How to Tame a Wild Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  “One thought—Dynah’s—is to go back to our roots, and revive the Pink Swan,” Janey explained.

  Lara glanced around the Be Loved and Welcomed Room. It wouldn’t take much to turn it back into a brothel. Take away the jade sculpture of Kuan-Yin and the Tibetan “tongka” tapestry, and maybe the placard that read, RELEASE YOUR MIND AND THE REST WILL FOLLOW. Which, she was pretty sure, her aunt had stolen from Salt-n-Pepa.

  She shook herself back to attention. What was she thinking? She wasn’t here to help rescue the Haven. She was here to break the news to the Goddesses. “Actually, I came to tell you guys something.”

  “Or . . .” said Janey, scanning the ledger. “Another idea is to turn the place into a spa and continue to offer massage and maybe mani-pedis. We might have to remodel, which would take a bite out of our reserves, such as they are.”

  “The Pink Swan Healing Spa.” Annabella wrote the name with her finger in the air. Both she and Romaine gazed at it as if they could actually see it. Dynah rolled her eyes and snorted scornfully.

  “Tam didn’t leave so much as a note with instructions about what she wanted to do with the Haven. We’re not even sure who owns it now. Unless . . .”

  Slowly, all of them turned their gazes on Lara, who felt herself turn pink. Somehow she’d lost control of the conversation. Scratch that—she’d never had control. She never did at the Haven. And now she had to tell them that all their ideas for the Haven were pointless. The place had to be sold.

  “Aunt Tam left the Haven to me.”

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could swear she heard her aunt’s rippling laughter.

  And then a cacophony of voices broke out.

  After assuring the Goddesses that she’d think about their ideas before making any final decisions, Lara escaped to the room where she’d lived from the age of twelve. Aunt Tam had completely redecorated it, banishing everything black and goth—everything Lara—and turning it into a pink cotton candy nest.

  Tears collected at the corners of her eyes as she cursed herself once again for not coming back in time to see her aunt. Being in this pink room—bedspread a deep rose, curtains a pale sunrise pink, rug a delicate mauve—was like being pulled into one of her aunt’s famous rosewater-scented hugs. Her aunt welcomed everyone, never judged, never rejected. Aunt Tam had never lost faith in her through all her rocky, sarcastic, morose, grieving growing-up years.

  And now she trusted her to take care of the business she’d left behind—the business that had mortified Lara nearly to death as a teenager.

  She set down her suitcase and stretched her arms overhead, feeling her muscles sigh in relief. As a resident, she was so busy she sometimes forgot she had a body that needed attention: food, water, sleep. She liked it that way, liked focusing her whole self on her quest to become a doctor, liked putting lots of distance between her present and her past. Living in Loveless, as the niece of the local wacko, had been excruciating. She’d wanted nothing to do with the place.

  But she owed Aunt Tam.

  Quickly, she changed into her grungiest clothes—cutoffs and a tank top—as advised by the Goddesses, who claimed they always came back from the fire stinking of sweat and smoke.

  On her way out the door her old corkboard caught her eye. She went closer to look at the photos and scraps of old poems and band flyers pinned to the board. Most of the photos were of her and Liam Callahan. He always wore that lopsided, dreamy grin; she was always making some sort of funny face. She probably wouldn’t have smiled once during her entire high school years if Liam hadn’t made her.

  Liam had been her lifeline.

  Another smile caught her eye. Patrick, side by side with Liam during their infamous “stand on one leg” competition, in which Patrick’s tenacity had almost beaten Liam’s single-minded focus. In the moment when he conceded to his brother, Patrick had aimed that vivid smile at the camera. His eyes, even in the old photo, nearly jumped off the corkboard with that piercing, vibrant blue.

  Patrick Callahan. What had ever happened to him after the accident? He’d been banished from the family, cut off from the Callahan money. No more Princeton. She’d been so wrapped up with Liam’s recovery that she hadn’t spared a thought for Patrick, except to curse at him like everyone else—though for her own reasons.

