The Heat is On: Christian romantic suspense (Summer of the Burning Sky Book 2)

by Susan May Warren

  Never mind that the boss—Tucker, who’d met them off the chopper—barked orders like he might be a prison guard. Rio could easily be back in juvie hall, listening to the guards remind him of the mindless rules that governed his pitiful life.

  But he could live with a few rules in exchange for sunshine and cool air and the arch of the blue sky overhead. The sun gilded the snow-capped mountains to the east, turning them to molten gold as he worked. Even the earth smelled of hope and life and something better out there.

  “Put out any fires that make it over the line!”

  Another firefighter had come down from where he’d been working the western edge of the fire, armed with a long oil can that dripped fire. He ran along the line and dropped flame into the area between the line and the oncoming fire.

  Rio could hear it over the ridge, roaring, consuming. Death, rolling toward him, finding his soul.

  Not today. Although sweat poured down his face, saturated his body, and soot layered his skin, he could spend the rest of his life out here.

  Or at least the next six days, until Darryl’s court date.

  Rio kept his eyes on Darryl, of course. The man had said nothing as Rio climbed aboard the chopper, clearly still unaware of Rio’s assignment. Rio had played it cool over the past month, lingering around Darryl but rarely engaging, his job to protect.

  Except, of course, a few times when he got close enough to suggest that Darryl might be in trouble from his boss. That even in prison, Buttles could find him. Rio went so far once as to suggest that Buttles had found him. Showed him an old scar on his rib cage that had nothing to do with Buttles but turned Darryl a little pale.

  Just a gentle reminder that lives might be at stake—namely, Darryl’s.

  Rio wasn’t sure why he’d noticed Tucker heading up to the ridge, probably to cast an eye on the fire, but Rio had heard the thunder of a chopper in the distance. He had stepped away from the line and smoke to watch as the bucket extending from the body of the bird dumped water in a smoky splash beyond the ridge.

  The fire sizzled, gray smoke cutting into the black.

  Then, Tucker had appeared on the ridge and stood there, a frame of yellow against the churning smoke.

  Rio could like Tucker. He had a no-nonsense, get-’er-done attitude about him. Too bad Tucker had already pegged him as trouble—maybe they could have been friends.

  Rio had heard Tucker chatting with Archer Mills, the ex-cop, about the crew during a water break. In his late fifties, Archer had taken natural command of the crew, and why not? He knew how to handle criminals, if his history as a cop was correct. He’d huddled up with Tucker to give him the lowdown on their rap sheets. Rio hadn’t caught much of the conversation, but when he heard, “Don’t worry, kid. I’m watching him,” he tried not to think the worst.

  Okay, yes. They had probably been talking about him. Because out of all the crew, he was the one with the gang aura. A tattoo on the back of his neck, a scar on his jaw—although that had been from a ski accident when he was ten—and enough of a wariness about him that probably came off as a tough guy stance.

  Really, he was just keeping everybody in his sights.

  Although, honestly, no one else looked like trouble. The three youngest with the drunk and disorderlies worked like they might be at summer camp, grinning and laughing. The guy named Thorne was tall and quiet and screamed military with eyes that looked right through a man. But he worked hard. Pudgy and red-headed, Darryl looked like he wanted to collapse on the ground and weep. He probably wondered how he’d gotten signed up for this gig.

  The last guy was a tourist. Brown hair. Glasses. Skinny, but with a little muscle. Clancy Smythe, college professor-slash-pot enthusiast. Probably had come to Alaska on summer break to explore his hippie side.

  So maybe Rio could loosen up. It wasn’t like he was working with Ocean’s Eleven.

  His gut, maybe, had made him cast another gaze toward Tucker on the ridge.

  Tucker had turned on the hill, as if to head back toward the fire line.

  And just like that, he vanished. Disappearing behind the ridge where the flames licked up the hill.

  Rio didn’t stop to think.

  Maybe it was the cauldron of fire boiling over the ridge.

  Maybe it was the suddenness, the shock of seeing it happen right there.

  Maybe it was simply the fact that for once in his life he could do something right now to help someone. He didn’t have to sneak into a prison or an outlaw biker gang, make friends, deceive people with the hopes of betraying them.

