Light My Fire: Christian romantic suspense (Summer of the Burning Sky Book 1)

by Susan May Warren

  Maybe she should have gone inside.

  Yeah, well, her life was rife with maybes.

  She’d woken early under the sauna of the morning sun in the cab, but her mother was already up, a curl of smoke trickling from the cook stove. Stevie’s entire body ached for a cup of coffee, but she waited and let the voices inside her brain wage war.

  Stay out of trouble, Stevie.

  Tucker’s voice in her head—she’d let him walk into her brain and sit there for a good portion of the night. The way he’d winked at her, the fierce expression of concern in his eyes.

  How he’d walked away, swinging his key around his finger, those wide shoulders, his tousled dark brown hair, the kind she’d like to twirl her fingers around.

  Oh, good grief. This was how she got named trouble in the first place. Besides, Tucker was probably already on his way back to the Lower 48, if not at another fire.

  But his caution hit the mark. She shouldn’t go inside, stir up the past, reopen the wounds.

  Besides, what would she say? “Hey, Ma, how are you?” She knew perfectly well how her mother was.

  Lonely.

  Angry.

  And an “I’m sorry” would probably be met with a “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

  Which, of course, wasn’t the truth, but that would only lead to an argument, a rehashing of her guilt, and she’d spent the past three years trying not to drag up the indictments.

  She’d had her hand around the handle of the door when her mother came outside, dressed in a flannel shirt, a pair of dirty cargo pants, and work boots. She’d loaded up cut firewood into her arms off the porch and headed back inside.

  Moments later, she returned wearing a grimy jacket, embedded with years of oil and grease, and Stevie predicted her morning activity. One of their many vehicles needed repair. No one knew how to turn a wrench like her mother. In fact, there wasn’t much Alva Mills couldn’t do. A born homesteader, Alva had grown up on an original homestead in Homer before meeting her husband—Archer—and moving with him to Copper Mountain.

  They’d carved out a home in a meadow under the watchful eye of Denali, growing their own food, fishing in the nearby river, raising cattle, pigs, and chickens. Hunting, trapping, making their own clothes, fixing their own vehicles, taking care of themselves in the deepest hollow of winter.

  Except for her father’s job as the county sheriff, they might have disappeared off the grid. Her mother was still wary of the government, and frankly, her reasons were well founded.

  Especially now.

  Alva wore her long, raven-black hair pulled back in a braid and tucked into her jacket as she opened the overhead door to the garage that housed her pickup, their four-wheeler, and their small fleet of snowmobiles.

  And, it looked like, Stevie’s old dirt bike. Which Alva wheeled out into the driveway. Her mother had made some modifications—a chain saw attached to the back, a bear gun pouch on the front handlebars. She set it up and headed back to the garage.

  When she emerged, she was lugging a runabout tool box, hefting it in both hands.

  Stevie slid out of the truck and ran toward her. “Ma. You're going to hurt yourself.” Stevie grabbed one end of the heavy box.

  Her mother grabbed the other, not a word about Stevie’s sudden appearance until they’d set down the box by the bike. “Want some coffee?” She motioned to a thermos parked on the roughhewn steps to the house.

  Stevie poured coffee into the thermos top and watched as her mother clamped a fuel line. “Why—”

  “The four-wheeler’s got a flat. I need to take the tire in to get it repaired, but until then, I need something to get around in the woods.” She grabbed the vent tube and let the fuel drain into an old laundry soap bottle. “I need to replace the fuel line. It’s been sitting too long.”

  No mention as to why, but of course, Stevie hadn’t ridden the bike for…well, she knew the math.

  Silence as the fuel glugged out. Alva fished through the tool box. “I can’t find the pliers.”

  “Did you look on the tool bench? Dad used to keep his everyday tools in that coffee can—” Stevie set the cup down.

  Her mother looked up at her, something of a stripped look on her face, and Stevie wanted to grab her words back. Of course her mother would have used the pliers since her dad went away…

  But Alva just sat back on her haunches, staring at the fuel line.

