Smolder (Firefighters of Montana Book 1)

by Tracy Solheim

  A charged silence hovered within the barn as the oblivious mare continued to chew on hay. Laurel forced herself to meet the captain’s eyes. She was surprised to see the pain that was reflected there before he quickly extinguished it. Her stomach quivered in embarrassment.

  “I’ve got to get to work,” he said stoically before running a hand along the mare’s sleek back. The intimate gesture brought out an unexpected flush to more than just Laurel’s face.

  “Take good care of her. Let me know if you need anything else for her training.” His footsteps sounded much more commanding in retreat, and it wasn’t until Laurel heard the hum of his vehicle making its way along the drive that his last words registered.

  “Training? What kind of training was he talking about, Dad?”

  Her father shot her a disapproving look, likely left over from when she’d put her foot in her mouth moments earlier. But Laurel refused to let it deter her.

  “You did tell the guy that Mom hasn’t trained a horse in years, didn’t you? He knows that she’s in a wheelchair and doesn’t ride anymore, right, Dad?”

  Her father shoved his hat back on his head and squeezed at his temple. “I’m not some snake oil salesman, Laurel. Of course I told him all that.”

  Laurel slapped her hands on her denim-clad thighs in exasperation. “Then why did you tell him we were going to train his horse?”

  “Because we are!” His bellowed words echoed off the stone walls, startling the mare and sending the grooms scurrying back to work. Tyson looked on wide-eyed while Oreo let out a whimper.

  Laurel felt as though the barn was spinning. “Who do you mean when you say ‘we’?” Although, she had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer to her question.

  “You!” Her father pulled his hat off his head and dragged his long fingers through his shaggy silver hair. “I mean you, Laurel.”

  Staggering back a step, she nearly tripped over Tyson’s backpack. “You can’t be serious? I don’t know the first thing about training a horse. That’s Mom’s talent. I just ride them. What possibly made you think I could—or would—do it?”

  “For crying out loud, Laurel, the man’s wife is dead.” His voice trailed off as he stared past the barn door toward the house across the gravel drive where her mother likely waited to share breakfast with him. The barn was tense and quiet for a moment before her father swallowed fiercely, his fingers tightening on the brim of his hat. “She’d raised the horse from a foal and it was her dream to see it compete at the highest level.”

  The captain’s wife had been a horsewoman like her mother then. That familiar fear that always gripped her when she thought of her mother dying added to the anxiety that already had Laurel on edge. Josephine Keenan had always been larger than life. Not only was she a popular designer for many of the stars who had vacation homes in the region, but her mother had served as the town’s elected mayor for eight years. She was a vibrant fixture in Glacier Creek until fate had intervened. Her mom’s multiple sclerosis was stable, her prognosis cautiously optimistic, but Laurel knew how quickly circumstances—and life—could change. From the looks of it, so did her father.

  “Tyson.” She pushed out around the tightening in her chest. “Take Oreo up to the house and say good morning to your grandma. I’ll be up in a minute to drive you to school.” She reached down and handed her son his backpack. Tyson eyed his grandfather before wisely slipping out of the barn. Truman fell into step behind him.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Dad,” she asked as soon as Tyson and his menagerie had cleared the door. “Something about Mom?”

  Her father swore under his breath. “No, of course not.”

  “Then why would you commit me to training a man’s horse?

  “The captain’s wife already trained the damn horse, Laurel. You’re welcome to watch the videos.” He reached out and patted the horse’s neck. “She just needs some fine tuning so he can sell the animal. Two, maybe three months at the max.”

  “Two to three months?” Laurel gasped. “Dad, even if I thought I knew how to ‘tune up’ a horse to the caliber this one needs to be, where am I going to find the time? I work full-time. I help out here at the ranch, and I’m studying for my CPA, remember?”

  Her father finally turned so his brown eyes met hers head-on. Her breath caught at the vulnerability she saw in them. “I already hired an extra hand to help out on the trail rides and the overnights so you’d have more time to study. He starts next week.”

