by Alicia Scott
And then he was lighting a match and tossing it into the grass. "Into the black," he roared. "Beaverville crew, into the black!"
Behind them, the blowout approached with fury. In front of them, the low-heat grass fire scoured through the fuel while skimming harmlessly over their fire suits.
"Beaverville crew," he screamed again, "into the black! Into the black!"
They crossed into the black.
They dove down one by one, the wall of flames boring down on them. They fumbled with fire shields in a last desperate bid that would determine who won and who lost.
Charlie had his face pressed in the black ashes, where oxygen remained. He yanked his fire shield up and was lost beneath the blanket of silver. And then Larry and then Trish and April…
"Go, go, go," Brandon was screaming, trying to find his fire shield, trying to position Woody.
The fire was almost upon him. He couldn't hear his voice anymore. He couldn't breathe in. He held his breath as the tears evaporated in his eyes. He fumbled with the fire shield as the fire hit the home straight and made a beeline for him.
His hair was singed off. The back of his hand was burned. He fought to seal the edges. Had to get it down or the wind would rip it off and expose him and Woody to the flames.
A fire shield wasn't meant to hold two people, anyway. He couldn't get the edges down far enough over the extra bulk. It wasn't going to work. He should let Woody go, save himself.
I am Brandon Ferringer.
He smashed the edges down.
The fire arrived with a whoosh.
The world blew up, and then it blew away.
* * *
They emerged slowly, one by one, hours later, when the air had finally cooled enough to breathe and the horizon was filled with an eerie calm generally associated with death.
Trish emerged first. She shook ash out of her hair. Charlie crawled out next. He had new lines permanently carved into his young face. Larry rolled over, breathing shallowly. He couldn't stand. His windpipe was seared and swelling up. He needed medical attention.
Person by person, they crawled from their narrow silver shells and stared at a world that had become black, alien and surreal. Finally, they turned toward the unnatural hump of two people crammed into one fire shield.
They glanced at one another. Woody and Brandon were the only two unaccounted for.
Charlie stepped forward and somberly did the deed—he pulled back the fire shield.
"Oh, my God," he said.
* * *
Victoria ran outside as the first National Guard chopper landed. It was followed by another, then another. Three helicopters to haul out seventeen people. Ambulances were on the scene, lights flashing, people yelling.
She ran from chopper to chopper, seeking.
"Brandon?" she cried. "Brandon?"
* * *
He heard his name from a long way away. The world seemed to be in a fog. His arms didn't want to move. His legs didn't want to move. The world had become small. He remembered that clearly. The flames had eaten everything. He remembered that, too.
And yet he still functioned, because the cool enclave of his brain made him function. The cool little spot in his mind wouldn't let him give up. He was Brandon Ferringer. Hotshot. Team member. Maximillian Ferringer's son.
Victoria Meese's hero.
He heard his name again. He turned. And then there she was, running toward him, her strong face earnest.
He clamored through the throng of people. He fought to get off the chopper. He had to stop to let a stretcher pass. Woody looked up from the bed, holding an oxygen mask to his face. With his other hand, he gave Brandon a thumbs-up sign, and Brandon took his hand.
Then the medics passed, and Brandon glanced frantically for Victoria once more.
"Victoria! Victoria!"
She burst through the crowd and landed against him hard, snapping her arms around his bruised and battered body. He held her tight and inhaled deeply. Apple shampoo and the scent of horses. Spring days and summer rain.
She was here. Everyone was safe, everyone was all right. Victoria was in his arms. Suddenly, his whole body was shaking.
"I dreamed your voice," he said hoarsely.
"You didn't dream."
"I didn't leave them, Victoria. I didn't leave. I proved myself. I can be your hero now. I love you. I love you. God…"
"I know, I know. Shh, it's all right. It's all right."
He was on his knees. He buried his face against her stomach as his shoulders began to move and finally he started to sob.
"I love you," she whispered. "I love you."
He cried harder, and behind him, his teammates were suddenly doing the same.
Victoria knelt on the ground beside him. They held each other together and rocked back and forth until the worst of the storm was spent.