  He could do something.

  He’d dropped his shovel and sprinted down the line, then up the ridge on the rocky edge where the fire couldn’t burn.

  And yeah, he heard yelling, but he ignored it. Topped the ridge, breathing hard.

  The fire rocked him back. The flame lengths had doubled, the cinders circling in the tornado of ash and smoke. It charged up the hill, consuming brush and grass, stump and tree, and scrambling just feet ahead of it with an ugly gait was Tucker.

  About to be burned alive.

  Yeah, Rio could do something.

  Rio raced down the hill, hooked Tucker by the waist, and hauled him up to the ridge. Tucker gulped ragged breaths, his body working hard. They reached the top, and Rio armed them into the rutted, rocky area filled with scree and boulders and other inflammable debris.

  “Get down!” Tucker had shouted and hunkered behind a wash of boulders.

  And right then, the flames whooshed over the ridge, smoking, churning down around them. Rio ducked, his heart fat in his throat.

  Wow, that was close.

  Now, Rio looked over at Tucker. “You okay?”

  Tucker stared at him, his face black, eyes reddened. “What—how—?”

  “I was on this end of the burn and saw you go over the ridge.” Rio was still watching the fire, how it flickered red, orange, yellow, tongues consuming everything to black. “That was close.”

  “Mmmhmm,” Tucker said as if he did this every day.

  Huh. Rio looked down at him. “I think it’s working—your plan.” He offered a small, one-sided smile. See, I’m not a criminal.

  “Yeah,” Tucker said. “The fires should collide, collapse in on themselves as all the fuel is consumed, and if we can hold this right flank, we’ll get to spend tomorrow mopping up.” He turned around, putting his back to the boulder and rubbed his knee. “Thanks.”

  Rio turned too, his gaze on Tucker’s movements. So that’s what happened—he’d twisted his knee.

  He looked back at the fire, at the smoke coughing in the meadow, the fight to survive. “Feels good.”

  “What?” Tucker frowned.

  “To win. I haven’t gotten a win for a long time.” And he didn’t know why he said that, but it just…well, yeah. Weirdly, he wanted this guy to like him. See beyond the prison garb, the obvious. Or maybe Rio simply wanted to be seen for the guy he was. Not who he pretended to be.

  Who he was starting to feel like. Until this moment.

  “I know you’re up there, and I just want you to know that if you try anything, I’m a federal marshal.”

  Rio stilled.

  What—?

  But old habits—or maybe instincts—made him put his hands up.

  A woman ran up the scree toward them, a revolver in her grip, something fierce and protective in her eyes. Her sable hair tied back in a pony tail, she wore a blue jacket that rippled in the wind.

  “Stevie?” Tucker said. “What are you doing here?”

  Oh good, so she wasn’t here to shoot him. Yet. Because she locked eyes with Rio and he held his breath. No danger here, ma’am. A heartbeat, then two.

  Thankfully, Tucker confirmed it with, “He’s not a threat.”

  She seemed to consider those words. Then, finally, “You can put your hands down. I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “I appreciate that.” Rio’s jaw tightened.

  Beside him, Tucker grunted as he got t
o his feet. “I don’t understand—what’s going on?”

  She tucked her gun away in her belt and closed the distance up the hill. “You have a murderer among your fire crew recruits. I’m here to bring him back.”

  And then, in what felt like an actual fist to the gut, Tucker glanced at Rio.

  Thanks, man. “It’s not me, dude.”

  “It’s Eugene March, the guy I told you about last night,” US Marshal Stevie said.

  “Uh, there’s no one here named Eugene.”

  Stevie frowned, and she seemed to be sorting through that information until, “Right— He’s going by Clancy Smythe.”

  “The professor?”

  She frowned at that. “Yeah. He’s murdered three people, along with a few other charges. Like rape.”

  Rio froze, her words landing like hands around his neck. Murderer. Rapist.

  What had Perkins got them into?

  “Let’s keep March’s list of charges on the d-low,” Tucker said. “I don’t want to freak out the team. But how soon can you get him off my line?”

