The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5

by Nora Roberts

  THEY HACKED, CUT, BEAT at it into the night. Bodies trained to withstand all manner of hell began to weaken. But resolve didn’t. Gull caught sight of Rowan a few times, working the line, moving in and out as she coordinated with the other teams and with base.

  Sometime toward one, more than twelve hours after he’d landed in the clearing, the fire began to lay down.

  To rest, Gull thought, not to surrender. Just taking a little nap. And hell, he could use one himself. They worked another hour before word came down they’d camp a half mile east of the fire’s right flank.

  “How’s the first day on the job going, rook?”

  He glanced over at Cards’s exhausted face as they trudged. “I’m thinking of asking for a raise.”

  “Hell, I’d settle for a ham on rye.”

  “I’d rather have pizza.”

  “Picky Irishman. You ever been there? Ireland?”

  “A couple times, yeah.”

  “Is it really as green as they say, as it looks in the pictures?”

  “Greener.”

  Cards looked off into the smoky dark. “And cool, right? Cool and damp. Lots of rain.”

  “That’s why it’s green.”

  “Maybe I’ll go there one of these days, take Vicki and the kids. Cool and damp and green sounds good after a day like this. There we are.” He lifted a chin to the lights up ahead. “Time to ring the supper bell.”

  Those who’d already arrived had set up tents, or were doing so. Some just sat on the ground and shoveled their Meals Ready to Eat into their mouths.

  Rowan, using a rock near the campfire as a table, worked over a map with Gibbons while she ate an apple. She’d taken off her helmet. Her hair shone nearly white against her filthy face.

  He thought she looked beautiful, gloriously, eerily so—and was forced to admit she’d probably been right. He was, under it all, a romantic.

  He dumped his gear, felt his back and shoulders weep with relief before they cramped like angry fists.

  No Box to crawl into this time, he mused as he popped his tent. Then like the others, he dropped down by the campfire and ate like the starving. The cargo drop included more MREs, water, more tools, more hose and, God bless some thoughtful soul, a carton of apples, another of chocolate bars.

  He ate his MRE, two apples, a candy bar—and stuffed another in his PG bag. The vague nausea that had plagued him on the hike to camp receded as his body refueled.

  He rose, walked over to tap Rowan on the shoulder. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  She stood up, obviously punchy and distracted, and followed him away from the campfire, into the shadows.

  “What’s the problem? I’ve got to hit the rack. We’re going to be—”

  He just yanked her in, covered her mouth with his and feasted on her as he had on the food. Exhaustion became an easier fatigue as he fueled himself with her. The twinges in his back, his arms, his legs gave way to the curls of lust low in the belly.

  She took back in equal measure, gripping his hips, his hair, pressing that amazing body against him, diving straight into those deep, greedy kisses.

  And that, he thought, was what made it so damn good.

  When he drew back he left his hands on her shoulders, studied her face.

  “Is that all you have to say?” she demanded.

  “I’d say more, but the rest of the conversation requires more privacy. Anyway, that should hold you for the night.”

  Humor danced into her eyes. “Hold me?”

  “The crew boss works harder than anybody, to my way of thinking. So, I wanted to give you a little something more to take to bed.”

  “That’s very considerate of you.”

  “No problem.” He watched her eyes shift from amused to puzzled as he tipped down, brushed a kiss on her sooty brow. “’Night, boss.”

  “You’re a puzzle, Gulliver.”

  “Maybe, but not that hard to solve. See you in the morning.”

  He went to his tent, crawled in. He barely managed to get his boots off before he went under. But he went under with a smile on his face.

  8

  Rowan’s mental alarm dragged her out of sleep just before five A.M. She lay where she was, eyes closed, taking inventory. A world of aches, a lot of stiffness and a gut-deep hunger, but nothing major or unexpected. She rolled out of her sleeping bag and, in the dark, stretched out her sore muscles. She let herself fantasize about a hot shower, an ice-cold Coke, a plate heaped with one of Marg’s all-in omelets.

  Then she crawled out of her tent to face reality.

