After scouting around a bit, Rick found a long, sturdy stick with forked branches at the end. Lying on his stomach at the edge of the drop-off, Rick extended the branch toward the baby bird. Slowly. Carefully.
As the prongs of the stick got closer, the hatchling squeaked louder and flailed in distress.
“Easy, little guy,” Rick crooned. He gently slid the branch prongs around the floundering baby and eased the stick up toward the nest. Right as the hatchling wiggled through the branches, Rick hoisted the branch over the edge of the bed of twigs and down. The bird flopped into the nest a bit harder than Rick had intended. But the baby was home. Safe again.
Rick thought of his father, wasting away in the nursing home at the bottom of this mountain. One cancer after another eating away his body. Pop would never go home again. His days were numbered, and Rick wanted to be there for his dad, hold his old man’s hand when he crossed over to the hunting ground in the sky.
Fuck McKay. Pop needed him.
He could reach the town of Redmont in a day or so if he hiked down the mountain. He could sit with Pop for a while, talk to Pop’s doctors, ask Pop’s advice about what to do next.
When he didn’t return to the cabin, Vince would kill the kid, and he and Cara and the others would disperse to safe zones. He’d contact them later about their new course of action.
But if McKay lived, survived the raging river, he’d go straight to the authorities. He’d go straight to—
Redmont.
New hope curled through Rick. A new plan. Maybe his mission wasn’t a bust. When McKay and the woman reached Redmont—if they reached Redmont—he’d be waiting for them.
The icy water numbed Jackson’s hands, his legs. His shoulder. Small favor.
For the most part he’d avoided the rocks, the dead trees obstructing the river flow. The slope of the hill seemed to be leveling, the current slowing. God knew how far they’d floated. Minutes. Miles. He’d lost track.
Jackson strained to lift his head and look for Lauren. Just ahead, he saw the white of her T-shirt bobbing in the swirling water. How she knew what to do in the swift water, he didn’t know. He didn’t think whitewater survival was part of smokejumper training. Regardless, her directions may well have saved his butt.
Hell, who was he kidding? He’d have likely drowned, trying to swim in the powerful current with his bum shoulder. He owed her one. Especially since he’d been the one not watching where he was going, too busy looking over his shoulder to notice the ravine.
“Jackson!” Lauren’s voice rang over the swoosh of the current sluicing over the large rocks. “Are you still with me?”
“I’m here. You okay?”
“Just cold as hell. A little bruised.”
Concern spiked through him. “Bruised? How bad?”
“Nothing serious. Hey, there’s a place just a little farther down where I think we should swim over to the bank. Near that felled tree. See it?”
He craned his neck to see ahead. “I see it.”
He watched her roll to her stomach and begin paddling to shore. He flipped and used his good arm to pull himself through the water, amazed at how stiff, how numb the cold water left him.
Lauren dragged herself out of the river and flopped on her back, breathing hard, shivering. “Good God, I’ve never been so bone cold.”
He found a tenuous foothold and clambered to his feet. After staggering to shore, he dropped beside her. “Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse…”
“Well…” She rolled her head to the side to look at him. “At least we got away from the guy with the gun.”
A snort of laughter tripped from his chest. “Judas Priest.” His chuckle grew, swelling until it echoed from the ravine walls.
The melodic sound of her laughter joined his and skipped pleasantly along his nerve endings. Before long they were wiping tears of mirth from their eyes.
She wrung out the tail of her shirt. “Good to know you have a sense of humor. I was beginning to wonder.”
He scoffed. “Rick.”
“Huh?” She shook her head.
“The guy with the gun was Rick.”
“Oh.” She sobered a bit. “Charming guy.”
He goggled at her. “Great, he shoots at you, and he’s charming. I do my damnedest to win you over for hours, and I’m…what was it? A prick?”
He lifted a corner of his mouth.
She blinked and dragged a hand through her wet hair. His fingers itched to thread through the auburn silk slicked to her head by the water. “You’ve been trying to win me over?”