  Stevie got up, unable to bear the weight of responsibility that crested across Alva’s face. To be alone in the wilderness for three years—what if she’d fallen or gotten sick or couldn’t dig herself out of a snowstorm or—

  More what-ifs. Stevie gulped for breath even as she headed into the garage. The reek of oil and gasoline embedded the walls, the packed-dirt floor, and the memories rose, haunting. Her father standing at the table along the wall, sorting through his collection of screws for just the right one. The sparks off his welder as he repaired a snowmobile tread, an axle to one of their four-wheelers. The curl of steam from his coffee always perched on the sawhorse near the door.

  Stevie, hand me that Allen wrench.

  She found the pliers in the coffee can. Held them in her grip for a long moment. Grimy. Worn. Heavy.

  “I try not to move anything,” her mother said. Stevie turned, and Alva stood at the door, her arms wrapped around her waist. “When he comes back, he’ll have a lot to do. I can’t keep up with everything.”

  Stevie didn’t know what to say. Except, “I’m sorry, Ma, I—”

  “Stop.” Her mother held up her hand. And Stevie waited for it—“It’s not your fault.”

  But it didn’t come. Instead, “I forgive you, Stevie.”

  She stared at her mother, the words like a hand curling around her heart, squeezing. “I…”

  “You didn’t want to listen to your father—I get that. More than you know. But I know you’re sorry about…well, it was just an unfortunate accident.”

  Yes, but that wasn’t the worst part. “I was angry. Embarrassed. Horrified.”

  Alva said nothing.

  “But I shouldn’t have been the one to arrest him. It’s just—I didn’t want Nate to do it. And…”

  “And you wanted to prove that you didn’t need your dad protecting you.”

  Stevie ran her thumb along the pliers.

  “I forgive you, Stevie. It’s time you do, too.”

  Alva had taken a step inside the garage. Touched Stevie’s arm. “You should go see him.”

  Stevie shook her head. “I…no.”

  “He misses you.”

  “He hates me.”

  Alva shook her head, but Stevie pressed the pliers into her hand. “I have to go.”

  “Stevie—”

  She stepped out into the sunshine. Turned, fighting the shards in her voice. “I have to pick up a prisoner. A guy named Eugene March. He’s wanted for murder and rape and a list of other crimes.”

  Her mother followed her out of the garage.

  Stevie kept backing up. “March got picked up on a recreational drug bust a couple days ago, and it alerted the system.” She nearly tripped over the bike. Pressed her hand to the seat. “It’s my job.”

  Don’t let go of the clutch, Punkie! Not until you’re ready to give it gas! She shook away her father’s voice, a ghost rising above the roar of the engine.

  “Stevie, stop. Don’t run away—” her mother said.

  Stevie righted herself. “I’m not running. I’m just—”

  “You’re running. But you can’t run from yourself.” Now Alva stood in the sunlight. Three years had added lines to her face, stripped weight from her body, added threads of gray to her hair. She appeared suddenly frail, easily broken, and pale.

  Overhead, a hawk cried. Stevie finished her coffee, then set the thermos cup down on the step. “I’ll be back to check on you, Ma. Maybe get that tire fixed.”

  Alva didn’t move. But she offered a tight smile, the barest of nods.

  Stevie
ignored the tear glistening on her mother’s cheek and fled to the truck. Climbing in, she held in the ache until she’d backed out the long drive, turned around, and taken the rutted, two-laned service road to the highway.

  She wiped the heel of her hand against her cheek, her stomach raw and empty as she drove back to town to the Copper County facility.

  I’m not running.

  By the time she pulled up to the tiny county holding facility, the ache had subsided, her cheeks dried. She pulled into the gravel drive, dearly hoping they had March ready for her. She pulled on her blue US Marshall windbreaker, affixed the divider between the seats, turned on the child safety locks, and planned on making sure he had a gag for the road. Last time she’d transported a prisoner, he’d run his mouth the entire four-hour drive from Homer.

  Someday she might be able to graduate from prisoner transport to apprehending fugitives. Even tracking down most-wanteds, the real criminals, the ones who deserved to spend their lives behind bars.

  Not men like her father.

