Burnin' For You: inspirational romantic suspense (Montana Fire Book 3)

by Susan May Warren

  “Now, steady yourself with your guide hand and move your brake hand down.”

  He waited as she moved her right hand down.

  “Tuck it just below your hip, but don’t get your hand too far back.”

  Like before? But she listened and repositioned.

  “Now, let out slack, slowly, and lean back. Remember, use your hip as a brake, a lever.”

  She let out rope, leaned back, and found herself resting again on the harness.

  “Let it out slowly. Walk down the face of the cliff.”

  One foot, then another. She began to descend, her heart in her throat.

  Don’t look down.

  Her foot slipped again, but she caught herself and for a second dangled free of the rock—

  “Lean back, not forward!”

  But she was too far back and—

  Her guide hand broke free, almost on reflex, to grab something—anything. It found purchase again on the rope, and she yanked hard to right herself.

  “No, Gilly, not that one!”

  And then she was falling.

  Her scream rent the air, her arms flailing as the entire rappelling assembly released.

  No—no—!

  She hit hard, something—not rock but an unyielding force that grabbed her, pulled her in, cushioned her as he fell back into the water with a cold, shocking splash.

  And heaven help her, for a second she simply curled into Reuben, holding on, breathing hard.

  “Gotcha,” he said softly.

  Chapter 5

  “Are you okay?”

  Reuben simply lay there, clutching Gilly to his chest, his heart somewhere on the outside of his body, trying to catch his breath.

  She, too, seemed shocked, or dazed, or—

  He pushed himself up, still holding her. “Gilly?”

  “Yeah. I’m okay.” But she was shaking, and for a second he had a replay of their incident on the dance floor.

  But when she looked at him, something akin to disbelief filled her eyes. “You caught me.”

  “You didn’t think I’d just let you land on your head, did you?”

  She frowned. Then, “Thanks.”

  And that’s when he reverted back to his stupid self, something idiotic emerging from his mouth. “That’s what teammates are for.”

  Really, Reuben? Because he’d pretty much stopped thinking of her as a teammate, well, honestly, years ago, but it suddenly became a crashing reality maybe five seconds ago. Especially since he had no desire to pull Conner, Pete, or even Kate into his arms.

  And that forbidden thought kept going through his head as he helped Gilly up, coiled the rope, and headed downstream. He’d spotted a place where they might get out, a tumble of boulders that made climbing easy. Something that might not injure her knee any further. She was trying to hide it, but by the way she babied it, it had to be hurting.

  But she didn’t mention it—didn’t even grunt—as she climbed up the boulders onto the other side.

  He didn’t want to think that she was out to prove something—especially to him—but he couldn’t shake it.

  He knew that kind of bullheaded stubbornness, the kind that could get a person hurt, could damage relationships. Could keep a man from going home.

  From his estimation, they had about a mile to the road, maybe less. Overhead, the sky had begun to turn a deep umber, the shadows waxing the mountains in lavender and magenta.

  They needed to reach the forest service road by twilight, make some progress toward finding the path to the tower. If he had to, he could leave Gilly at the service road to maybe flag down a passerby.

  She tripped, and he reached out to grab her elbow.

  “I’m fine.” She yanked away, but offered a smile. “Really.”

  “I know,” he said, lying, not sure what to do with her determination to press on.

  Half of him wanted to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder. He should have listened to his gut and demanded she stay behind. With the sun dipping and Jed and CJ in serious danger, they needed to move faster. He didn’t want to mention it, but frankly, he could have made twice the time without her.

  The other half understood how regret had teeth, how it bit down, wouldn’t shake loose.

  Her foot kicked a log and she grunted, something that suggested she’d wrenched her knee.

  “Do you want to stop?” He said it, but—

  “No. Of course not.” She leaned on a tree, then another as she made her way forward. But at the third tree, she did stop.

  Let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry.” She turned to him, her expression angry, fierce. “I should have stayed back.”

  He didn’t want to agree, so he pinched his mouth shut in a tight line.

