Mr. Hatcher remained on a stretcher, an oxygen mask covering his face and mouth. He held out his shaking arm when Garcia approached.

  Grasping Mr. Hatcher’s hand, he peered down, smiling when he saw the man’s imploring eyes. “Easy, Mr. Hatcher. You’re going to be just fine. Sorry about your house, but the livestock are all alive and well.”

  Coughing, Mr. Hatcher slapped at the mask.

  “Don’t fight it. They’re going to take you to the hospital.”

  He continued to grab at his mask, his entire body now tugging against the restraints.

  “Hold on.” Garcia eased the thin plastic down from the rancher’s face. “Everything is okay.”

  “No.” The single word was strangled. He shook his head twice then lifted his arm, beckoning with a single finger.

  Leaning down, he was surprised at the vehemence in which the old man grabbed his shirt. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Mr. Hatcher sputtered, coughing and wheezing the moment he tried to speak.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we need to get this man to the hospital,” the young EMT stated as she rushed over. “Mr. Hatcher, you need to keep your mask on. It’s helping you breathe.”

  Garcia eyed the young woman and held out his arm. “Just a minute. He’s trying to tell me something.”

  “The… the…” A series of choking sounds pushed past his lips. He clawed at Garcia, his hands slapping out.

  “Hey. Take your time. I can certainly come to the hospital later.” Garcia glanced over his shoulder, sick sensations running down his spine.

  “Listen… to… me.”

  “Please, we have to get this man to the hospital. His vitals are weak,” the EMT continued.

  “We understand. We’re smokejumpers and realize what needs to be done. This could be a crime scene investigation and as such, time is of the essence. Just one moment, please,” Stoker chimed in.

  She huffed but nodded. “One minute.”

  “Mr. Hatcher, I’m listening.” Garcia kept his tone even.

  Mr. Hatcher nodded, his lower lip trembling. He continued to grab at Garcia’s shirt until he managed to tug him down. “They… got to… me.”

  “They?” Garcia had no idea what the rancher was insinuating.

  Wheezing, Mr. Hatcher gulped for air.

  “That’s it. Out. We have to get him to the hospital.” The EMT rushed into action, pulling the oxygen mask back over Mr. Hatcher’s face and motioning for her partner.

  Garcia took a step back, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “Jesus.”

  Stoker inched beside him and they both watched as the man was loaded into the back of the rig, the doors slammed shut. Within thirty seconds the lights were flashing, the sirens on and the ambulance was moving quickly out of the field. “What the hell was that about?”

  “He said they got to him.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Shrugging, Garcia had a foreboding feeling. “I don’t know, but we need to find out.”

  “Well, well. The cowboy smokejumper heroes have arrived,” Boone shouted as Garcia and Stoker walked out of the hanger.

  Sawyer whistled and trotted in their direction. “Better late than never.”

  “They’re heroes now so they’re on Superman time,” Landen chided, a grin on his face.

  “Very funny.” Garcia flashed his usual grin as he stretched his back. The heating pad had done little to ease the ache in his hip, but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was missing training. He eyed his fellow jumpers, men who ate danger for breakfast. Landen Weaver was new, but damn the man was intense. Riker Sheffield reacted to everything with a vengeance while he kept a huge boulder on his shoulder. Boone Martin was the solid one of the bunch and Sawyer Lincoln more knowledgeable than most. Only Antonio Giovanni remained reserved, hiding a ghost no one had been able to discover. Yeah, they were a bunch of misfits.

  Stoker gave them all the finger as he jogged in place. “Just doing our jobs.”

  “And suc
h modesty, too,” Riker added as he slapped Stoker on the back. “What the hell happened out there?”

  “Old man Hatcher’s place went up.” Garcia heard the way he said the words, a question remaining buried in them. He’d spent a better part of the evening trying to find out if Mr. Hatcher had any relatives. There was little information on the poor man, other than he’d been married for almost forty years, his wife dying of cancer five years before. Other than that, he’d run into a dead end.

  “Met the guy once. Nice enough old man.” Antonio joined the group. He gazed down at Garcia’s hip then shook his head. “You sure you’re ready for duty?”