  His words surprised her. Up until now, he’d been dismissive regarding her ability to become an accountant. Laurel was the first to agree the career didn’t naturally fit with her personality, but she was quick with numbers and the work provided an adequate challenge for her impulsive brain. Not only that, but she had a son to support—without her parents’ help. Unfortunately, her father’s opinion led to a great deal of self-doubt on her own part. His willingness to help her out now, in spite of the motivation behind that support, wasn’t something she could easily dismiss.

  “The days are getting longer,” he continued. “I thought that maybe you could work with the horse in the evenings. Your mom could come out and watch while it’s still warm from the sun. It could be just like old times; her coaching you from the rail.” His voice broke slightly and Laurel felt it reverberate deep within her chest cavity. “I don’t think the captain is expecting miracles, honey. But I know both he and your mother would get something from it. The man was deployed in a war zone three times. He deserves our respect and whatever help we can give. And your mom. . .well, she deserves something to look forward to every day.”

  Laurel didn’t know how to respond to her father. The morning had been a tsunami of anxious emotions already and she wasn’t sure how she felt about anything. She opened her mouth to say what, she had no idea, when Tyson came charging back into the barn.

  “Mom, the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the eight. We need to get to school. Miss Ivy said she’d let me turn on the computers and iPads today!”

  Her father cleared his throat before putting his hat back on his head. “Well then, we’d better get you loaded up into your car seat. We don’t want Miss Ivy giving your special job to anyone else.” He gave Laurel’s arm a squeeze as he passed her. “Just think about it, Laurel. For once, give the situation time to settle before you react.”

  He followed Tyson out of the barn, leaving her alone with the mare and enough guilt to swallow her whole. The horse eyed Laurel warily as she approached.

  “You are a looker, I’ll give you that,” she said softly while the mare continued to crunch on her hay. Laurel pulled a mint out of her coat pocket and let it rest in her flat palm. The palomino hesitated coyly before sniffing Laurel’s fingers and finally taking the mint with a lick of her hand. Releasing a resigned sigh, Laurel patted the horse’s nose. “We’ll just take it one day at a time and see what happens.”

  The horn on her beat-up Land Cruiser sounded as she gave the mare a final pat. “Gotta go. Tyson loves school and it makes him impatient in the mornings. Boys can be such a pain.” The horse snorted. “Your guy, too, huh?” Laurel said, sarcastically. “Hmm, I never would have guessed.” With a quick check to see if the stall door was secure, Laurel headed out of the barn to get on with her already crazy day.

  Chapter Two

  Sam let his legs dangle off the jump tower as he carefully took in the scene a hundred feet beneath his boots. A group of ten men and women were scrambling around on the ground below, hauling parachutes and pulaskis from one side of the damp field to the other. The afternoon sun had warmed up the day substantially and most of the crew was in short sleeves while carrying out routine training drills.

  Nestled a couple of hundred yards east of Flathead Lake and backing up to two point three million acres of the Flathead National Forest, the Glacier Creek forest service station was a twenty-acre facility housing two airplane hangars, a helipad, and a seven-thousand-square-foot log cab
in. The cabin included not only the main offices of the service, but a large assembly room, a small workout area, and a kitchen, as well as a bunk house for on-call staff. Two large equipment sheds stood behind the cabin, storing the tools of the trade for the crews that worked out of the station. A gravel parking lot separated the main building from the two-hundred-fifty-foot jump tower and the vast open field below it known as Dead Man’s Valley—a place where rookies were either made or broken each spring.

  “I have to admit, I was a little leery of your idea for a mini-boot camp, but I guess it’s better if they try to kill themselves out here rather than inside the station.” Vincent Kingston, one of the eighteen year-round employees, sat down on the platform beside Sam. Mud was caked along his tattooed arm and the knees of his cargo pants, but Kingston wore it like a badge of honor, having bested two hotshots in a fire line drill moments earlier.