  “As soon as I can get a chopper in here.”

  Rio cast a look at the sky, at the smoke and clouds hovering, and his heart sank. It might be a long night.

  Tucker might have come to the same conclusion because his mouth tightened to a grim line. He used his Pulaski to help him hike down to the fire line, the blaze still fighting for life.

  Rio stayed close enough to help him, although he’d probably just get himself into trouble if he did. He’d clearly been put back in criminal category.

  “How’d you get here?” Tucker asked the marshal.

  “I rode my dirt bike.”

  They knew each other somehow, although Rio didn’t pick up from where, and then it didn’t matter because Archer ran up to him, fisted his collar. “Where’d you go?”

  Rio caught Archer’s wrist. “Let. Go.” He was just a little tired of being manhandled by authority types. Especially when he was the only one here who was actually authority.

  Except perhaps Miss US Marshal over there, who was eying Professor Smythe like she might have to draw her weapon.

  Which, by the way, needed an upgrade. Why wasn’t she armed with something that actually might have a little say-so, like a Glock?

  And she’d driven in on a dirt bike? Yeah, somebody wasn’t telling the whole truth, and it wasn’t just him.

  “He was in trouble. I helped,” Rio said. Archer let him go and Rio picked up his shovel.

  The fire had coughed out, gray smoke peeling in layers from the burned front. Over the ridge, the main fire still consumed the forested area, but had died out along the line of water dropped by the chopper.

  It looked like they might be safely back in their cells by midnight.

  “Let’s start mopping up!” Tucker said, casting a look at Rio. He couldn’t read it, and maybe he didn’t want to. “Turn over the soil along the line and make sure the fire’s out.”

  Rio dug in.

  And that’s when he heard the voice behind him. Bright, panicked, passionate, it made him turn and watch.

  “Tucker! I’m so glad you’re okay!”

  A woman launched herself into Tucker’s arms.

  Well, not exactly in his arms, because he didn’t exactly hug her back, but she latched on around his neck and didn’t let go.

  If a woman like that threw herself in his arms, you bet he wouldn’t just stand there or lamely wrap one arm around her.

  Young. Pretty, with a long blonde braid snaking down her back. Clearly a smokejumper by her uniform—yellow shirt, green pants, helmet—although no soot streaked her face, and she bore a hint of a sunburn on her nose. Beautiful aqua-gray eyes that closed briefly in relief just before Tucker grabbed her upper arms and put her away from him.

  Maybe five foot five. Shapely, even in her work clothes, and—shoot. He was staring as if he hadn’t seen a woman in decades.

  Okay, so maybe not one who made him wish he could take a shower, clean up, introduce himself properly. Rio Parker, FBI, ma’am.

  He turned away.

  “I’m okay, Skye. Thanks to Rio.”

  Tucker’s voice made Rio look over, and at that moment, the woman’s gaze connected with his. A tiny smile tipped her lips, as if reaching out to him, as if…as if he’d done something good and right and—

  Oh. Of course. He’d saved her boyfriend.

  But his throat still filled with the heat that flared through him.

  So maybe it was worth it, just for that smile.

  Rio was turning back to his work when he caught it—the expression on Clancy’s—or Eugene’s—face. He’d stopped also, leaning on his shovel, his gray-eyed gaze raking over Skye, something almost hungry in his expression.

  And just like that, the heat inside Rio dissipated, behind it running a streak of cold.

  “Let’s get moving,” Rio shouted to Archer. Because yes, the faster they got back to the prison, the better.

  Skye wanted to believe there was good in everyone, no matter how deep she had to search.

  But a person had to look pretty deep to find it in the form of the prisoner named Rio. He sat with his back to a tree in a copse of forest, eating dinner from his MRE.

  From the outside, she could admit he possessed looks that could stun a girl—short, wavy black hair, the scrub of whiskers on his chin, deep amber brown eyes. He stood over six feet, with broad shoulders, a lean body, as if he hadn’t spent a lifetime behind bars but working out in some gym, maybe playing a little football on the side. And he dug line like he might have a dog in this fight instead of being forced to work like a member of a chain gang.

