Beautiful Burn (Maddox Brothers #4)

by Jamie McGuire

  I jotted down his answers while he spoke, hoping Jojo could somehow produce a story from my random scribbles.

  “Do you get time off?” I asked.

  “Not during fire season. I took today off to get some shit done.”

  “Do you need to…” I said, gesturing to the door.

  “What? No, no, I’m good.”

  “You don’t want to leave me alone with these guys, do you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “What will you do when you leave until you come back? What does a hotshot do on his day off?”

  Tyler’s brows pulled in, and he stared at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re leaving, right? You don’t live here, do you?”

  “No, I’m not leaving.”

  “So you do live here?”

  “No, I have an apartment with my brother here in Estes Park. We typically only stay at the station when we’re on shift, but yeah … you’re here, so I’m here. I cleared you with the superintendent, so you’re my responsibility.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the thought.

  “If the guys get called out, your plan is to ride along, right?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “Then I’m staying. They’ll be busy. They won’t have time to babysit you.”

  “I went to kindergarten. I can follow directions.”

  “I’m not arguing with you. This is how it’s going to be.”

  “What about when you’re on shift?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Oh, so they won’t have time to babysit me, but you will?”

  “Jojo wanted you to follow us around, right? This is how it’s done when we have journalists shadow. Someone has to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  “You can’t be serious. I’m assigned to you, and you’re assigned to me? I was just beginning to feel cool.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone. It’s dangerous, Ellie.”

  “You’re just precious.”

  Tyler frowned. “I’m rethinking this.”

  I suddenly felt heavy, and then panicked as bitter bile rose in my throat.

  “I was just kidding. Are you all right? You look a little green,” Tyler said.

  “I’m nauseous all of a sudden.”

  “Bathroom’s down the hall, second door on the right.”

  My stomach lurched, and I gagged, covering my mouth. I didn’t wait for it to happen again, sprinting to the bathroom just in time. Just as I bent over the toilet, I thought about my camera being dunked in toilet water and covered in vomit, but it was hovering over my right ear, held by the hotshot I loved to hate.

  “Why am I so stupid?” I moaned, my voice echoing off the porcelain.

  Tyler was holding my camera with one hand, my hair in the other.

  “Is she okay?” one of the guys asked from the hall.

  “She’s fine, Smitty. She’s caught that stomach bug going around,” Tyler said.

  “What a bad ass,” Smitty said. “I was in bed for two days with that shit.”

  I hurled again. Both men made the same sound, equally surprised and disgusted.

  “I’m super excited to have an audience for this on my first day,” I said.

  “Sorry,” Smitty said. “Feel better, Ellie.”

  “Not humiliating at all,” I said, puking again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Whoa,” I said, taking a step back. I’d been on several house fires and car fires, and even a few grass fires my first week, but Tyler was right. Wildland fires were different.

  Tyler kept eyes on everything around him while guiding me to a safer area. I was bundled in a base layer, thermal, fleece pullover, with oversized flame-retardant jacket and pants for a top layer, making it more than difficult for him to keep a grip on my arm. He was in a fire-resistant shirt and tan cargo pants, with maybe thermals underneath, wearing goggles, a gear bag, and a hardhat.

  A line of Alpine hotshots—most of whom I’d just met two days before at the fire camp, but who Tyler loved, including his brother—in bright yellow jackets and blue hard hats were digging a line at the bottom of the hill. A symphony of their pulaskis and rhinos clanging against roots and branches bit through the constant drone of radio communication.

  Tyler had brought me as close as he could, trying to help his crew while keeping an eye on me. We’d camped for two nights, and excluding any embers jumping the fire line, he predicted we would be packing up by nightfall. No one was more surprised than me that I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  There were no engines with hoses or pumper trucks full of water. The hotshots fought fires with drip torches, shovels, and chain saws, digging trenches to pull everything out of the ground that could fuel the fire.