  But now, looking at the photo, the look on Liam’s face tugged at her heart. Liam had idolized Patrick, and Patrick, for all his wildness, had been really good with Liam. Patient, affectionate, protective, yet always daring Liam to test his limits. She knew from Liam that none of the family had been in touch with his older brother for years.

  What had ever happened to Patrick?

  Patrick drove his steel-gray 1986 Dodge Ramcharger to Nevada. The high-clearance, four-wheel-drive old-school sport utility vehicle, from which he’d removed the backseats to make a sleeping space, served as his home-away-from-home on the road. The damn thing was so tough and rugged, he’d nicknamed it the Hulk. As he neared the fire-affected zone, he had the highway virtually to himself. The other vehicles were heading away from the fire, not toward it. Gas stations and convenience stores were empty, as if aliens had landed and snatched everyone up, leaving nothing but smoke smudging the sky and hot blasts of wind.

  Vast stretches of Nevada and its neighboring states were burning, and from the dry look of the vegetation, what wasn’t yet on fire soon would be.

  Brody had shown a glimmer of respect for his decision to go to Nevada. That meant a lot. But he hadn’t told Brody that he had no intention of letting his family know he was here, not even Liam or his little sister Megan. The last time he’d seen them all was in the hospital, with Liam unconscious in the next room, his father out of his mind with rage, yelling at him to get out of town and never come back. He’d meant it too. The private security guards had proved that. His mother had told him it would be better if he left, and even Megan was afraid to talk to him.

  The worst of it was, he didn’t even remember the details of the accident. It didn’t matter. He was the big brother. Liam was deaf and mildly autistic. Whatever had happened, it must have been Patrick’s fault.

  The familiar tension grabbed at his neck. He rubbed the tendons with one hand. He was going back to Loveless out of principle, nothing more. He might be the disinherited black sheep, but he wasn’t going to let his family’s property be destroyed if he could help it. And he wasn’t going to let “Governor Blowhard” keep him out of his own hometown.

  The winds were out of the southeast, a steady thirty mile an hour breeze that was pushing the fire in a determined march across the state. The town of Loveless should be safe enough, since it was to the east of the fire. But Callahan Ranch was closer to the edge of the flames. Hopefully his father had hired people to clear the brush from around the structures. But since he’d been banished from his father’s sight, he couldn’t exactly go and check on it.

  Instead, he was heading to the Incident Command Post that had been set up at a fairgrounds about fifteen miles outside of Loveless. Patrick was to report to the incident commander, a man named Morton Deitch. Brody said he was a straight-up guy, and he’d even put in a good word for Patrick.

  Patrick didn’t want to admit it, but he’d repeated those good words to himself a few times. Helluva firefighter. Strong, smart, a lot of initiative. No “keep an eye on him” or “watch your back,” as he might have expected.

  He took a long glug from a gallon jug of water he’d picked up along the way. In this heat, hydration was incredibly important, so much so that Brody had reminded him to start hydrating before he even got to the scene. Not something they had to worry about when fighting structure fires in San Gabriel.

  The rolling, rocky hills, an ominous shade of cardboard brown, shimmered on either side of the car. This area hadn’t had rain in months. It was hard to believe that anything had ever been green here. Now that he was a trained firefighter, he looked at the landscape with a more experienced eye. That wasn’t just pretty vegetation, i
t was fuel. Sagebrush with a grass understory, and P.J., as it was called. Pinyon and juniper, a highly flammable combination of resinous evergreens.

  Wind buffeted the Hulk, or would have if it hadn’t been built like a Mack truck. He had all his firefighting gear stowed in the bed, along with a tent, sleeping bag, blankets, jugs of water, even a food stash. If he got stranded by the fire, he could survive for weeks, as long as he didn’t burn to death.

  And then he saw it. A huge, horizon-long, rolling, roiling mass of dark flame edged into view. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered to himself. That was one big-ass fire. It hunched like a hungry dragon over the subdivisions scattered on the vulnerable hillsides below. He’d heard that thousands of people had been evacuated. Jesus. No wonder there was hardly anyone on the road.

  For one second he was tempted to turn around and do the sane thing, for once in his life. But that thought quickly fled. Sanity was overrated. Besides, the moment he first saw the fire on the news, he knew he’d end up here. This fire was . . . personal.