“Apparently my approach needs work.”
Smiling awkwardly, she rubbed her arms, and he noticed the goose bumps budding on her skin. Noticed how her wet clothes clung to her curves. Noticed her beaded nipples straining against the damp T-shirt.
Despite the chill settled deep in his bones from his trip down the river, heat flashed through him. The truth he’d been dancing around all day hit him with the jolting force of lightning.
He wanted Lauren.
He wanted to bury himself inside her and lose himself in the sensation of her body wrapped around his. She’d awakened something inside him that had lain dormant since he lost Janine. Desire. Need. Physical release.
Jackson groaned and shoved those thoughts aside, needled by a sense that what he really wanted went beyond sex but unwilling to examine that need too closely.
“I’m, uh…afraid I lost my arm sling in the river,” he said and cleared his throat. “Your…bra. Sorry.”
She glanced at him, quirked a wry grin and sighed. “We lost a lot more than my bra. I ditched the pack when we ran. Most of our supplies were in it. Including the radio.”
Jackson rolled his head to gaze up at the sky. He was silent for a moment then said, “Well…at least we got away from the guy with the gun.”
She snorted another laugh then shoved to her feet. “We should make camp here. Find some firewood before night falls. If we don’t warm up and dry off before the sun sets, we’ll have to deal with a serious risk of hypothermia.”
He swallowed a groan.
Night. Alone in the woods. With a woman who made his body burn and ache.
Two words. Judas. Priest.
Emily didn’t want to spend the night alone in this dark cabin. Without Dad. Without anything familiar to console her.
She glanced at the paper flowers that littered the floor beside the bed like a tiny imaginary garden. Making the flowers with Cara had helped her feel better for a little while. But through the cabin’s dirty window, she’d watched the daylight fade, and the squiggly feeling in her stomach had grown. She couldn’t even eat the soup and crackers Cara had made for dinner.
The rain had stopped, and outside, strange noises filled the night. Animal noises.
An owl—at least she hoped it was just an owl—hooted, but the sound was sad and eerie to her. Her chest squeezed tighter, and she coughed.
“You okay, hon?” Cara said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Need the inhaler again?”
“No—” But talking made her cough again. “Well, maybe so.” Gosh, she hoped she never had another asthma attack like the one earlier today. Not being able to breathe…sucked.
Taking a deep breath from the inhaler, Emily glanced guiltily at Cara, wondering if the woman could read her thoughts the way Mom had seemed able to. Dad had told her not to use the word sucked, but nothing else described how really awful the attack had felt. If Cara knew she’d thought the bad word, she didn’t say anything.
Cara had saved her life. No matter what else happened, Emily would always be grateful to her for that.
“Cara?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Will you…stay here for a while? Just ’til I get to sleep?” She felt like a big baby for asking. She wanted to be brave, like she knew her mom would be. She knew the animals outside couldn’t get her, but…
“Sure. I’ll stay as long as you want.” Cara was smiling
like she really didn’t mind, but there were tears in her eyes too. What was that about? Was Cara scared too?
“Do you…are you…” Emily fumbled as Cara stretched out beside her on the bed and pulled her into her arms.
“Am I what?”
She hesitated. She didn’t want Cara to know what a big baby she was.
“Afraid?” the woman asked. Maybe Cara could read her thoughts.
Emily nodded and burrowed closer. Cara’s shirt smelled like roses, and fireplace smoke and those little things she’d poked in an orange at Christmas with Mom.
A sharp pain grabbed her heart. Would she ever stop missing Mom so much?
The tears that prickled her eyes made her nose run, and she sniffed and swiped her face with her sleeve.
“Sure, I still get scared sometimes. Like today. When you couldn’t breathe. That scared me.”
Emily peered up at Cara through the dim light. “Really?”
“Sure. And I was scared a lot over in ’Nam. Really scared.”
“What’s Nam?”
“Vietnam. The war—” Cara laughed, but it had no humor. “Geez, you weren’t even born then.”