  “Just a scratch, boss man,” Garcia teased.

  Stoker popped him on the arm. “Since when are you so brave?”

  “Them’s fighting words,” Boone said then laughed.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Garcia rubbed his hipbone and winked at Antonio. Given their fellow smokejumper was in charge of the outdoor training, they couldn’t help but call him a drill sergeant.

  “Listen up, boys. Standard practice today, but given that the fire season is all but over, we will finally be working with our sister smokejumping team beginning tomorrow. The new parachutes are in,” Antonio stated.

  “New plane. New parachutes. You’d think the mayor actually changed her negative tune about us with all our special gifts,” Riker’s voice boomed.

  “Not happening!” Sawyer joined in.

  “All right, gentlemen. Five miles on the track and Puevos, if your hip bothers you then you can sit this one out.”

  Garcia pointed his finger at Antonio. “I know this game. The one who sits out buys the beer at Ziggy’s. Right?”

  “Shucks, he figured it all out.”

  Shaking his head, he jogged backward and away from the building, a smile on his face.

  “All right, boys. Let’s get this done!” Antonio directed and took off running.

  “What did you find out?” Garcia knew Stoker was right behind him and also had no doubt his buddy had the same curiosity as he did about the fire.

  “How do you know I wasn’t planning a wedding with my lovely fiancée?” Stoker asked then laughed as he jogged alongside.

  He hung his head, pretending to gag. “I’m going to pass out.”

  “Very funny. I’ll remind you of this the day you start planning your wedding.”

  Garcia placed both hands around his neck and stuck out his tongue. “Over my dead body.”

  “That’s what I said.” Stoker rushed forward, the competition alive.

  “Shit. Slow down. Injured man here.”

  “I see several free beers in my future.”

  Sprinting forward, Garcia managed to go a couple hundred yards before slowing down to little more than a walk. His breathing was heavier than normal and the pain in his hip almost excruciating.

  “Learn to pace yourself. Moderation is the key.” Stoker huffed and jogged around Garcia in a circle.

  “You know that poor man doesn’t have anybody?”

  “Mr. Hatcher?”

  Garcia nodded and picked up his pace.

  “Captain Banyon said he’s going to be just fine. Smoke inhalation and he had an anxiety attack, not a heart attack.”

  “Thank God. Glad our old fire engine company responded so fast, the captain knows almost everyone in town.” Garcia envisioned the fire, the interior of the house. His gut reaction telling him arson was involved. “I wonder who has it in for him?”

  “From what Captain Banyon said, there was no evidence found to corroborate any arson or even a suspicious fire. The kerosene heater was charred, and the wiring fried. I was wrong about the position in the house. The smoke must have been confusing.”

  “Answer me this.” Garcia nodded to his best friend. “When have you ever been wrong?”

  Stoker’s grin was wide. “Never, and don’t you forget that.”

  They ran for several minutes, keeping pace. Finally, Garcia stopped and leaned over. “I’ll catch up.” He planted his hands on his hips and kicked out both legs, trying to work out the kinks. His mind was racing with thoughts, none of which he could make any sense out of. Who would want to hurt a sweet old man?

  “The captain did say one thing.”

  He heard Stoker’s voice, the tenseness in his buddy’s tone. “What?”

  Stoker exhaled and walked in his direction. “He said this was the second fire of a similar nature. Unfortunately, the first victim died, but Banyon indicated that the single owner had said words similar to Mr. Hatcher’s.” He threw out his hand before Garcia had a chance to say anything. “Don’t go down that road.”

  “What road are we talking about?”

  “The road where you’re determined to figure out what’s wrong. You’re not an investigator. Remember?”

  Garcia snorted. “As if that kept you from investigating Cooper.” He could tell the words hit Stoker hard. Cooper had been Stoker’s friend from years ago, estranged during a horrific incident in the war. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I know how much that took out of you.”

  Looking up at the sky, Stoker shrugged. “Just be careful. Let the police and the fire investigator do their jobs. We have enough to deal with.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. I have a really bad feeling right now.”

  “We did all we could do. We put out the fire.”