  The camp slept on—and could, she calculated, for about an hour more. To the west the fire painted the sky grimy red. A waiting light, she thought. Waiting for the day’s battle.

  Well, they’d be ready for it.

  She rinsed the dry from her mouth with water, spat it out, then used the glow of the campfire to grab some food. She ate, washing down the rations with instant coffee she despised but needed while reviewing her maps. The quiet wouldn’t last long, so she used it to strategize her tasks, directions, organizing teams and tools.

  She radioed base for a status report, a weather forecast, scribbling notes, quick-drawing operational maps.

  By first light, she’d organized her tools, restocked her PG bag, bolted another sandwich and an apple. Alert, energized, ready, she gathered in her small pocket of alone time.

  She watched the forest come to life around the sleeping camp. Like something out of a fairy tale, the shadows of a small herd of elk slipped through morning mists veiling the trees like wisps of smoke. The shimmer of the rising sun haloed the ridge to the east, spreading its melting gold. The shine of it trickled down the tree line, flickering its glint on the stream, brushing the green of the valley below.

  Birds sang their morning song, while overhead in that wakening sky a hawk soared, already on the hunt.

  This, she thought, was just one more reason she did what she did, despite the risks, the pain, the hunger. There was, to her mind, nothing more magical or more intensely real than dawn in the wilderness.

  She’d fight beyond exhaustion alongside the best men and women she knew to protect it.

  When Cards rolled out of his tent, she smiled. He looked like a bear who’d spent his hibernation rolling in soot. With his hair standing up in grungy spikes, his eyes glazed with fatigue, he grunted at her before stumbling off for a little privacy to relieve his bladder.

  The camp began to stir. More grunts and rustles, more dazed and glassy eyes as smoke jumpers grabbed food and coffee. Gull climbed out, his face shadowed by soot and scruff. But his eyes were alert, she noted, and glinted at her briefly before he wandered off into the trees.

  “Wind’s already picking up.” Gibbons came to stand beside her, gulped coffee.

  “Yeah.” She looked toward the smoke columns climbing the sky. Orange and gold flared through the red now. Like the sky, the magic, the camp, the dragon woke. “We’re not going to get any help from the weather gods today. Wind’s variable, fifteen to twenty, conditions remain dry with the temps spiking past eighty. She’ll eat that up.”

  Rowan pulled out her hand-drawn maps. “We held her flank along here, but we lost ground at our water source, and when she crowned, she swept straight across this way. The hotshots hit that, kicked her back to about here, but she turned on them, about midnight, and then had to RTO,” she added, speaking of reverse tool order, “and retreat back to this line.”

  “Was anybody hurt?”

  “Minor burns, bumps and bruises. Nobody had to be evaced.” She glanced over her shoulder as Gull walked up. “They’re camped here.” She unfolded the main map to show Gibbons. “I’m thinking if we can pump water on the head from about here, and lay line along this sector, intersect the low point of the hotshot line, then cross. We’ll head up while they work over. We could box her in. It’s a hell of a climb, but we’d smother her tail, block her left flank, then meet up with the pump team and cut off her head.”


  Gibbons nodded. “We’re going to have to hold this line here.” He jabbed a finger at the map. “If she gets through that, she could sweep up behind. Then it’s the line team that’s boxed in.”

  “I scouted this area yesterday. We’ve got a couple of safe spots. And they’re sending in more jumpers this morning. We’ll be up to forty. I want ten on the water team, and for you to head that up, Gib. You’re damn good with a hose. Take the nine you want for it.”

  “All right.” He glanced back at the fire. “Looks like recess is over.”

  “Where do you want me?” Gull asked her when Gibbons stepped off to pick his team.

  “Saw line, under Yangtree. You hold that line, or you’re going to need those fast feet. If she gets behind you, you make tracks, straight up the ridge and into the black. Here.” She looked into his eyes as she laid a finger on the map. “You got that?”

  “We’ll hold it, then you can buy me a drink.”

  “Hold the line, cut it up and around to the water team, and maybe I will. Get your gear.” She walked over toward the campfire, lifted her voice. “Okay, boys and girls, time to kick some ass.”