Emily gaped. “You’ve been in a war?”
“I was a nurse in the Army,” Cara said, nodding. “That’s where I met my husband, Rick and Kenny’s dad.”
“Where’s your husband now? Is he—” A bad guy, a kidnapper. What did she call them?
“He’s very sick.” Cara sounded so sad, so tired now. “He’s in a nursing home near here. Dying.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He has cancer.” Cara sighed. “And diabetes. And…oh, a lot has happened to him. Because of that damn Agent Orange.”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “What’s that?”
“A poison that the U.S. government sprayed him with while he was in Vietnam. Fighting for his country.”
“Why did the government spray him with poison? He was on our side.”
Cara scoffed. “Exactly. It’s complicated, hon.”
Emily frowned. “But that’s not right. The government is supposed to protect us.”
“They are supposed to protect us. They’re suppose to take care of our soldiers too, but they didn’t.” Cara’s lips pressed to a stern line. “They wouldn’t help Raymond even when he started getting sick from the Agent Orange. That’s why we need your dad’s help. To make a point. To settle the score.”
“Like…revenge?”
“Yes. Revenge.”
Emily squirmed uneasily. “But…my mom said people shouldn’t try to get revenge. That it’s better to let the police handle people who do wrong. She said revenge just makes the hate keep going, and that it takes courage to stand up for what is right, to fight hate. My mom was brave like that. She was a cop.”
Cara got still and stiff. Emily bit her lip. Hard. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. She didn’t want to make Cara mad.
“Your mom sounds like a smart woman. And she’s right. That’s true. Most of the time. But my husband has suffered because of what the government did. Do you know what it’s like to see someone you love hurting and not be able to do anything to help?”
Emily thought about it. Yes. She did know. “I couldn’t do anything to help my dad after Mom died. I know he misses her a whole bunch. He’s sad all the time, but he pretends not to be.”
“Mmm.” Cara hugged her tighter.
“And I couldn’t help him when Rick and Kenny—” She stopped. Jeepers! When would she learn to think before she talked? Tears rushed back into her eyes thinking about Dad. Hurt. Beaten. Bleeding. She started shaking, and her nose ran some more.
Cara sighed. “I’m sorry your dad got hurt, but we had to have his cooperation. Even if it meant force.”
Anger gushed up inside her. Emily shook her head and pulled away from Cara. “No! You shouldn’t have hurt him,” she said, her voice tight. Shut up! Shut up! You’ll get her mad. You’ll wake the men, and they’ll hurt you.
But she couldn’t shut up. Her fear and anger for what had happened to her dad bubbled through her and made her say things she shouldn’t. She shoved away from Cara. “You’re horrible and cruel, and I hate you for hurting my dad!”
“Emily…” Cara said, reaching for her.
“Hey! What the hell’s going on in there?” one of the men shouted from the next room.
Emily clamped her mouth closed and huddled against the wall. Wheezing. Struggling to breathe. She had nowhere to go to escape when Cara moved closer and pulled her back into a hug. Emily fought the embrace. Didn’t want Cara touching her. But needing her too. She was confused. So confused. How could someone be so kind and so cruel at the same time?
Cara rubbed Emily’s back and made shushing sounds. Emily sucked in the deepest breath she could. And smelled spice again. Cloves. That’s what Mom had called them. Cara smelled like cloves. Of course thinking about Mom, about Dad being hurt, about the animal sounds outside made her cry again. Even harder. Like a baby.
Cara held her. And held her. And swayed, like Mom had when she comforted Emily after a bad dream.
Finally Cara pushed her away and put a hand under Emily’s chin. “Another puff? Or can you breathe okay?”
“I-I’m okay.” She took the tissue Cara handed her from her sweater pocket and blew her nose. “Sorry. I’m being a wimp.”
Cara scoffed. “Honey, being scared doesn’t make you a wimp. Everyone gets scared.”
