Under Fire

by Beth Cornelison

  Jackson clenched his teeth and swallowed the knot of pain thoughts of Janine inevitably invoked.

  Meanwhile, Lauren pulled out her walkie-talkie but couldn’t reach Whitefeather. She had to be going nuts wondering about Boomer’s condition.

  After taking a few swallows from the canteen, he handed the water back to her, and she tipped it up to drink. He watched the column of her slim throat move as she swallowed, and he realized how attuned he’d been all day to every move she made. Even the way she stretched the kinks from her shoulders captured his attention. But also set him on edge.

  He was grateful to her, certainly. Respected her, yeah. But something else hovered at the edge of his mind that knocked him off balance, made him squirm. A familiar sense of unease that stirred an icy tingle at the back of his neck. Like the night he got the call that Janine was dead. A helplessness. A desperation. Like reaching for something important and finding only air.

  He’d known before he picked up the phone his wife was gone. Known his worst fear had been realized.

  Or his worst fear at that point.

  He now knew things could get much bleaker.

  “Ready?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

  “Sure.”

  “We managed to get a bit off course, but it’s not a problem. We’ll be going downhill now, and it may be steep. Check your footing, because it can get slippery in the leaves.” Lauren capped the canteen, stored it in her pack and grabbed the strap to hoist the load again.

  He stepped up and covered her hand with his. “My turn. Give your back a break.”

  Her mouth tightened. “I’m f—”

  “You’re fine. Yeah, I know. So you’ve said. But fair is fair. It’s my turn. And, no, my shoulder won’t be a problem.”

  Because he wouldn’t let it be a problem. He hated feeling at a disadvantage because of his injured arm, hated depending on anyone for what he should be able to do for himself.

  He pried the strap from her hand and heaved the pack with his good arm. “Stop staring at me like I just stole your teddy bear. I intend to pull my weight.”

  She puffed her bangs off her forehead and moved behind him with a dark sideways glare.

  He braced his feet while she adjusted straps and shoved the pack into position on his back. The pack’s pelvic belt placed most of the weight on his hips and legs, and he bore the rest of the weight on his good shoulder.

  But she was right. The awkward weight of the pack strained his injured shoulder. Still, he’d be damned if he’d watch her carry the massive load another hour. He gritted his teeth and breathed through the searing pain. “How much farther?”

  “Few hours maybe. With luck we’ll be out by nightfall.” She stepped back around and propped her hands at her waist as she sized him up, scowling. With a huff, she spun around, snagged the PG bag off the ground and headed out. “Still not soon enough for me. Boomer’s in bad shape, and if we don’t make tracks and get some help up to him, he’ll die.” She shot a stern look over her shoulder. “So keep up, McKay, or I carry the pack. Got it? Boomer doesn’t have time for your heroic gestures.”

  With that, she stalked off.

  Sexy body. Sassy mouth. And a mountain of attitude.

  The prickle on his neck warned him he hadn’t done more than scratch the surface with this woman, but he’d hike to hell and back with this wildcat to get help for Emily.

  He just prayed that was all the prickle on his neck meant.

  The scent of distant rain roused Whitefeather from his efforts to dig a scratch line. He raised his eyes to the sky, searching.

  By clearing a strip of land of foliage and debris, he hoped to rob the creeping fire of fuel and hold the flank burning near Boomer. But a storm was brewing down the mountain range. The wind stirring. Shifting.

  He turned to face the woods where the wildfire raged. A ravenous beast, consuming everything in its path.

  The burn would change course. Soon. Rain would help cool the head, but chances were the flames would jump his small scratch line. Especially if the winds picked up in front of the storm.

  He needed to prepare.

  Whitefeather cut down three birch saplings then pulled a pouch of tobacco from his pocket and sprinkled a pinch of the dried leaves across the ground to repay Mother Earth for the young trees he took. When he returned to the clearing where he’d left Boomer, Whitefeather checked the bandage on Boomer’s thigh then set to work. Using supplies from the packs the jumpship had dropped, he lashed the birch trunks together and stripped the extra limbs. He stretched a parachute canopy between the trunks, fashioning a crude travois like his people had used to move people and property for centuries.