  She caught a ride partway on a bulldozer, then hopped off for a brutal hike to check the hotshots’ progress firsthand.

  “Winsor, right? Tripp,” she shouted at the lean, grim-faced man over the roar of saws. Fire sounded its throaty threat while its heat pulsed strong enough to tickle the skin. “I’ve got a team working its way up to cross with you. Maybe by one this afternoon.”

  A scan of the handcrew told her what she’d suspected. They’d downplayed injuries. She gestured to one of the men wielding a Pulaski. His face glowed with sweat and showed raw and red where his eyebrows had been singed off. “You had a close one.”

  “Shit-your-pants close. Wind bitched on us, and she turned on a freaking dime, rolled right at us. She let out that belly laugh. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.” It was a sound designed to turn your bowels to ice. “Yeah, I do.”

  “We RTO’d. Couldn’t see a goddamn thing through the smoke. I swear she chased us like she wanted to play tag. I smelled my own hair burning. We barely got clear.”

  “You’re holding her now.”

  “These guys’ll work her till they drop, but if we don’t knock that head down, I think she’s going to whip around and try for another bite.”

  “We’re pumping on her now. I’m going to check in with the team leader, see if he wants another drop.” She faced the fire wall as ash swirled around her like snow. “They underestimated her, but we’re going to turn this around. Look for my team to meet up with yours about one.”

  “Stay cool,” he called after her.

  She hiked back around, filling her lungs when she moved into clearer air. Moving, always moving, she checked in with her teams, with base, with the fire coordinator. After jumping a narrow creek, she angled west again. Then stopped dead when a bear crossed her path.

  She checked the impulse to run, she knew better. But her feet itched to move. “Oh, come on,” she said under her breath. “I’m doing this for you, too. Just move along.”

  Her heart thumped as he studied her, and running didn’t seem like such a stupid idea after all. Then he swung his head away as if bored with her, and lumbered away.

  “I love the wilderness and all it holds,” she reminded herself when she worked up enough spit to swallow.

  She hiked another quarter of a mile before her heart settled down again. And still, she cast occasional cautious looks over her shoulder until she heard the muffled buzz of chain saws.

  She picked up her speed and met up with the fresh saw line.

  After a quick update with Yangtree, she joined the line. She’d give them an hour before hiking up and around again.

  “Pretty day, huh?” Gull commented as they sliced a downed tree into logs.

  She glanced up, and through a few windows in the smoke, the sky was a bold blue. “She’s a beauty.”

  “Nice one for a picnic.”

  Rowan stamped out a spot the size of a dinner plate that kindled at her feet. “Champagne picnic. I always wanted to have one of those.”

  “Too bad I didn’t bring a bottle with me.”

  She settled for water, then mopped her face. “We’re going to do it. I’m starting to feel it.”

  “The picnic?”

  “The fire’s a little more immediate. You’ve got a good hand with the saw. Keep it up.”

  She headed up to confer with Yangtree again over the maps, then, ripping open a cookie wrapper, headed back into the smoke.

  While she gobbled the cookie, she considered the bear—and told herself he was well east by now. She clawed her way up the ridge, checked the time when she met the hotshot line.

  Just noon. Five hours into the day, and damn good progress.

  She cut up and over, her legs burning and rubbery, to check on the pumpers.

  Arcs of water struck the blaze, liquid arrows aimed to kill. Rowan gave in, bent over, resting her hands on her screaming thighs. She couldn’t say how many miles she’d covered so far that day, but she was damn sure she felt every inch of it.

  She pushed herself up, made her way over to Gibbons. “Yangtree’s line is moving up well. He should meet up with the hotshots within the hour. She tried to swish her tail, but they’ve got that under control. Idaho’s on call if you need more on the hoses.”

  “We’re holding her. We’re going to pump her hard, go through the neck here. If you get those lines down, cut them across, we’ll have her.”

  “I want to pull out the fusees, start a backfire here.” She dug out her map. “We could fold her back in on herself, and she’d be out of fuel.”