“My mom didn’t. She was the bravest person I ever knew. ’Cept maybe my dad.” She blew her nose some more then let her shoulders sag. “My mom faced criminals everyday. Arrested them. She said that sometimes they’d resist and try to hurt her. But she was never scared.”
“She sounds like a really strong lady.”
“She did things I could never do. She even went out on the ledge of a really tall building once to stop a guy from jumping.” Emily shook her head. “I wish I were more like her.”
Cara pulled her close again, and Emily closed her eyes, pretending it was Mom holding her.
“I think you are like your mom,” Cara whispered.
Emily raised her head. “What?”
“I think you are the bravest little girl I’ve ever known.”
Emily frowned. “But I’m so scared all the time.”
“But you keep going, despite that. Even though you are scared, you do what you have to. Like just a minute ago when you stood up for your dad. When you fussed at me. That took courage. Standing up to me.”
“I was just…mad.”
“Because you love your dad. You can find courage lots of places. Love. Anger. Wanting what’s right. Even if you’re scared.”
Emily thought about what Cara said. Was that how it had been for Mom? Where had Mom found her courage? Was it possible that sometimes Mom had been scared too?
“You know what else?” Cara said, stroking Emily’s hair.
“What?”
“Even though your mom is dead, I think she can still hear you. Still love you. Still take care of you. In her own way.”
“Like an angel?”
“Yeah,” Cara said, her voice cracking. “Like an angel.”
A strange warmth flickered inside Emily’s heart that felt a bit like hope.
Chapter Eleven
Lauren’s clothes were still damp and uncomfortable. Her matches were ruined, and her map disintegrated when she tried to unfold the soaked pages. She had plenty of reasons to complain.
But she was alive. That alone made up for the rest.
She’d savored every bite of her pouch of freeze-dried and reconstituted beef stew from Whitefeather’s PG bag. Filet mignons couldn’t have tasted better.
She stared into the crackling campfire she’d started the old-fashioned way—forty minutes of rolling a stick between her hands, grinding the tip against a rock until the friction heat ignited a pile of tender. Her hands were blistered and raw, but the look on Jackson’s face when she blew the fledgling sparks into flam
e was worth every bit of chafed skin.
“Woman make fire. Man impressed.” He’d thumped his chest with his fist. “Ugh.”
Remembering the rush of pleasure his comedic compliment had stirred, Lauren bit her lip, hiding the grin that tugged her lips.
“What?”
She looked across the fire at Jackson. The flames cast his chiseled face in a warm glow that only heightened the appeal of his handsome features. “Nothing.”
She smiled, and when he returned a grin, her heart did a crazy little dance against her ribs. Even a small dose of this man’s praise and good humor was potent to her system. He had an engaging, magnetic smile.
Lauren cleared her throat and ducked her head. Steady, girl.
“Just thinking,” she told him. “Just glad to still be breathing.”
“Mmm. Better than the alternative.” He poked at the fire with a long stick. Sparks swirled into the chilly mountain night.
“And you? What were you thinking just now?”
He drew a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his bristly cheeks. The rasp of his palm against his three-day beard skittered over her skin as if he were stroking her instead. She shook her head to clear it.
The intimate glow of the fire created a tiny bubble of light that made it too easy to shut out the world beyond. Under other circumstances, sharing a campfire with a man like Jackson, the still, crisp night surrounding them, would be her idea of heaven.
“Jackson?” she prodded when she realized he’d never answered her question.
He stretched his long legs in front of him and leaned back against a tree trunk, still stirring the coals of the campfire with the stick. He met her gaze and said, “A bridge keeper takes his son with him to work one day. The boy plays around his feet and learns how the drawbridge operates. It’s a great day for the father and son.
“Late in the day, the father must lift the bridge to allow a barge through. After opening the bridge, however, he gets word that a bus full of people has lost its brakes and is headed his way. He has to lower the bridge immediately, or the bus load of people will all plunge into the river and die.”
Under Fire Page 12