  “We going somewhere?” Boomer rasped.

  Whitefeather lifted a corner of his mouth. “You’re awake.”

  “Mm.” Boomer closed his eyes. “Can’t sleep.” He drew a slow breath, pain pinching his mouth. “My leg feels like…it was shattered by a bullet.”

  “Imagine that.” He continued lashing small branches across the birch trunk frame.

  Boomer’s shallow, ragged breathing wore on Whitefeather like wind slowly eroding the land. He was suffering right along with his friend. Spiritually.

  “The winds are shifting. Rain’s moving in, but with the wind from the north, we’ll be in the fire’s path.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  Boomer sighed. “Birdman?”

  He met Boomer’s eyes where storm clouds eclipsed the usual light and life.

  “Shoot straight with me.”

  “Always.”

  Boomer hesitated. “I’m gonna die. Aren’t I?”

  Determination and stubborn denial arrowed through Whitefeather. “No.”

  “I lost a lot of blood.”

  He turned back to the travois, working with jerky movements. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

  “Take me out.”

  Birdman stilled.

  “If I’m gonna…die anyway,” Boomer said, his voice as thready as his pulse. “Don’t let me…suffer.”

  Frustration roared through Whitefeather. “You won’t die, Boom. I won’t let you quit on me.”

  “I’ll just…slow you down.”

  He nailed Boomer with a fierce look. “Remember your rookie season? Remember how I rode your ass, pushed you?”

  Boomer winced. “Hell, yeah.”

  “Because I saw something in you. Saw past your loud mouth and cocky attitude. You had what it takes to be a smokejumper. A damn good one. I wouldn’t let you quit then, and I won’t let you quit now.”

  For a moment Boomer only stared at him. Then frowning, he asked, “Think I’ll ever jump again?”

  The odds were against it. Boomer knew that as well as Whitefeather did. But he wouldn’t give Boomer an excuse to give up. He needed a reason to fight, a reason to hold on.

  “The physical therapy will be hell, but there’s a chance. We’ll know more once we can get X-rays.” He squeezed his friend’s arm. “Don’t go hanging up your chute just yet.”

  A grin ghosted across Boomer’s lips. “Right.”

  “Now rest.” Whitefeather went back to work, hurrying to finish before darkness shrouded the mountain.

  “Mike report in?”

  “Yeah, a few hours ago,” he lied. He’d gone to retrieve Riley’s radio but hadn’t found it. They had no way to reach Lauren. Or the air support, when it came. “They were making good progress.” Birdman paused. “She asked about you. I told her you were holding your own. Still ugly as sin.”

  Boomer chuckled weakly. “Fuck you.”

  Whitefeather grinned. At least he still had the strength to cuss. That was a good sign.

  “Do you trust him? McKay? When I think of her…alone with him…”

  “She’ll be fine. She can handle herself. Now shut up and try to sleep.” Whitefeather measured off another length of twine and cut it. “When we move, it’s gonna be rough. You’ll need all your strength.”
<
br />   “Birdman?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks, man.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Nodded. “You’d do the same for me. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you know I’m gonna hold this over your head for years, right?”

  “Shit,” Boomer groaned.

  Chapter Eight

  John Whitefeather was not a small man. So how was it possible that his T-shirt could be too small for Jackson?

  Lauren cast him a furtive glance as they trudged down a hillside meadow blossoming with pink bitterroot and yellow sweet clover. When she’d helped position the supply pack, she couldn’t help but notice how the thin navy material of Birdman’s shirt stretched taut across Jackson’s wide shoulders and hard chest.

  Weren’t brainy types supposed to be spindly, pale and geekish? Apparently Jackson McKay broke the nerd mold. She’d nearly choked on her tongue when he’d stripped off his Yale shirt so Birdman would have a bandage for Boomer.