  “I’ll be okay—it flares up when I put a lot of pressure on it. I just need a second here.”

  He glanced at the sun, hazy over the mountains. The line of smoke, bigger than before, tufted the horizon. The Davis Canyon fire was growing. They’d probably need a full team of jumpers to put it out now.

  She straightened up from the tree. “I probably wouldn’t have made a very good smokejumper, limping all over the place.”

  She started walking again, but her words had reached out, nudged him.

  “We have plenty of turned ankles, wrenched knees, and pulled groins when we land—we’re often hobbling all over out here,” Reuben said.

  She looked back then. “Really?”

  He startled at the surprise that lit her eyes at his words. “Yeah. Of course.”

  She nodded, then worked her way over a downed log. “I think I told myself my knee would have held me back. Used it as a justification.”

  He had to ask—it was drilling a hole through him. “What happened, Gilly? If you passed the pack test—what did you fail?”

  She sighed then. “Guess. And you can use the rappel as a hint.”

  He traced the quick and easy memory of her abysmal descent down the cliff. Her lack of balance, the way the rope slipped too fast through her hand, her scream as she pulled the wrong rope, releasing the rappel. “Did you fail the letdown portion?”

  “Nope. But that was only from twenty feet up.”

  Hmm.

  And then—wait. Her expression when he’d told her they’d have to rappel.

  “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “That’s the one.” She shook her head. “I froze—not just once, but three times—right in the door of the plane, and that’s the deal. Three strikes you’re out, no matter if you’ve passed every test, scored better in every other category, and outlasted every man. And especially no matter if you’ve spent years dreaming about being a smokejumper. If you can’t get out of the plane…”

  She raised a shoulder, and he had the strangest urge to reach out, to turn her around, look her in the eyes, and tell her that if he could, he’d figure out a way to get her out of a plane and onto their team.

  Because no one should have to watch everything they thought they wanted slide by, out of reach.

  “So you decided to become a pilot?”

  She laughed, the sound of it sweet, stirring. “I know, right? But my dad had this missionary friend, Dwayne King, who flew planes in Alaska, and he was visiting our church, found out about my failure, and said he’d teach me to fly. I spent the summer at his base, Kingdom Air, in Alaska and came back with my pilot’s license.” She held a branch for him. “The thing is, I’m not afraid in the cockpit. Just when I step out into thin air.”

  “That’s when I stop being afraid,” he said, emitting his own low chuckle. “When I know I can disembark the canister in the sky, spread my wings, and fly.”

  She made a little sound, one he didn’t know how to interpret.

  “What?”

  “It’s just—yeah. I’d love to do it. Just once. Jump out of a plane.”

  Again, that crazy urge welled in his chest. And the words nearly emerged—I’ll take you jumping. “So why smokejumping, though?”


  Now leaning on a tree, Gilly glanced back at him.

  Or maybe she was just resting. He paused, dug out a water bottle, and offered it to her.

  Reuben thought through his response and found one that didn’t dig out his regrets, his bitterness with it. “Remember how I told you that I broke both legs when the plane crashed?”

  She wiped her mouth, nodded.

  “Well, I was doing most of the work on the ranch at the time with Dad. I had a few colleges lined up to play ball at, but I was thinking I’d stick around, help run the ranch, maybe take it over someday. But that winter, because I was confined to a bed or a wheelchair, my brother Knox stepped in. He’s only fourteen months younger than I am and has a good head for numbers, was a straight-A student.” He took back the water bottle, took a chug.

  “I wasn’t. I played football. And I was pretty good at roping cattle, herding, branding, and generally the grunt stuff any hand could manage. It was that winter that I realized, as I saw Knox and Dad spend more and more time together, as Dad explained the working of the ranch books, holdings, and finances to Knox, that he wanted Knox to take over.”

  He put the water bottle back into the pack, took a breath to shake out the acid forming in his chest. Affected a smile. “It didn’t really sink in until later, but when it did, I realized there was no room for me at the ranch—at least not at the helm. And I didn’t want to play second fiddle to my younger brother. So—I did the next best thing.”