  The Loveless Fairgrounds, a ramshackle conglomeration of dusty old shacks, had been transformed into a tent city swarming with busy firefighters and support staff. Big tan canvas Weatherport tents shuddered in the stiff breeze whipping through the camp. Patrick identified the Air Ops tent, Ground Operation, Safety, and finally located the Incident Command tent and the incident commander himself.

  Battalion Chief Mort Deitch looked and talked like a cowboy in slow-mo, but from the respect people showed him, he was sharp as an ice pick. He was over six feet tall, even taller with the cowboy hat he wore. He took time to shake Patrick’s hand and show him where the ground logistics people were, so he could stash his gear and set up his tent.

  “Brody said you just got recertified in heli-rappelling.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you’re out of San Gabriel, right?” Meaning he made his living fighting structure fires rather than on a hotshot crew.

  “I worked on rappel crews before I decided to try staying in one place. But I’ve thought about joining a hotshot team.”

  “Thrill junkie?”

  Under that slow, shrewd gaze, Patrick couldn’t lie. “That’s a fair statement.”

  Deitch nodded, seemingly unworried. It went with the territory, after all. “One of my rappellers got himself injured during a landing. Busted his ankle. Can you go up today?”

  “Why not?”

  Patrick shifted his shoulders under his rucksack, from which his boots dangled. These were different from his regular fire boots. Known as “whites,” they were big black logger heel boots with heavy Vibram soles, and uppers that went halfway up his calves. They added about six pounds to his backpack, but they were worth every ounce.

  “Go stash your stuff and get geared up. We’ve got a R.A.W.S. station the feds are all hyped up about. Need you to do the prep on it. Thousands of dollars at stake, yadda yadda.”

  “Got it.” Remote Automated Weather Stations contained critical weather monitoring equipment that generally cost a bundle.

  “You’ve been hydrating?”

  “I’m kissing cousin to a water balloon right about now.”

  Deitch chuckled, and turned back to the array of laptops and laminated maps laid out on a folding table. “Don’t forget to take a whiz before you go topside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And grab some chocolate chip cookies. The townspeople are knocking themselves out for us.”

  Townspeople. That would be the town of Loveless. The town inhabited by Callahans. He couldn’t get in that chopper fast enough; the last thing he wanted to do was run into someone who knew him.

  “We even have some ladies offering up free massages.” Deitch gestured toward the Med Unit tent. Just outside of it sat two massage chairs occupied by firefighters, their faces buried in a kind of doughnut brace, while two women kneaded their backs. The masseuses were both attractive, but for some reason he looked right past them to another woman inside the med tent. She knelt on the ground, bandaging some poor sap’s foot with quick, efficient movements.

  Something about her looked familiar. Her blond hair, which was fastened on top of her head in a careless knot, shone like a sunflower in the smoky air. Lush but compact, she wore knee-length cutoff denims that revealed pale, shapely calves. Her bare arms were equally firm, causing a man to wonder what the rest of her looked like. And there, on the back of her shoulder, wasn’t that a little tattoo?

  Then the woman turned her head sideways, calling out for more gauze.

  And that voice, smoky, intelligent, often mocking (when addressing him), nearly knocked him off his feet.

  Lara Nelson?

  He started in her direction, but the equipment manager arrived and began steering him toward the supply cache.

  He twisted around for one more look. It couldn’t possibly be Lara. Lara dyed her hair and wore nothing but black. She wasn’t overtly sexy like this woman. Lara had never wanted to be sexy; she’d always said so—in that throaty voice that made him want to roll her onto the nearest flat surface.

  Lara—or the woman who sounded just like her—had turned back to her task and was now speaking earnestly to the firefighter with the injured foot. Patrick noticed a flush of pink across the nape of her neck. She was getting sunburned. He should warn her. Liam would want him to say something. It was exactly the sort of thing that bothered Liam . . .

  The stab of sheer pain that always accompanied thoughts of Liam nearly made him stagger. No time for this now. Forget Liam. Forget Lara. It probably isn’t even her.