  “What if we weren’t supposed to?” Garcia asked quietly. “What if Mr. Hatcher should have died in that fire?”

  Stoker exhaled and looked his friend directly in the eyes. “Then my guess is there will be another attempt on Mr. Hatcher’s life.”

  The understanding shared, Garcia nodded several times. “Come on. Let’s get going. I’ll race you.”

  “Damn. Don’t you ever stop?”

  “Keeps me young. You, on the other hand…”

  “That’s it. Your ass is mine.”

  “Puevos. Can I see you for a couple of minutes?” Captain Phillips stood in the doorway of the weight room.

  Garcia eased down the free weights, exhaling as Riker remained standing over him, spotting the excessive amount. He remained on the bench, trying to catch his breath. “What’s up, Cap’n?” The upper arm workout had been just what he needed. Very slowly he stood, shaking both arms.

  “Uh-oh. Looks like you’re in trouble,” Stoker chortled and slapped Garcia on the back.

  “Just need a favor. Nothing too dramatic, boys.” The captain shook his head before walking away.

  “A favor. I have a bad feeling.” Garcia realized he was muttering under his breath. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that Markus and Captain Banyon knew more than they were letting on. The fire had rattled the hell out of him. Still, at this point there was nothing he could do but aggravate the police department and he doubted they were even investigating at this point. Smirking, he grabbed a towel, wiping sweat from his face and arms.

  Stoker slapped him on the back. “The captain is having a rough time right now, fighting with the mayor.”

  “Budget shit again?” Landen asked, overhearing the conversation.

  Nodding, Stoker leaned his head back, eyeing the doorway. “Yeah. You know he’s been trying to get the line item increased for new recruits.”

  Boone walked toward them. “I’ve heard a lot of shit, nasty rumors. Got a buddy who works at the administration building. He told me that they’re thinking of cutting our department out completely.”

  “What?” Riker hissed and dropped a weight, the sound echoing in the room.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Antonio stated, his expression full of scorn.

  “We have a right to be worried about our jobs, dude,” Sawyer muttered then shook his head.

  “I get what you’re saying, but we’re only in January. We have a couple months to worry about whether we’re getting fresh meat.” Antonio tossed his towel and headed for the door.

  Stoker cleared his throat. “The budget has been approved since early December. Have you noticed it has
n’t been made public yet?”

  The words hung in the room. Antonio looked over his shoulder and sighed.

  “Fucking fantastic. I don’t want to have to move over to structure fires,” Boone hissed.

  “Yeah, not sure there’s a place for me back at Engine 12,” Garcia added.

  Tension remained in the room.

  “Guess that means I’m retiring. There isn’t another company that would want an old fart like me,” Sawyer said then laughed.

  “Shit. Old? You outrun and out hike every one of us. Shut the fuck up!” Riker teased.

  The jumpers laughed but darted looks between themselves.

  “Don’t forget, tomorrow we’re training with the big boys, gentlemen. Be on your best behavior, if you can.” Antonio peeled off his shirt.

  “Fucking awesome. The Rattlesnakes think they’re somethin’ special,” Boone spit out.

  “That’s because they are, but so are we. Don’t forget that.” Antonio’s voice echoed as he left the room.

  “Shit just gets better and better,” Landen said then laughed.

  “Aren’t you glad you came here?” Riker grabbed him around the neck, choking playfully.

  Garcia rolled his eyes. He was thankful both he and Stoker landed here. Serving alongside the other men of the Jackal team meant more to him than he could have understood only six months before. They were his family. Losing this would be devastating. The Rattlesnakes were one of the oldest smokejumping teams in the country and they were tight.

  “Hey, beer at Ziggy’s tonight? I need to ask you something,” Stoker muttered under his breath.

  “Can it wait? I have a date.” Garcia was snapped back into reality. Turning in a circle, he issued a whooping noise as he did a little dance number. When his hip almost gave out, he burst into laughter.

  “An actual date, like with a girl?” Stoker teased.

  “Bring her by. We’ll show her a taste of a Michael Jackson wannabe,” Riker quipped as he walked by.