  “Smokejumping?”

  “Bull riding.”

  She frowned at him, but then she pushed off the tree, started out again.

  He looked away, not able to bear the way she shuffled along.

  “The thing is, my dad didn’t stop me from leaving. I sort of hoped he would—that he’d tell me we’d run the ranch together, all three of us, that I might not be as smart as Knox, but I had what it took to get it done. But he didn’t. He stayed silent, walked me out to the truck, told me to keep in touch. Let me drive away without a word.”

  He couldn’t voice the rest, but clearly the success of the ranch had meant more to his dad than working with his eldest son.

  He shook the thought away lest it burn a hole through him.

  “I started hiring myself out as a cowhand, bull riding on the weekends, and that’s where I met Miles. He was also a rodeoer, but he said during the summer he worked with the Jude County Hotshots. It sounded like good, hard work, something I could do, so I came up to Ember, met Jock, and signed on. Two summers later, I tried out to be a smokejumper.”

  He nearly reached out again when she tripped, but he held back.

  She steadied herself on a tree.

  Okay, that was enough. “Really, Gilly, let me—”

  “I can do this! I’m fine. I just need to rest. I—” She stopped, hung her head. “I’m sorry.”

  He stood there, nonplussed. “For what?”

  “For being weak!” She rounded, her eyes flashing. “For demanding I go along—I’m just slowing us down, and CJ and Jed need us to go faster!”

  He couldn’t argue with that. But he wanted to, seeing the agony in her expression.

  “I just—I hate it when women can’t keep up. Or act—”

  “Like the weaker sex?”

  “Yes! My sisters run a cupcake shop, for Pete’s sake. Can you get any more…sweet?”

  “What’s wrong with sweet? I love Hot Cakes,” he said.

  She looked up at him, her jaw tight. “Of course you do. You can’t see the…embarrassment.”

  “I see hard work. And two businesswomen who are getting it done.”

  She stared at him, frowning. Then shook her head, starting off again. This time she didn’t bother to hold back her grunts as she walked.

  A part of him turned to agony with every little sound she made.

  She kept talking, and he didn’t miss the strain in her voice. “They want me to join them.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine me—baking? I nearly burned the place down this morning.”

  He couldn’t help a smile. “I doubt that.”

  “Have you ever eaten my baking?”

  “No, but I’d like to.”

  Or—shoot, had he really said that? He wanted to gulp it back the minute she stopped, looked at him, her mouth open.

  Because to his ears, it sorta sounded like...

  “No. You wouldn’t. Trust me. I’m not a girly-girl, and I can’t cook.”

  Huh. “What does cooking—or baking—have to do with being a girly-girl? Some of the world’s best chefs are men.”

  She started moving again. “You don’t get it.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I don’t want people to look at me like that—”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…I’m a hot cake.”

  She stopped, turned and stood there, her hands on her hips, looking up at him, so much ferocity in her gaze that he just wanted to burst out laughing.

  Because that was exactly what she was. Sweet and hot. So she didn’t have the traditional curves. She was strong and lithe, even hidden under her pilot jumpsuit, and could too easily resurrect the way, however briefly, she’d moved with him on the dance floor. Graceful. She embodied all sorts of hotness.

  And that package came with a giant-sized allotment of kindness and determination to save his hide.

  Yeah, she had hot cake written all over her.

  Oh shoot, his humor must have shown on his face, because her expression changed from ferocious to incredulous.

  “You—what you are you thinking, Reuben Marshall?”

  “Nothing.”

  He strode out ahead of her.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He was grinning, but slowed his pace, not wanting to aggravate her knee more.

  “It’s just—” No. No. He couldn’t actually say the word.

  And then, abruptly, he stopped. Through the thinning trees, under the waning of the sun, he made it out—the forest road. A gravelly strip of salvation.