  Yes, she’d watched, mesmerized for a dangerous moment by the ripple of muscles in his arms, the lean length of his legs, the way his lats tensed every time he tossed dirt.

  The heat was clearly going to her head because any resemblance to a clean-nosed college jock ended with the scar across his jaw, as if he’d been nicked by a knife in a street fight. And the bad boy aura just thickened with the tattoo on the back of his neck—some kind of tribal tattoo that started on his forearms and wound all the way up, under his shirt sleeves to circle his neck and dip back down under his collar. He wore a now-grimy white T-shirt under his orange prison shirt, which he’d stripped off, and all she saw were deft hands that scraped out a can of tuna. She couldn’t stop wondering if he knew how to turn a plastic spoon into a weapon.

  Oh, brother. She’d seen too many movies.

  He said nothing as he ate, but those amber brown eyes seemed to be watching them all, the expression on his face a little raw, a little broken, very wary.

  And call her a sucker for the lost, but it was the expression that convinced her that maybe, just maybe, there was more to Rio’s story.

  Especially since he’d saved Tucker’s life.

  Huh.

  She stood with Romeo, eating her cold MRE bag of chicken à la king, listening to Riley tell the story of how he looked up to see Rio—that’s what Tucker had called him—running into the fire. Without fire gear, without a shelter, just straight into the flames and smoke. Riley had shouted at him, not sure what to do, when Rio had disappeared over the ridge, right into the flames.

  Here, Skye filled in her side of the story—watching Rio grab up Tucker and drag him to safety.

  Clearly, there were blank spots—including how a US marshal had joined them. “She’s the one from the bar last night,” Skye said, taking the last bite of her dinner-slash-mush. “The one Tucker was fighting over.”

  “I thought she looked familiar.” Seth had finished his dinner of beef stroganoff and now stirred coffee grounds into his sierra cup of water. “Didn’t figure on her being a cop.”

  “She’s probably here to make sure no one escapes,” Riley said. “I was wondering why they sent the team in without a guard.”

  “I think he’s in charge of the prisoners,” Romeo said, rolling up his MRE bag. He gestured to the middle-aged man who seemed to be wa
tching the crew with hawk eyes.

  Yeah, she would agree.

  “Archer,” Skye said, remembering his name. “He keeps looking at the marshal, though, so I’m not sure he’s not thinking about making a dash for it.”

  “To where?” Riley rolled up his trash and stuck it in a plastic storage bag, shoving it back into his pack. “There’s nothing but wilderness in every direction.”

  Maybe. But yes, she’d sat up on top of the mountain long enough to get the lay of the wilderness. They were miles from civilization.

  Seth picked up his sleeping bag and set it down next to Skye’s, then pulled his PG bag over and began to unpack it.

  She looked at him as he hunkered down. “Babysitting?”

  “There’s a better view from here.”

  She shook her head. But yeah, she might feel better with the big sawyer near her. Seth had the girth of a moose but the demeanor of a golden retriever.

  He unloaded a few items—toilet paper, signal mirror, bug dope, and a small Ruger revolver. Her gaze cast on it, and he put his big hand over it. “Rueben told me to carry. He said I just had to land next to a grizzly once to figure out why.”

  “Right.” She was putting her garbage away in her own PG bag when her hand landed on the protein bars she’d stuck in her pack. Two of them. She pulled one out and opened it. Chocolate peanut butter.

  Rio had leaned his head back against the tree, one knee up, holding a cup of coffee, and had turned his gaze to the horizon. And why not—the sun, not quite setting, had cast ribbons of gold, peach, and lavender across the mottled sky. Denali rose to the west, the sun threading fingers of light into the dark valleys, turning the grasses to flames of deep red and amber.

  The fire still smoked to the north, more of a smudge against the sky. The thick humidity of the night would probably knock it down, and by morning they could mop up.

  She glanced around at her team—Riley took his bag a few feet from camp. The two Zulies set up their sleeping bags a little further away also. Tucker and the brunette leaned up against a boulder, far enough away for her to not hear the conversation. Whatever happened in the bar, they’d made friends now.