  I wasn’t scared of heights, but a strange combination of fear and exhilaration came over me as I looked down at the valley below. The wind was blowing chunks of my hair into my face, and I realized it was also blowing the fire toward the Alpine crew. Time slowed down as I stared at Tyler. We were stuck in a moment I’d never been in before, not skiing a summit, not on a wave runner off the beaches of Thailand, not hiking Machu Picchu. We were on top of the world, the only force between the fire and the houses I could see from the mountain we were standing on. Holding my camera, freezing, and a mile from flames that could burn me alive, I’d finally found what I didn’t know I was looking for.

  “Back up, sweetheart,” Tyler said, reaching across my chest like my mother used to do when she’d slow down the car too fast.

  I was nearly hanging over his arm, leaning forward, hungry to be closer, snapping shot after shot, devouring the adrenaline as fast as my body could produce it. It was better than any high I’d ever had.

  The flames made a low roaring sound as they crawled over the dry brush and leafless trees like a line of soldiers pushing forward without fear. The walk to the fire site was a difficult trek. We’d driven almost two hours to the fire camp, and then hiked for nearly an hour through ice and snow, climbing steep inclines and through the aspens. My feet and face were numb before I even smelled smoke, but I’d forgotten about the cold hours ago, looking through the lens of my camera.

  Taco ran up the hill, out of breath and drenched in sweat and dirt, stopping in front of Jubal to report. “Fuel break completed on the eastern edge.”

  Smitty was behind him, panting and holding a drip torch in one hand, his pulaski in the other. Watts was holding a chain saw, his shoulders sagging. They looked equally exhausted and content, every one of them in their element and ready for their next order.

  Jubal slapped him on the shoulder. “Good work.”

  Tyler was supposed to have the day off, but that didn’t stop him from helping his team dig a two-foot-thick fire line. I watched him cut at the ground with the pulaski like it was nothing, directing the men around him as if a wildfire wasn’t burning the world less than a mile away.

  Clicking through previous pictures, I noticed they were Tyler-heavy, but that didn’t stop me from zooming the lens and snapping another close-up of his sweaty, sooty profile against the setting sun. He was sort of beautiful—from every angle—and that made it hard for me to leave him out of a shot. The green pines stood waiting to be saved, and with the cool gray color of the smoldering smoke and the warm oranges of the fire on the horizon, tragedy made a beautiful backdrop.

  “Helo’s coming in!” Jubal yelled, holding the radio to his ear. “Wind turned!”

  I looked to Tyler, confused. “There’s no wind.”

  “Up here there’s not. A fire makes its own weather. Farther out, we might not have wind at all, but where the fire’s burning, it’s sucking oxygen and can create thirty or forty mile per hour winds.”

  More hotshots whom I hadn’t yet met had been called in. With chain saws in hand, a small group called sawyers was limbing trees to cut gaps in the canopy above, keeping the fire from hopping from one tree to another. Each sawyer had a partner called a swamper who gathered the cut limbs and bushes an
d threw them on the other side of the fire line.

  The rest of the crew—the diggers—would work in a line, hacking away at the forest floor, creating a three-foot trench—a fire break down the middle of the saw line. The Alpine crew had been split into two groups of ten—sawyers, swampers, and diggers, and then some on lookout, one checking the weather, and the others down the way igniting a back burn. Even separated, they worked together seamlessly, half the time not saying a word. Jubal was communicating with the superintendent, and then barking those orders at the hotshots while elbow-deep in the dirt himself. They all worked for hours to create what they called fuel breaks, cutting and burning away any vegetation, covering miles bent over digging, sawing, all in an effort to starve the flames to death.

  A distant thud thud thud drew closer, and soon a helicopter was zooming overhead. Just beyond a pillar of smoke, the helo released its load, and a purplish-red powder rained down.

  “That’s red slurry—a fire retardant,” Tyler explained.

  “It stops the fire?”

  “Slows it down. Buys us more time to dig.”

  I swallowed, and Tyler touched my cheek with his gloved hand. “We’re okay.”