  He didn’t have a spare second to investigate further. After a quick stop at the supply cache, he changed into his “yellows and greens”—fire resistant Nomex shirt and pants. He pulled on socks and his fire boots. It had been a couple years since he’d worn this style of boot, but they still hugged his feet perfectly.

  Once he reached the heli-spot, where a Bell 205 waited, he fastened on the climbing harness and checked the Sky Genie. Since the rope that wound through the Genie offered the only way to slow or stop a descent, he liked to double check it himself. He slung his P.G. bag, which held his personal gear, over his back. It contained a fire shelter, underwear, extra clothing and enough food and water for three days. When you went rappelling, you never knew how long you might be out there.

  He shook hands with the other firefighter he’d be rappelling with, who introduced himself as Dan McInnies from Jamberoo, Australia. He nodded to the spotter and the pilot, then pulled on his flight helmet. He climbed into the chopper, pulled down one of the seats and fastened himself in.

  No need for breathers—those were reserved for structure fires. For this mission his tools would be chainsaw, fusees, and hand tools. The chopper was already loaded with the let-down boxes filled with everything they would need. These would be sent down after the rappellers; for some strange reason, rappelling while loaded with sharp things wasn’t allowed.

  “A tanker just dropped a load of retardant, so be careful out there. No more scheduled for now,” shouted the spotter.

  Retardant was nasty stuff, a mixture of water and sludge so heavy it could break your bones if it fell on you. “Too bad,” shouted Patrick. “I love the smell of retardant in the morning.”

  Dan laughed. Already Patrick liked him.

  The chopper blades began to whir, slapping at the air. Its nose dipped forward a bit, and they rose off the heli-spot. Patrick watched the crowded fairgrounds disappear below them, the black ants of people scurrying around, then the bare expanse of ranchland slipping past—everything from cattle to llamas to ostriches were raised around here—then, disturbingly quickly, they were flying over the heart of the beast.

  Storms of black smoke churned beneath them, making the chopper sway from side to side. Fire created its own weather, its own eighty mile an hour winds, its own hurricanes and twisters of smoke. Flames lurked behind the veil of all that black destruction, as if they were hiding until they could leap out and str
ike the unwary.

  Patrick’s heart raced and his mouth went dry. The Waller Canyon Fire was a magnificent, terrifying, awe-inspiring, gut-churning sight. And he was supposed to drop into the middle of it, like a piece of dandelion fluff landing on a volcano.

  “Holy Mother Mary,” he breathed out loud. He saw Dan cross himself. A guy could definitely find religion moments before rappelling into a wildfire.

  He focused on the gear check the spotter was performing. Harness, check. Rope, check. Gloves, check. Death wish, check.

  “There’s your spot,” said the pilot into their headsets. “See that building down there?”

  He pointed, and Patrick saw it well enough. The edge of the fire was a couple miles out but heading in that direction. If they could clear a wide enough area around it in a speedy enough manner, the weather station should survive.

  If.

  Staring at the massive, maniacal fire, it seemed like a big if to Patrick.

  The chopper maneuvered over the clearing and hovered. “I’ll wait if I can, but don’t be surprised to see me bail,” said the pilot over the comm. “They’ve been keeping me busy.”

  “Got it.”

  “Ready?”

  “Ten-four.”

  The spotter opened the door on Patrick’s side of the chopper. Hot wind battered his face. The spotter worked the rope through the Sky Genie on Patrick’s harness and fastened it off. Patrick got into position, facing the inside of the chopper, his back to the great beyond, while the spotter went through the same routine for Dan on the other side.

  “Good to go!” he said over the helmet comm. “Have a good ride, guys. See you on the other side.”

  Patrick took a deep breath and dropped backward, ass first, into emptiness. He felt a moment of weightlessness until the harness jerked against the rope. It held, cradling him securely in the crazed, hot wind swirling around the chopper. Rope whizzed through the Sky Genie as he lowered himself at a controlled pace toward the ground. The rope wavered, swinging in the open air, then settled under his weight. He slid down, gloved hands gripping the rope, his heart racing a mile a minute, toward that tiny, vulnerable building—a bull’s-eye in a target of flame.