  Lauren curled her fingers more tightly around the strap of the PG bag. Reality check. She was a professional, damn it. She couldn’t let the man’s fine physique distract her.

  Jackson shielded his eyes from the sun as he tipped his face to the sky. “It’s clouding up. Looks like rain.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She’d noticed the brewing clouds earlier. “Rain will help cool the fire, but it could make our going slower.”

  Lauren studied Jackson’s profile as they plodded down the sloping meadow. Yellow rays poked through the gray clouds and lit the plains and hollows of his face. Square jaw, straight, narrow nose, high forehead. Whew!

  She gave herself a mental shake. “No reason we can’t push on through though.”

  “Good. This is taking far too long. Emily—” He clamped his lips in a tight frown, leaving his concerns unsaid. But she knew what had to be rolling through his head.

  His appearance wasn’t all that didn’t conform to her notions of a cold, clinical scholar. His love and concern for his daughter touched her. Deeply. Even before hearing him say Emily was the center of his universe, she’d known. A poignant warmth glowed in his eyes when he spoke of her, and black shadows filled his face when he voiced fears for her safety. When it came to his daughter, Jackson was an open book.

  A hollow pang settled in her chest. What would it feel like to have that kind of unconditional love and devotion? Had he loved his wife the same way? She remembered how flat, how matter-of-fact his tone had been when he informed her his wife had been killed. And how quickly he’d changed the subject about her death. How could the same man who so clearly loved his daughter be so unemotional about losing his wife?

  “So where do your perfect parents live?” he asked. “Do you see them much or did they drive you away with their high standards?”

  The tone of his question stopped her for minute.

  “Um, they’re in Seattle. And I didn’t mean to give the impression earlier that I don’t love my family. We’re close. I see them whenever my schedule allows. Usually, four or five times a year.” She watched a pair of orioles take flight rather than face Jackson’s probing gaze. How did she explain the weird family dynamic she’d experienced growing up? “What I said before, about my family being perfect…”

  “Nobody’s perfect, Lauren.”

  “I know that. It’s just hard living in the shadow of so much accomplishment.”

  Lauren had no doubt her parents loved her, and she’d been plenty happy growing up. But lately she sensed a distance and disappointment from her family when she didn’t measure up to their expectations. When was she going to settle down and have children? Why didn’t she go back to college and get her degree? As if she were less of a person because she’d never finished college.

  Lauren twisted her lips in disgust and kicked at a bitterroot blossom. She’d thought about going back to college, but what if Professor Asshole was right? Maybe she wasn’t cut out for higher education.

  She bit the inside of her cheek and squelched the niggling doubts that plucked at her.

  “They’ve got to be proud of what you’ve accomplished. Becoming a smokejumper is pretty awesome.”

  “They’re proud, I guess. It’s just they want more for me. They want me to have smokejumping and the house and the picket fence and the perfect husband and two point five kids and the dog on the hearth and—”

  “They want it or you do?”

  Her gaze snapped to his. “Well, sure. I want to get married. Eventually. But smokejumping is pretty demanding. And I haven’t met the perfect husband yet so…”

  “But nobody’s perfect. Remember?”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I know. I only meant… I haven’t found the guy that’s perfect for me. I want…” What Mom and Dad have. An abiding love that was as strong today as when they married.

  “You want…what? The perfect man doesn’t exist. I think we’ve established that.”

  “Pessimist,” she muttered, sending him a scowl. “All right, I want the perfect love then. I won’t settle.”

  “Seems to me your family’s not the only ones with high standards. Maybe you’re the one who’s too demanding.”

  She grunted. “There’s nothing wrong with ambition, with wanting the best for myself. Did you settle for just okay when you married or did you love your wife? Really love her. One hundred and ten percent.”

  His expression hardened. A little color leached from his face. “I loved Janine. But my marriage isn’t the issue.”

