by Anne Marsh
“Move, move, move.” He barked the order to clear out, his feet already in motion. This spot wasn’t defendable anymore, and his team needed to fall back and regroup. He wasn’t losing anyone. Cursing, they started jogging back, covering ground fast. They looked rough, all dirty hard hats, steel-toes, and soot. It wasn’t a damn beauty pageant, though, so they’d do.
He did a quick head count—and came up short. Seven. Fuck. Grabbing Rio, he swung his brother around. “Where’s Jack?”
Rio’s face got worried, his boots backtracking. “He was setting fusees. Downslope.” Right. Jack would have been the one to burn out the virgin expanse between their fireline and the advancing fire. Eat up that fuel before the fire got to it.
“We need to get out of here. Now.” His instincts yelled they’d already lost control of the situation. The air shimmered around them, an intense wave of heat that was like being on the wrong side of a desert oasis. There was no refuge here. Anyone still on the spot in another two minutes was a dead man. The air was going to superheat and cook his lungs from the inside out.
“Jack can go into the burn out,” Rio countered. “Where he’s been working, there’s nothing unburned. If he gets in there, the fire is going to go around him.”
That shimmer in the air, the way the light rippled and bent when he looked at it, said otherwise. It was too hot, too much, too fast. A burn out wasn’t going to be enough protection today. The flames might not make it in to Jack, but the heat would sear him alive.
“Go,” he ordered. When Rio hesitated, he added, “That’s an order from today’s crew chief. Take the rest of the team out. Now. I’m going to be right on your ass.”
Rio cursed, but he went. Another day, another fire, it would have been Rio giving orders and taking the lead, but today it was Evan’s turn to be crew chief, and that made it his job to go back for Jack. It was Rio’s job to leave when he was ordered to do so.
And, job or no job, they both knew Evan wouldn’t leave Jack behind, and he needed Rio to front the retreat. So when they each played their part, no one was surprised.
Running fast, Evan headed back toward the inferno, moving swiftly downslope. Sure enough, a hundred yards in, he had a clear line on Jack. His brother was still fifty yards away, setting a final, futile fusee, when the fire exploded upward, roaring upslope. Fuck.
He bellowed out a warning, pausing on the top of the slope. He could go down and would, but it was better for Jack to come on up alone. Evan’s size meant he wasn’t built for speed. Jack was leaner, faster. He could take that slope in half Evan’s time.
Jack must have finally spotted the danger—that or Evan’s bellow had carried over the roar of the fire—because Jack dropped the last fusee and started to run. For one moment, Evan thought fate and God had gifted them with a happily-ever-after, because, despite his gear, Jack sure could sprint with the best of them when he had a fire licking at his ass, but then he stumbled. He went down, grabbing his ankle, then popped right back up on hands and knees.
Evan was already moving, headed down the hillside. The loose soil gave way, and he dug in for purchase. In the back of his head, he counted like a madman, knowing he had seconds to do what he had to do. Sliding to a stop, he grabbed Jack’s hand, crouched, and lifted. His muscles screamed against the strain, because Jack wasn’t light and there was no time to do this right and barely any time to do it at all.
“Hold on,” he bit out. “You see a wall of flame coming, you do the praying for both of us, okay?”
Then he was pushing up the hill. Left foot. Right. His boots ate up the unburned ground while embers sizzled around him. He’d do this. He knew where the escape route was. Centering Jack’s weight over his shoulder, he kept running. Forcing his legs up and down. Heat blasted the side of his face and cooked his left arm. The air all but vibrated now with tension, embers raining down all around them. There. On the other side of that slope. The mental counter in his head shrieked, Danger, Will Robinson, but he needed two, maybe three more seconds to hit the top and go over.
Behind them, the fire hopped the line and charged up the hill. He made a last effort, knowing soundless obscenities and prayers were dropping from his lips. Jack pushed up on his back, as if he wanted to pop off and lighten the load, so Evan held on tighter. There was no room for any goddamn heroes in the Donovan family—they all went home. There.