  I nodded quickly, terrified and excited at the same time.

  The hotshots barely took a second to notice the dump of slurry, and then continued hacking at the ground. I watched in awe, exhausted from just the hike to the fire site and the cold.

  Tyler breathed out a laugh, and I turned to see him staring at me the way I looked at the fire. He didn’t look away; instead, one side of his mouth curled up. Even through the sweat and ash, his dimple appeared. In that moment, Tyler Maddox and his fires filled a hole in my soul I hadn’t known existed.

  They worked past dark, the fire reduced to a galaxy of glowing orange embers along the hillside.

  “All right,” Chief said to Jubal over the radio. “Time to call in the ground crew.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked Tyler.

  He smiled. “The ground crew will mop up after us. They’ll pull together piles in the black and burn them out until the fire is cold. We’re done unless embers jump the fire line.”

  The hotshots were already packing it in, making the long haul back to the vehicles. I walked with my camera in hand, making it easier to document the return hike of exhausted, ash-covered men trudging through the forest without a single person to thank them for saving countless miles of trees and homes. The public would never know the reality of what had happened here, or how hard the hotshots had worked to make sure no one would. The only evidence was the scorched earth we’d left behind.

  A small white flake touched the end of my nose, and I looked up, seeing thousands more falling to the earth. The snow seemed to give the crew a second wind, and they began chatting about the day and what they might do with the rest of their weekend.

  “Are you warm enough?” Tyler asked.

  “As warm as one can be in twenty-degree weather,” I said.

  “Did you get any good shots of me, Ellie?” Watts asked, pretending to flip back the long hair he didn’t have.

  “I’m pretty sure I got at least three hundred of everyone,” I said, lifting my camera to click through the shots again. I was impressed with myself. Every time I snapped the shutter, the result was better and better. My adjustment time was faster as well.

  The hotshots walked in a single file line to the trucks, the lights on their hardhats piercing the dark. The smell of smoke was all around us—in the air, on our clothes, saturating our pores—I wasn’t sure I would ever smell anything else.

  An animal scurried through the snow-covered brush just feet from us, and I startled.

  “I think it’s a bear, Ellie,” Taylor teased. “You’re not scared of large animals with teeth that could rip the flesh from your bones lurking in the dark, are you?”

  “Knock it off,” Tyler said from behind me.

  I readjusted the straps on my pack, unable to stop smiling, and relieved Tyler couldn’t see it. My new love for what Chief called adventure photography wasn’t the only thing that made me feel I was on the right path. The fires and photographs were a thrill—surprisingly, Tyler’s presence had a calming effect. Together they replaced the risks and narcotics I’d been destroying myself with since I was fourteen.

  I frowned, unhappy with that revelation. Did I have to replace old vices with new? I was digging one hole to fill another. That didn’t seem right, either.

  “Do you want me to carry that?” Tyler asked.

  I tightened my grip on my pack. “I’ve got it.”

  “We’ve still got a few miles to go. If you need me—”

  “I’ve got it, Tyler. Don’t coddle me.”

  Smitty looked at me over his shoulder and winked, but his expression fell when his gaze drifted behind me to Tyler. I wasn’t sure what exchange they’d had, but Smitty turned back around in a hurry.

  The hotshots in the long line ahead had already started the trucks and had them toasty warm by the time we reached fire camp. The tents had been broken down and the equipment and generators loaded. Tyler opened the door for me, and I climbed in, scooting close to Taco to give Tyler plenty of room.

  The engine revved, and the cab rattled before we pulled forward, heading for the back mountain road we’d taken there. Tyler fidgeted, barely able to sit still, as if each second sitting next to me was torture.

  I clicked through the different pictures, deleting the junk and keeping my favorites. After a few miles, Tyler finally tapped my knee and leaned close to whisper in my ear.

  “What did I do?”