Charlie came over. They welcomed him, too.
"Come home," Victoria whispered.
"I will," Brandon promised. "I will."
Epilogue
« ^
They stood in front of the grave silently, three heads bowed—one red, one blond, one sun-bleached brown. Behind them, the warm September sun glinted off the vast sloping roof of Tillamook's historic blimp-hangar museum. In front of them, a gentle coastal breeze blew across the waist-high grass, bringing earthy scents of salt water and cow manure.
It was a beautiful day in Tillamook, the weather surprisingly balmy, the sky incredibly blue, the mountains unbearably green. It was a perfect day for revisiting the past.
Maggie, C.J. and Brandon had spent a week in D.C., where Tom Reynolds's lobbying had finally yielded them an interview with the CIA. The information had been good and bad, redeeming and yet unchanging. They had flown back together, each lost in their separate silence.
They had come here, to Maximillian's final resting place in the small dairy community he'd grown up in and been too hasty to leave. Lydia had buried him here, where she could come out often and speak to her only child, whom she'd never understood.
Lydia had stayed home today, wanting to give Maggie, C.J. and Brandon time alone to make their peace. Downtown, in the Shilo Inn, their respective loves also waited. Cain, Tamara and Victoria had taken an instant shine to each other and were currently waging a friendly war over blackjack. Cain felt it was all a matter of statistical tables. Tamara and Victoria had their own ideas.
No one was sure who would lose the most money, but it was bound to be interesting.
In the graveyard, Maggie finally moved. Her gait was slightly rolling. She was seven months pregnant, and her face was full and radiant. Motherhood suited her, and Brandon saw a peace and contentment in his sister's face he'd never found.
She might have been an awkward child once. She might have been the hunch-shouldered, skin-and-bones waif who had followed him and C.J. with longing. But these days, Maggie was gorgeous.
She placed two lilies on their father's grave and stepped aside.
C.J. took his turn. His face was relaxed, his eyes crinkled from the sun and natural good humor. The man was comfortable with his own skin in a way the angry, rebellious boy had never been. Street rat, wiseass C.J. was solid to the core.
He placed ivy on the grave, not a choice Brandon would have made.
Then C.J. stepped back, and it was Brandon's turn.
He stepped forward, feeling his heart beat hard in his chest. What did his siblings see when they looked at him? Was his face still too grim, his cheeks too hollow? Did they see the reserved, stoic English boy who'd sworn never to cry in front of them, the boy who grew too old and too cold trying to hold everyone's life together? Or did they see the man he was becoming—the loyal, generous, caring man who was learning to give as well as receive and who looked at Victoria Meese every morning and saw his hero?
Brandon placed the Tillamook High School yearbook on top of his father's grave. Those were the times to be remembered.
He stepped back, and Maggie broke the silence.
"Well, now we know. Does it make it a difference?"
"Yes," C.J. said.
"Maybe," Brandon replied.
Maggie's lips curved into a smile. "It wasn't about the money," she said at last.
"But it was," Brandon argued. "He married my mom for money, he married your mom for money. Granted, his travel and crazy hours were due to government orders, but Max was still obsessed with the dollar."
"It's not cheap to be James Bond," C.J. said with a shrug. "I mean the movies show spies driving sports cars and wearing tuxedos in Monte Carlo, but frankly, even CIA agents are merely government employees, earning an average wage. So he was enamored with the glamour. So he thirsted for the full spy experience. He was doing the work."
"Assassin," Brandon muttered.
Maggie shook her head. "You heard what the man said—"
"'CIA agents are trained to handle a variety of situations,'" Brandon intoned wryly. Even C.J. was grinning.
"Well, he wasn't an assassin," Maggie insisted. "He was a government agent. He followed orders. Granted, he did things they never will tell us about, but he was an agent and he did lots of … of agent stuff."
C.J. laughed. "Agent stuff." He chortled. "Oh, my, oh, my. How official. Kind of like house-chore stuff except on a global scale."
Maggie scowled and poked him in the arm. "You ought to understand, Marine."