  “Ferguson’s singing while he sewed up parachutes this morning wasn’t conducive to getting any paperwork done,” Sam said.

  The tension inside the station was fueled not only by having a new leader from outside the ranks, but also by the competitive nature of the permanent employees who manned the base. Most of the men and women working year-round were team leaders who would command the part-time employees due to arrive for boot camp in a few weeks. Those who’d spent the winter in the station were getting antsy for some action. Testing and cleaning equipment—not to mention repairing parachutes—had become tedious to a group of individuals used to performing arduous physical activities for months at a time. They needed something to blow off steam before they blew up at each other. Hence the unscheduled afternoon boot camp.

  Kingston laughed at the remark about the smokejumper’s singing. “Liam’s voice has a very different effect on the women in his father’s bar. I’ve seen them throw their panties at him during karaoke night.”

  “Remind me to avoid The Drop Zone on karaoke night then.” Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Sam studied the man next to him. He wasn’t surprised that Kingston had out-maneuvered the other firefighters at the drill; the guy clearly possessed the stamina and intelligence to be a first rate smokejumper/hotshot. In the seven days since Sam had taken over the station, he’d watched the other employees take their cues from the steely man. It was obvious to him that the rest of the crew had assumed either Kingston or Tyler Dodson might be their new captain rather than an outsider like Sam.

  Kingston had been Russ Edwards’ best friend—he even lived in Edwards’ old house and brought the former captain’s dog, Muttley, to the station every day. But Sam sensed that behind the intensity, Kingston wasn’t exactly settled in his own skin. According to the file on the incident that left Edwards dead, Kingston was the first to arrive on the scene, finding his friend unconscious, dangling from his chute. Edwards never awoke before succumbing to internal injuries. It was a scenario Sam could relate to, having lived it more than once during his tours of duty in the army. But he, like Kingston, knew the risks involved with the job. Losing a friend, while not easy, was chief among those risks.

  The chilly welcome Sam had received when he took over as captain hadn’t warmed one bit. Sam knew having Kingston’s support would go a long way to winning over the rest of the crew. He didn’t give a rat’s ass whether anyone in the station actually liked him, but he needed their respect to ensure things ran efficiently—and safely—this fire season. That was job one. Sam hadn’t botched a mission yet—his marriage, well, that was another story.

  “I’m almost finished going over the applications for rookie candidates and the returning part-time jumpers,” Sam said. “We’re going to have to cast the net a little wider to make sure that, for boot camp, we have at least a dozen applicants who have significant emergency medical training. Right now, only thirty percent of our personnel are EMT qualified. That’s not enough to make sure each jump crew will have personnel with advanced medical training. I want to double that number.”

  Kingston’s body went very still as even his breathing seemed to halt for a long moment. Sam had been right to guess the guy was carrying around a load of unnecessary guilt over his friend’s death. But until they were actually facing down a fire, he had no way of knowing whether or not Kingston had lost his edge. His gut was telling him the guy was one of the strongest leaders in the station. Sam was counting on the fact Kingston still had the mettle to do the job. The broadening of specialized EMT experience to each team was Sam’s way of allowing every crew member to face the fire season after their captain’s death with a little less guilt—particularly the man sitting beside him.

  “We’ll add a more comprehensive first-aid training unit that’s beyond what the forest service requires to the boot camp. But it will be mandatory for every member of the crew, regardless of their experience,” Sam continued. “I’ve arranged for a combat medic I know to come and give the course early next month.”

  With a whoosh of a breath, Kingston gave him a slow, deliberate nod.

  “Dodson is helping me understand the nuances of coordinating among the local, regional, and national agencies. I’m also going to need some help assessing the skill-set of the returning seasonal crew. Is that something you feel comfortable doing?” Sam asked. “Next to Dodson, you have the most seniority and are familiar with the part-time personnel.”

  Kingston turned and eyed him shrewdly. If he suspected Sam’s motive, he kept it to himself. “So no one’s guaranteed a job? A lot of people in this area are counting on that income for the summer.”