The top of the hill was a fucking beacon of hope. Almost there. Jack cursed, but Evan concentrated on sucking in air, because there was a freaking elephant parked on his chest, and his knees were buckling from the weight. His team reached out for him and Jack, pulling them over to safety.
Joey slapped him on the back, knocking off embers.
“Best twenty-yard dash ever,” Rio roared. “We’ve got ourselves a new record-holder. You do that again, Jack, and I’ll kill you myself.”
Other hands reached out, pulling him and Jack onto the ground. Drop and roll and smother. Spent, he lay there, just breathing and breathing some more, watching the Nomex steaming on Jack’s right arm. Yeah. Jack was done for the day. Hell, they all needed a break. This one had been too close.
“Fuck me.” Jack blinked up at him. “You weigh half a ton, Evan. Next time, I get to be on top.”
When the DC-3 touched down, Faye knew there was trouble. Frozen behind her camera lens, she watched the ground crew run out onto the runway with medical kits. That urgency was her first clue something bad had happened out there. The second clue was when she started counting heads. Eight up yesterday, so there should be eight guys walking off this plane.
Unless something really bad had happened.
Inhale. Exhale. Evan was fine. He had to be.
And yet Ben Cortez was tearing across the tarmac, roaring for an ambulance. “Now, goddamn it.” Her stomach took a five-story plunge, and she wanted to run out right behind him, demanding he produce Evan.
Six men staggered off the plane, clearly exhausted but walking, and she realized she was holding her breath. She couldn’t identify the smoky, dark shapes until she focused the telephoto lens with shaking hands. Mack. Joey and Rio. Three others. Who else had gone up? Where was Evan? She gave up the pretense and started running for the plane. She wasn’t Switzerland, and she wasn’t staying out of this.
As she got closer, Evan dropped down out of the plane, reaching up to brace someone else. Jack. Helmet off, face blackened, Jack put a foot down cautiously, his mouth twisted in a grimace. Evan was right there waiting, slinging an arm around Jack’s waist to take the other man’s weight. Jack’s jumpsuit was down around his waist, his arm bandaged.
Evan seemed fine.
Jack, on the other hand? Not so much. She couldn’t squelch the burst of relief, though, even as guilt reared its head. Her man was okay. Lily Cortez’s wasn’t. Still, Jack was upright, and that had to be a good sign, although instinct warned her you’d pretty much have to cut the leg off a Donovan to keep him down.
It was no surprise when Lily came running across the tarmac. Faye stopped her sprint and hung back. She was the temporary visitor here, and that was Lily’s man, her future husband. That made Lily first in line—and Faye dead last.
Nonna was right behind Lily, throwing her arms around the Donovan brothers and hauling them into her chest as if she needed to hang on and reassure herself that all of them were standing there on the tarmac. No one left behind. No one missing. This was Nonna’s family, and their closeness was something Faye suddenly yearned for fiercely.
Instead, she was right back on the sidelines, waiting.
Two minutes later, Evan spotted her and jogged over to her. She tried to ignore how her heart did a little jump, watching him come her way, the slow and steady pump of his legs promising he really was okay. That he simply couldn’t wait to be there with her, so walking was out of the picture.
When he reached her, he didn’t stop. No, those big arms came right around her, picking her up, camera and all, and swinging her in a big, wide circle.
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��Hey,” he said quietly, setting her back on her feet. He didn’t let go, though. Just pulled her into his side really close. He was covered in dirt and ash and probably a dozen other things she didn’t want to identify too closely. He stank of smoke and sweat and the sharp, new-rubber smell of fire retardant. There was nowhere else she’d rather be.
“Rough day at the office?” She gave him a quick visual inspection, but the only obvious damage was a couple of red patches on his forearms.
“You could say that.” He squeezed her again, so she figured that said it all.
“He okay?” She asked her question quietly, her eyes on Jack, pretending she hadn’t given Evan the once-over.
Evan’s face got still, as if he wished he had the answer to that question. “Not entirely. Probably good enough, although he needs to go to the hospital and get that arm of his checked out. Lungs, too. He popped an ankle good, too. He’s not doing jumping jacks on it for at least a week.”