C.J. did his best to appear somber. "Yeah, yeah, I suppose so. He was one of the good guys, you can't knock that, Brandon. We may not have understood him, he may not have been the best father, but at least he was doing something a little bit more meaningful than importing hand-carved wooden figurines."
Brandon still wasn't sure what he thought about that. He went back to staring at the tombstone, and they lapsed into silence.
The CIA had tried to tell them the bits and pieces that it could. Maximillian Ferringer had been one of their top agents. His marriages and children had been of his own volition, and they'd been as surprised as anyone that he'd started families, given his occupation.
He had pursued his best friend, Al Simmons, during the late 1960s, when it was discovered that Al had become a KGB mole. And by Al's admission two months ago, Al had caught him first. Al had killed Ashley Jacobs. Al had killed Maximillian Ferringer. Al had let Bud Irving live because it amused him to watch crazy Bud suffer.
Al swore he had not killed Julia Ferringer. As far as anyone could tell, Brandon's first wife had indeed been shot by a mugger.
Sometimes, that thought gave him comfort. Most of the time, he realized it didn't mean a thing. C.J. and Maggie had been right in the end—discovering the truth hadn't miraculously changed his life. Julia was still dead, and her murder remained tragic. Max was still gone, and still enigmatic.
He'd been a loyal friend and a good patriot. He'd served his country, and according to the CIA, he'd been among their best. Max had grown up without his father, having lost Samuel to Nazi fighter pilots. Apparently, Maximillian had felt that loss much deeper than anyone had realized. And when he'd graduated from high school, he'd convinced his two best friends to join him in pledging their lives to defend their country.
He hadn't been a great father, and he'd been a lousy husband. But then the secrecy and shadows one learned to sustain as an agent probably didn't do well at home. And he'd never had an example of what a father or husband should be.
So there it was. Maximillian the Chameleon. Take him or leave him.
"You know what I think about the most?" Maggie asked abruptly. She looked at them, her sapphire eyes calm, her face tranquil. "I think about that first summer we met. Do you remember that?"
C.J. and Brandon nodded. Maggie smiled.
"I remember C.J. telling Brandon to go to hell. I remember how shocked you looked, Brandon, and how quickly you covered it up." She grinned. "I have lots and lots of memories of C.J. washing his mouth out with soap. You got that down to a science."
"It's all a matter of technique," C.J. said blithely.
"I remember the first time you cried, C.J., and I cried, too. We cried silently and I thought—that's what Max taught us. To cry quietly, so we wouldn't disturb him, so we wouldn't need anything from him." She turned to Brandon and her gaze was somber. "I don't remember you ever crying, Brandon. It's taken me years to realize what an injustice we did to you. We let you play the strong one without ever questioning it, without ever realizing it. Without ever giving you a chance to grieve, as well."
"That's okay," Brandon said stiffly, feeling suddenly awkward with C.J. and Maggie staring at him. He looked at the tombstone. He shrugged. "I … I was the oldest. I was supposed to be strong."
"Because if you'd been a better child, Max wouldn't have left or hurt us," Maggie filled in softly.
He nodded. Her lips curved sadly.
"Oh, Brandon," she said, "that's exactly how I felt."
"Me, too," C.J. said quietly. "Me, too."
Brandon's throat closed up. He nodded. The tombstone was beginning to blur in front of his eyes.
"It doesn't matter," he said abruptly, and as he said the words, they brought him strength. "I remember the first summer, too, Maggie. I remember the three of us, you so sad, C.J. so angry, and me as frozen as a Popsicle. But look at us now. You have Cain, Maggie. A beautiful house, a gorgeous daughter and a second child on the way. You are a great mother and a happy wife. And you, C.J. If you and Tamara exchange any more of those looks across the room, the bloody carpet will catch on fire. I can already picture you and Tamara dragging two point two tots to the racetracks.
"And then there is me," Brandon said. "I met Julia, who brought me so much. And now I have Victoria. I'm twice blessed. I'm … happy."
Maggie smiled, and it spread across her face. "Then we did it. We grew up perfectly."