  “Everyone’s got a job.” Kingston nodded as Sam continued. “But there’s a lot more to an individual than what is on their application, and I don’t have the luxury of getting up to speed on everyone before the fire season starts. I’m hoping you can help me put together the most efficient crews using more information than what is in their files. Provided I can even find their files. It doesn’t look like any paperwork has been completed around here in months.”

  Kingston gave him a sheepish look before glancing back down below his sneakers. “That’s because Hugh Ferguson refused to replace Jacqui. Edwards’ wife was the office manager for the station. She started working here as a volunteer intern when she was just a teenager and then took a permanent G-S job when she graduated high school. She basically ran the place ever since.”

  Sam knew Russ Edwards’ wife was currently on leave without pay from the forest service. But with the fire season fast approaching and the addition of thirty seasonal employees—all of whom needed to be paid—he couldn’t afford to be without a permanent office manager.

  “I take it she doesn’t plan to return to work?”

  “She hasn’t stepped foot in the station since Russ died. She left for Florida right after the funeral. She’s headed back for a couple of days to deal with some issues that have cropped up with their—her—house.”

  “Any chance you could convince her to let me buy her a cup of coffee? I’d like to get her position with the service resolved so we can move ahead.”

  Kingston’s jaw tensed for some unknown reason, making Sam think there was more to the situation. All he was concerned with right now, however, was making sure things at the station were running smoothly before all hell broke loose.

  “I’ll mention it to her.” Kingston shot Sam a frosty glance. “But I won’t have her upset while she’s here. Is that clear?”

  So there was more to the story. Not that it was any of his business. Sam didn’t back down from Kingston’s stare. “Just coffee and boring government files. The worst that could happen is a paper cut.”

  “Sure.” Kingston conceded after a long moment. He then retrained his eyes to the scene below them where Liam Ferguson was taking on two other crew members in a drill that had them crawling on their bellies through a rope obstacle.

  “What’s the four-one-one on Ferguson?” Sam asked.

  Kingston relaxed beside him. “Despite the devil-may-care personality, he’s one hell of a firefighter. It’s in the gene
s. He spent the last couple of years in Australia working with crews in Queensland and Sydney; just got back to the States six weeks ago. He’ll tell you he went for the adventure, but I suspect it was because he wanted to earn his own reputation. Both his brothers jump with the crew out of Redlands, California. His father was captain here for fifteen years before Russ took the helm.”

  “So he wasn’t around last fall.”

  Kingston swallowed roughly, but Sam knew that the other man understood what he was getting at. Liam Ferguson hadn’t been on the jump when Russ Edwards had died. That meant he likely wasn’t harboring the guilt that the man sitting beside him was.

  “No.”

  “I’d like for him to head up a crew then.”

  “Will you be jumping? It’s not technically part of your job description.”

  Sam turned to look at Kingston. “I won’t send a man or woman into a fire that I wouldn’t jump into myself. It doesn’t have to be in my job description. It’s in my blood.”

  A slight smile—one that looked touched with admiration—crossed Kingston’s face. “Russ used to say the same thing. His motto was ‘One ass to risk’, meaning he wasn’t going to risk anyone else’s ass before he’d risk his own.”

  So that’s what that is on his chute. The late captain’s parachute hung in memoriam inside the station. It was draped reverently from the second story loft so everyone entering the building would see it. To those who gazed upon it, the memorial was a daily reminder of the friend they’d lost. To Sam, it was a constant sign that he had a long way to go towards earning the trust of the men and women who had served under Edwards.

  “I’d like both you and Dodson to take a major role in assessing the rookies,” Sam said. “Let me know if there’s anyone else you think might make a good team leader.”

  Kingston seemed to search the field with his eyes before settling on a dark-haired man leaning up against the hood of a pickup truck on the outer edge of the parking lot. “That guy,” Kingston said, gesturing with his chin. “Ace Clark.”