  I looked into his russet eyes. He was confused, and maybe a little hurt, but I couldn’t explain something I didn’t understand myself.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  I started to mess with my camera again, but he gently touched my chin, tilting my head to meet his gaze. “Ellie. Tell me. Was it when I pulled you back? You know I’m just trying to keep you safe, right? If I was rough, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I know. It’s fine,” I said, shrugging from his touch. “I’m not mad; I’m tired. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  He scanned my face, trying to discern if I was telling the truth. He knew I was lying, but nodded, choosing to let it go while we were riding in a truck full of his crew. The hotshots were being lulled to sleep by the rumble of the motor and the vibration of the tires against the uneven terrain.

  Tyler looked out the window, vexed and frustrated. I touched his arm, but he didn’t move. After another ten minutes, his body relaxed. His head was propped against the glass, bobbing with the movement of the truck. I returned my attention to my camera, assessing the remaining images and hoping Jojo would be happy with at least a few.

  Taco was snoring in the front seat, his head tilted back and his mouth hung open. The engine was so loud it almost drowned out the sound, and the others didn’t seem to notice.

  I tapped on Jubal’s shoulder. “You’re driving the whole way?”

  “I like to drive home. Clears my head.”

  “It was a good run,” I said.

  “Any day without injuries or fatalities is a good day.”

  Jubal was smiling, but I sat back, stunned. The hotshots went out to each call hopeful, but never truly certain, if they would all return. I couldn’t imagine a sadder family unit than that, and I finally understood why a group of men from all over the country—some of them strangers—were so close.

  “What kind of injuries?” I asked. “Aside from burns.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of guys get hurt by snags—the trees still standing in the black. They can topple so silent, you never hear them coming. Lotta guys hurt that way. We work with a lot of sharp equipment—the saws, pulaskis—not to mention the drip torches and flares. Pretty much everything we do can get somebody hurt, and we’re operating on little sleep and physical exhaustion.”

  “Why do it?” I asked. “Loving the outdoors and physical labor is a given to even think about thi
s job. But when you’re exhausted and surrounded by fire in the middle of nowhere, what makes you think, ‘This is worth it’?”

  “My boys. Doing something so difficult for months on end makes for a tight-knit crew. We’re family. Some days I think I’m getting too old, and then I remember there’s nowhere else you can find what we have. Soldiers, maybe. That’s all I can think of.”

  I scribbled in my notepad, straining to see in the glow of the dashboard light. Jubal told me stories about the different crews he’d been on, how Alpine was his favorite, and how he’d decided wildfire fighting was his calling. Then he recalled the day the Maddoxes walked into the station.

  “The closeness and trust level of a crew is paramount, but those boys … they came in and were the glue. I don’t know what we’ll do if they move home.”

  “Where’s home?” I asked, a sinking feeling coming over me.

  “Illinois.”

  “Why would they move back?”

  “They’re dad’s gettin’ older. He’s a widower, you know.”

  “Tyler mentioned that.”

  Jubal thought about that for a while. “They’ve got two younger brothers there, too. They’ve talked about moving back to help.”

  “That’s sweet, but I can’t imagine either of them doing anything else.”

  “Neither can I, but they’re a close family, the Maddoxes. I’ve just heard Taylor and Tyler talk—I’ve never met any of ’em. The rest of the family doesn’t know the boys fight fires.”

  “What?” I said, stunned.

  “Nope. They don’t want to upset their dad. Those boys are rowdy, but they’re softies on the inside. I think the twins would light themselves on fire before they’d let anyone they love get hurt.”

  I looked up at Tyler sleeping deeply, his face peaceful. I leaned over, barely touching my cheek to his arm. Without hesitation, Tyler reached around my shoulders and hugged me against his side. I stiffened at first, but then relaxed, feeling the warmth of his body thaw my frozen bones.

  I met Jubal’s gaze in the rearview mirror. His smile touched his eyes, and then he looked forward. “Ellie?” he said. Just the reflection of his ice-blue irises seared through me. “Do you know what’s coming?”