"In spite of Max or because of Max?" C.J. asked.
"Both," Brandon said at last. "That's the only answer."
"Both," Maggie agreed.
* * *
Brandon drove to the Shilo Inn alone. He stopped along the way, picked a ridiculously huge bouquet of wildflowers and continued.
He found Victoria in their room, just hanging up from talking to Randy. He stood for a moment, looking at her, and thought of how lucky he was.
She sat on the edge of the bed with a smile. Her face had darkened from a summer outdoors. Her eyes were a clear, tranquil blue-gray. She never wore makeup, her hands were a mess of broken fingernails and yellow calluses, and she was still the most beautiful woman Brandon knew.
His heart swelled in his chest.
Belatedly, he thrust out the flowers, a tangled bouquet of honeysuckle, poppies and wild roses. "For you. Picked them myself."
"Oh, my." Victoria inhaled deeply, then coughed violently. "Ah, yes, that Tillamook eau de toilette. Guess what? Randy showed Libby. We may have a buyer."
"Victoria, that's great." He crossed to her and decided the occasion was worthy of a hug, then a kiss, then a deeper kiss. It was several moments before either of them drew back. He tucked her hair behind her ear, his arm still around her waist. "Randy must be thrilled."
"Ready to take full credit, of course," she assured him. "He deserves it, though. He worked hard."
Randy had spent most of his summer training Libby with Victoria. When Brandon wasn't fighting fires, he would spend his morning watching mother and son together and doing odd jobs around the ranch. Randy had inherited Victoria's touch with horses. Someday, he would be a great trainer, too, if his major league baseball career didn't get in the way.
"I've been thinking," Brandon said quietly.
"Uh-oh."
"Exactly. Fire season is over now. I'm too old to be a permanent employee. I need something to do."
"I see." Victoria's voice was hesitant. By mutual agreement, they rarely spoke of life after September. Though there had been times lately when Brandon would catch Victoria staring at him with those questions in her eyes. And sometimes, right after they made love, she would drift
into a silence he couldn't penetrate, and he could feel her pain and love hovering beneath the surface.
"I've been thinking that an old geezer like me should settle down."
"Really?"
"Yes. City life is no good, you know. And I don't think I could do Everest again. I'm thinking I need a warm, cozy house. Maybe a ranch where I could work hard to earn my keep, dabble in investments on the side. Of course, I'm going to need a woman to keep me in line—we both know I'm incorrigible on my own."
"Absolutely."
"And I've been wanting to work on my pitching. My math skills, as well. It's very easy to get rusty, and there's nothing so tragic as forgetting how to multiply mixed numerals."
"It would be a shame."
"So I was thinking. Where could I find a nice ranch in need of some assistance, a beautiful woman willing to keep me straight and a sports-happy eight-year-old with an incredible pitching arm?"
"I have an idea," Victoria said.
"Really? How perfect!"
Her fingers were sliding up his shirt. "For the right price, I might even tell you." She found the top button and slid it open.
"Yes, well, I understand that. Someone told me once that ranch owners and single mothers can't be bought with any old trinket, either, so I've given this some thought."
Suddenly, he was down on one knee. Victoria gasped, grew flustered, then went soft all over. He thought he would be nervous, but he discovered he'd never felt steadier as he looked into her blue-gray eyes.
He took her hand. He withdrew the ring box he'd been carrying for two weeks. He opened it to show the finest opal he could buy. It was brilliant with red and green fire, sparkling and hissing with a life of its own. It reminded him of Victoria and suited her better than any diamond would've done.
"Victoria," he asked somberly, "will you take on an unemployed federal employee, fire-scarred and rough around the edges? Will you love me forever and share your home and son with me? Will you make me breakfast again wearing only your apron?"
"Okay."
He slipped the ring onto her finger. He folded his hand over hers. "And I will love you forever, Victoria. I will give you all of me, my heart, my soul, my hopes and my despair. I will share myself one hundred percent, giving you my time and attention, and if I ever shut you out, I hope you kick my butt to here and back so I will know to do better. I love you, Victoria, and I want to make you happy.