  “I like it. But it’s your call.”

  “Then I’m making it.” She pulled her radio. “Yangtree, we’re going with the backfire. Split ten off, lead them up. I’m circling back down. Keep drowning that bitch, Gib.”

  Rowan stuffed calories into her system by way of an energy bar, hydrated with water as she backtracked. And considered herself lucky when she didn’t repeat her encounter with a bear. Nothing stirred in the trees, in the brush. She cut across a trail where the trees still towered—trees they fought to save—and the wildflowers poked their heads toward the smoke-choked sky. Birds had taken wing so no song, no chatter played through the silence.

  But the fire muttered and growled, shooting its flames up like angry fists and kicking feet.

  She followed its flank, thought of the wildflowers, took their hope with her as she hiked to the man-made burn she’d ordered.

  At Yangtree’s orders, Gull peeled off from the saw line to deal with spot fires the main blaze spat across the border. Most of his team were too weary for conversation, and as speed added a factor, breath for chat was in limited supply.

  Water consumed poured off in sweat; food gulped down burned off and left a constant, nagging hunger.

  The trick, he knew from his years as a hotshot, was not to think about it, about anything but the fire, and the next step toward killing it.

  “Get your fusees.” Gibbons relayed the information in a voice harsh from shouting and smoke. “We’re going to burn her ass, pull her back till she eats herself.”

  Gull looked back toward the direction of the tail. Their line was holding, the cross with the hotshots’ cut off her flank—so far. Spot fires flared up, but she’d lost her edge of steam here.

  He considered the timing and strategy of the backfire dead-on. Despite his fatigue, it pleased him when Yangtree pulled him off the line and sent him down with a team to control the backfire.

  With the others he hauled up his tools, left the line.

  He saw the wildflowers as Rowan had, and the holes woodpeckers had drilled into the body of a Douglas fir, the scat of a bear—a big one—that had him scanning the hazy forest. Just in case.

  Heading the line, Cards limped a little as he kept in contact with Rowan, other team leaders on his radio. Gull wondered wha
t he’d hurt and how, but they kept moving, and at an urgent pace.

  He heard the mumble of a dozer. It pushed through the haze, scooping brush and small trees. Rowan hopped off while it bumped its way along a new line.

  “We’re going to work behind the Cat line. We got hose.” She pointed to the paracargo she’d ordered dropped. “We’ve got a water source with that stream. I want the backfire hemmed in here, so when she rolls back she burns herself out. Watch out for spots. She’s been spitting them out everywhere.”

  She shifted her gaze to Gull. “Can you handle a hose as well as you do a saw?”

  “I’ve been known to.”

  “You, Matt, Cards. Let’s get pumping. Everybody else, hit those snags.”

  He liked a woman with a plan, Gull thought as he got to work.

  “We light it on my go.” Rowan offered Cards one of the peanut-butter crackers from her PG bag. “Are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. Tripped over my own feet.”

  “Mine,” Matt corrected. “I got in the way.”

  “My feet tripped over his feet. It was pretty crazy on the line for a while.”

  “And now it’s so sane. Soak it down,” she told them. “Everything in front of the Cat line, soak it good.”

  Manning a pumping fire hose took muscle, stability and sweat. Within ten minutes—and hours on the saw and scratch line—Gull’s arms stopped aching and just went numb. He dug in, sent his arcs of water raining over the trees, soaking into the ground. Over the cacophony of pump, saw and engine, he heard Rowan shout the order for the light.

  “Here she goes!”

  He watched fusees ignite, burst.

  Special effects, he thought, nothing like it, as flames arrowed up, ignited the forest. It roared, full-throated, and would, if God was good, call to the dragon.

  “Hold it here! We don’t give her another foot.”

  In Rowan’s voice he heard what flooded him—wonder and determination, and a fresh energy that struck his blood like a drug.

  Others shouted, too, infected with the same drug. Steam rose from the ground, melded with smoke as they pushed the backfire forward. Firebrands rocketed out only to sizzle and drown on the wet ground.