  She caught up to him, and before she could launch into another barrage, he pointed to the road. “We follow that, and we’ll find the trail to the lookout tower. We’ll have a chopper in here by midnight.”

  She seemed relieved enough to let him off the hook as they came out to the road. Asphalt and gravel, it cut north from Yaak. One could follow it all the way to Canada.

  “If we follow this about a mile or two, we’ll be about a half mile from the Garver lookout tower road. We’ll have to do more bushwhacking and maybe cross Pete Creek again—”

  “No—”

  “Sorry. The road intersects it just north of here. But…” He turned to her. “Are you sure you don’t want to hunker down here and wait? I’m sure someone will come by—”

  “No. I can make it.”

  And by the way her jaw clenched, he knew she meant it.

  “But your knee—”

  “I’m fine. Don’t leave me here, Reuben. I’ll keep up.”

  “Hey, hey—calm down. I know you will. You’re a real trooper…” And then the nickname just slipped out, unintended, but it sat right there, on the forefront of his tongue, his brain, and he couldn’t help it. “Hot Cake.”

  Her mouth opened. “No, you did not just say that.”

  He made a face, wincing. “Sorry, I just—but you are. Totally a hot cake. Feisty and tough, and—I’m sorry, Gilly, but you are hot. You about knocked me over in that dress, and I know we probably shouldn’t ever talk about it again, but I loved dancing with you, even if I embarrassed us. I’m so sorry about that. But you’re also really sweet and kind and—”

  “I am not.” Her mouth closed in a tight, thin line.

  “You saved my life. And could have died doing it. So, yeah, I’m calling it. Sweet. Kind.”

  And that shut her down. She folded her arms over her chest. Looked away.

  “Not so good at taking compliments, though. C’mon.” He started down the road, north, listening to her shuffle after
him.

  “Fine,” she said finally, quietly. “Just…don’t tell anyone.”

  He waited for her to catch up. “It’ll be our secret.”

  She glanced up at him then, the barest of smiles on her face.

  No, he wouldn’t mind so much carrying her if it came to that.

  The road had turned into a dusky ribbon, the gravel shiny under the glow of the fading sun. They walked along in silence, and he noticed her gait had picked up on the smoother surface.

  Common sense said that he should leave her—he had no idea how she’d climb the route to the tower. But the expression on her face when he’d suggested it…

  If they didn’t get help soon, well, he had no idea how long Jed had before he turned septic with his injury. As for CJ…

  Gravel crunching, a motor—the sound of an approaching vehicle—made Reuben reach out for Gilly, draw her to the side of the road.

  He could hardly believe it when he turned and spotted an ancient station wagon—it looked like a 1970s Ford Pinto Cruising Wagon, with the round safari windows—heading toward them, kicking up dust on the dirt road.

  It slowed and strangely, Gilly reached out, touched his arm. Slid her hand down to his.

  Held on.

  Huh.

  The driver leaned over, rolled down the window. In his early seventies, good looking, with short gray hair, white at the temples, the man wore a graying scuff of whiskers, a blue denim shirt rolled up at the elbows, and a fishing vest, the pockets empty.

  Reuben startled, recognizing the man. “Hey, Brownie, what are you doing out here?”

  Jim Browning—Brownie—owned the buffalo ranch just outside town. His son, Patrick, fixed planes for the base. And of course Reuben had known the grandson, Tom, the best—he’d been on his team, had died in the flare-up last fall.

  Brownie squinted at them. “Reuben? Is that you?”

  “And Gilly Priest.” Weird that she wasn’t more excited. Even more strange was the solid grip on his hand. “Our jump plane went down about ten miles due west.”

  “Oh no. Anyone hurt?”

  “Yeah, actually. We could use a lift to get to a radio. Call in help.”

  Strange, now that he thought about it, that he hadn’t heard one flight overhead all day. Didn’t anyone know they were down? After Gilly hadn’t returned, the folks at headquarters should have started getting suspicious. The thought niggled at him, but he tucked it into the back of his brain as Brownie opened the passenger door.