  “Why isn’t it? Why shouldn’t everyone have the soul-deep, kindred-spirits, ’til-death-do-us-part love my parents have?”

  He flinched. Not much, but she saw the tiny twitch in his jaw, the flare of his nose. ’Til death do us part.

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

  “You’re right.” He stopped walking and faced her with his mouth drawn, his jaw tight. His eyes swam with sharp-edged emotion that flayed her soul. “People should be blissfully happy and in love. But life isn’t always fair. Surely, your professor-lover taught you that if nothing else.”

  The cruelty of his words smacked her chest like a fist. Sucking in a sharp breath, she staggered back a step and gaped at him. Tension vibrated from his rigid posture. The dark shadows lurking in his eyes captured her attention. Wrenched her heart.

  “Life doesn’t always give us what we deserve or what we want or even what is right. Life can be a bitch sometimes, and the sooner you accept that, the better off you are.” He swung away and plowed down the mountainside.

  She stared after him, reeling from the underlying bitterness in his tone. The bleak despair in his eyes. A knot swelled in her chest. She wanted to cry for him, for the pain he’d suffered that left such deep wounds. She drew a deep breath of ozone-laced air, gathering her composure.

  As she trotted to catch up with Jackson, the sky began to weep.

  Cara studied Emily, huddled on the bed and watching rain patter against the pane. The girl looked so fragile. So sweet.

  A pang of regret tangled with the riot of emotions raging inside Cara. The child gave them leverage. They needed Emily for her influence over McKay. Cara knew that, but…

  This place, their mission, the whole situation was no place a child should be. She thought back to Vietnam. The soldiers torn apart by bombs and sniper fire had been little more than children. Teenagers.

  And the villages. There’d been children slaughtered. Wounded. How many had cried for their mothers while she did her best to put those kids back together?

  And the napalm…

  Cara shuddered. Damn American government. Maybe the United States didn’t have the monopoly on war making, on atrocities, but Uncle Sam was directly responsible for the pain and suffering she’d seen. The total negligence toward America’s own boys. Fighting because Uncle Sam required it. She’d been helpless to do anything to save so many lives. She’d helped some men survive long enough to make it back stateside, but there was only so much an Army nurse
could do.

  Especially against insidious killers like Agent Orange. And a government that refused to own up to its liability.

  Rick and Kenny had savored so little quality time with their father before he got sick. Raymond’s deteriorating health had stolen the vibrant, ambitious man she’d fallen in love with. From her and from his sons.

  Cara rubbed her tired eyes and thought about Raymond, lying in the tiny nursing home not far from here, waiting to die. Suffering.

  But that didn’t mean this little girl, this beautiful, polite child had to suffer too. Emily had stolen her heart. She’d impressed Cara with her bright mind, adult vocabulary and mature logic. No so surprising considering her father’s intellect. But she had a courage and strength to match. So much potential.

  “Emily?” Cara walked over to the bed and sat down. “You must be bored.”

  The girl shook her head, her blonde hair framing wide brown eyes. Despite the girl’s obvious attempts to hide it, her fear was as plain as day. She’d seen the same fear in the eyes of too many Vietnamese children. Too many American boys turned soldier.

  She’d never known Rick intended to involve a child, or she wouldn’t have agreed to help when he approached her with his scheme for retribution against the government.

  Montego stood up, paced, and chafed his arms. “Stop coddling her! She’s a hostage. A hostage. Got it? We’re already freezing our asses because of her damn allergies. Do we have to entertain her too?”

  Cara’s patience snapped. “You don’t have to do a damn thing except follow Rick’s orders! Stop grousing about the girl. Just do your thing on the computer. I’ll handle Emily.”

  Montego stormed across the room and slammed a fist against the wall. Kenny looked up from the mass of wires and detonator devices he was rigging and glowered at her. The waiting wore on all of them, but Montego’s restlessness was especially worrisome. Rick had warned her the man had no patience, and a volatile temper. A powder keg ready to blow.