“What happened?” She let him turn them both back toward the hangar, her feet falling into step with his while she waited for him to answer her question. A pickup truck passed them, headed out to the DC-3. Jack’s ride, because apparently he wouldn’t go on a stretcher with sirens flashing.
Evan ran a hand over his head. “One minute, we’re holding the line. The next, we’re hauling ass for a safe spot. Jack tripped.”
“He made it, though.” She looked back. The pickup had stopped, and Lily was alternating between yelling at Jack and kissing him, while Ben Cortez gestured vociferously at the truck, as if he was considering bodily stuffing Jack in there himself. Between the two of them, they’d take care of Jack. He was in good hands.
“He’s going to be okay,” Evan said. “He’ll take a couple of days off, maybe a week. His Nomex did its job, and he’s got more scrapes and steam burn than anything, other than the ankle.”
God. Her brain was feeding her images she didn’t need or want. “How about you?” He stepped inside the hangar, and she didn’t wait politely outside for him. No, she went right in with him and sat on the bottom of the steps leading up to the loft while he stripped off his gear and she devoured him with her eyes.
“I did okay, Faye.”
“Prove it.” She needed to see that jumpsuit come off. If he were keeping secrets, he wouldn’t be for long.
“I need a shower,” he growled. “Something to eat. And sleep. Sleep would be real good right now.”
She sat there. What else did he need? What did he want? He prowled closer, as if there was something, all right, and despite the guys all around them, it was as if they were alone in their own little space. That, or maybe Evan’s jump team had more manners than she’d given them credit for.
He leaned over her, caging her in his arms. “You want to know what else I need right now, Faye?” His smoke-blackened face was fierce and triumphant.
“You tell me,” she murmured, “and I’ll make sure you get it.”
“That sounds good.” He was close enough now that his mouth was only inches from hers. The good manners were fading now; some of the jumpers called good-natured jibes, watching the two of them getting up-close and personal on the stairs. “I want that shower. You want to know why?”
She looked at him, but, God, his thumb was caressing the corner of her mouth, and she didn’t have anything more to say.
“Because,” he continued, his voice rough and low, “I’m taking you to bed, Faye, unless you say no. I want to hole up and make love to you and forget all about this damned fire for a night. I don’t even want to talk about it.”
“No talking, just kisses. Got it,” she said breathlessly.
He backed her into the stairs, letting her feel the hard metal railing at her back. “So you up for kissing me all better tonight, Faye?”
He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he kissed her, hard and raw and primitive. His mouth devoured her, his fingers threading through her hair. She was pinned in place. There was no shame, no worry about any audience. Only him and her. She gave back as good as she got. She wanted this connection. His mouth on hers and hers on his. He was alive, and he was there, and, in that moment, this homecoming was all that mattered.
Scooping her up into his arms, he turned away from the stairs and strode toward his cabin with her.
Ben watched Rio’s pickup pull out, with Jack in the passenger seat and Lily riding shotgun between the two brothers. Rio would get Jack down to the local hospital stat to get him checked out. An ambulance would have been better as far as Ben was concerned, but Jack was every bit as stubborn as Nonna. Mary Ellen. She asked me to call her by her name. He liked having access to the part of her that wasn’t all maternal.
Goddamn it, but that fire was a big one. Could have been worse, too. Ben knew it in his gut. If the wind had shifted sooner or faster or there had been fewer tanker runs—any one of a hundred variables—they would have lost thousands of acres instead of nine hundred. Another six to eight hours, though, and they’d be officially declaring the fire under control.
He pulled off his work gloves, slapping them against his denim-covered legs. The pants were already filthy, so no loss there. Still, it didn’t make much of an improvement in his appearance. His wrists were black from the ash that had crept inside the gloves. And, beneath that frosting job, his hands ached, reminding him he wasn’t twenty anymore. Or thirty, forty, or fifty. Still, his hands were good enough to swing an ax even though tomorrow was definitely shaping up to be a Ben-Gay day. In another ten years, he’d be buying stock in that damn company.
“You ready to go home?” He knew without looking that Nonna was right there behind him, watching her boys head off in every direction but home yet again. Jack had a date with an M.D. and some pain meds, and Evan was clearly headed back to his cabin with their pretty little witness.
“You think he’s going to be okay?” she asked, avoiding his question.
“Jack?” He watched the puckered furrow between her eyes get deeper. He hated it when she worried.
“Jack. Evan.” She exhaled. “Rio sure looks like he’s only the driver, so if he’s up to anything else, you tell me now, Ben Cortez.”
“Rio’s fine.” As far as Ben knew. The boy’s good looks weren’t always a blessing. Trouble found Rio without Rio going looking. Ben didn’t need to tell Mary Ellen what she already knew, however.
“Good.” She turned away. “Evan’s going to have to figure this thing out with Faye, but it looks like he’s making a start.”
It looked to Ben as if Evan was planning on having sex tonight—and there was nothing wrong with that plan—but Ben wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to spell that one out for Mary Ellen. Instead, he gave his right hand another once-over—still not as clean as it could be, but Mary Ellen was a good sport—and held it out.
“We should go home.” No more questions.
He’d called her as soon as he’d gotten word the DC-3 was on its way back. She’d needed to meet the plane, especially since Spotted Dick’s latest update was that Jack had taken a hit out there. Exhaustion crumpled her face now, suggesting she hadn’t slept while those boys of hers had been gone.
He’d coax her to nap. Then he’d take her down to the hospital to see Jack, because he was betting the doctors there hung on to the man for a night or two.
Fate tossed a wrinkle into that plan.
The firefighter striding up to him moved really quickly, as if he had something urgent to say. The man was too damn clean, however, to have been out in the field, so Ben figured that, whatever it was, it could wait.
“Hey,” the firefighter hailed, stepping squarely into Ben’s path. “Hollis Anderson. I’m part of the hotshot crew.”
“Nice to meet you.” Ben nodded, ignoring the hand thrust out at him. Right now, he didn’t care whether or not the man was part of the elite crew battling the wildland fires from the ground. He didn’t want to make nice with anyone, and his right hand had better things to do. Like holding on to Mary Ellen. He made
to step forward, but the other guy didn’t budge. “There something you need from me?” The question wasn’t particularly polite, but he definitely wasn’t in the mood to exchange pleasantries.
“The jump team has an opening, and that spot on the plane is going to be mine.” There was an expression on Hollis’s face that said he wasn’t leaving until he had an answer. Fuck. Last thing Ben needed right now was a guy looking to prove himself.
“Not my call,” he snapped. “I’m local. Jump team is all Donovan Brothers.”
Hollis’s knowing smile said he knew the truth of that one. “Ma’am.” He nodded politely toward Mary Ellen. “The Donovans are out here on your call, Mr. Cortez. You speak up for a guy, and they’re gonna listen. I’m on probation with my firehouse until they approve my permanent assignment and I came up here for fire season. We’re fifty miles south of you. I’ve proved my chops there. You just ask them.”
“Congratulations.” Ben tried to step by again, but Hollis Anderson went right along with him. Hell.
The man was definitely determined. “You need someone to fill in, Mr. Cor—”
“Not now.” Ben cut him off.
“When you’re considering names, I want to be one of them.” Hollis looked the part. He was young and well-built. A white guy in his early twenties with a by-the-book military buzz cut and a still-new firehouse T-shirt. He could have been one of a dozen guys, except he was here, getting up into Ben’s face.
“This is not the time to be asking for a job interview,” Ben bit out. “You got that, boy? Jack’s fine.”
“He’s not jumping,” Hollis insisted. “Not with an arm like that and a busted ankle. And, even if it turns out he can jump, he’s not digging line.”
Ben fought the urge to yell. That was the exhaustion pricking him, he knew, but even so, he didn’t need or want to play this game just now. “That man is like a son to me. He’s not a number on a jump team. I don’t know how they jump in your neck of the woods, but that’s how we do it in mine.”