  The facility for Copper County served as both a short-term correctional facility and a holding center for pretrial and presentenced felons and misdemeanants. A nondescript cement building with a rickety front walk, a small yard strung with barbed wire, and one lookout tower, the place had all the menace of a small pit bull. That and the handful of guards made it the exact wrong place for a criminal like Eugene March to hang out while waiting for his trial down in Anchorage.

  Stevie secured the truck and headed inside. Flashed her creds to the woman behind the glass and got buzzed into the administrative area.

  A thirty-something woman emerged from the superintendent’s office. Brown hair, no makeup, she wore a black pantsuit, a white blouse. “Brandy Perkins,” she said and met Stevie’s grip.

  Stevie didn’t recognize her.

  “I’m here to pick up Eugene March,” Stevie said, handing her a folder.

  Perkins gave it a quick read, then addressed a nearby guard. “Go get him.”

  She turned to Stevie as the man left to the cell areas. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  Stevie shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  Perkins frowned. “Are you…wait. Aren’t you Archer Mills’s daughter?”

  Of course Superintendent Perkins would know her father. He’d probably been here dozens of times back when he ran the county sheriff’s department, either for drop off or pick up, or, well, even via the grumbles of inmates he’d arrested.

  And because of that memory, Stevie nodded. Smiled. “He’s my dad.”

  Brandy gave her a tight-lipped nod, and something inside Stevie tightened. Oh. Maybe…

  “I’m sorry. I suppose you want to see him while you’re here?”

  Such a quiet, easy question, but the words shut down Stevie’s lungs, caused her heart to turn to a fist in her chest. She stared at Perkins, got out a small, pained, “What? My father is doing his time here?”

  And this is why she didn’t come home. Because the pitying looks could take her out at her knees. Especially from people in the system who knew her father or at least his reputation. Before. His reputation before.

  “Yes,” Perkins said. “He got transferred here about six months ago. Minimum security—we actually let him supervise some of the prisoners on work detail. I think he’s only got about three months left on his sentence, right?”

  Stevie nodded. Eighty-seven days to be exact. Still, no one had told her that he’d been transferred from the Fairbanks Correctional Center.

  The door buzzed. Stevie turned, expecting to see Eugene shackled head to foot, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, hopefully hooded, or at least gagged.

  Instead, the returning guard wore something of a pained expression. Overweight, balding, the kind of guy who could easily be overpowered by a big man like March. Her instincts lit, even as he came over.

  “Sorry, boss. He’s not here.”

  Perkins frowned, glanced at Stevie, back to the guard.

  “I don’t know how it happened, but he went out on that firefighting detail.”

  “What firefighting detail?” Stevie snapped.

  “We got a call this morning from the BLM,” Perkins said. “They needed firefighters in the park, so we sent a crew— How did March get on that list?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. But he and seven others are headed into the back country right now.” The guard turned to Stevie. “They’re choppering in from Sky King ranch, but I think it’s too late.”

  “Where are they deployed?”

  “I don’t know. You could call the BLM. They’re going in to support some smokejumpers. Apparently they’re in over their heads.”

  Tucker.

  But they’d all be in over their heads if they let a man like March loose. Of all the inept—

  “They’re in the middle of nowhere,” Perkins said. “Your man isn’t going anywhere.”

  Stevie grabbed the folder from Perkins’s grip. “Yeah, but I am.” She pushed past them, out to the parking lot, and climbed back into her truck.

  Sat for a moment, schooling her voice before she put her truck in reverse and pulled out of the lot.

  It only took a call to the Copper Mountain sheriff’s department to hook into the BLM channel. To find a guy named Don who seemed to be behind this stupidity. To inform him of the mistake and get the destination of the prisoners.

  To discover that she wasn’t going to track anyone down behind the wheel of her pickup.

  She pulled up the long driveway of her parents’ house, this time pulling all the way into the yard.

  Her mother looked up from where she was finishing the fuel line repair. She stood up, wiping her hands on a grimy towel as Stevie walked toward her.

  “Hey, Ma. Can I borrow your wheels?”

  Three

  They just might put this fire down before sunrise. Well, given that sunrise came at 4:00 a.m., perhaps that might be overreaching. But as Tucker surveyed the fire line, he let himself breathe, just for a moment.

  Heard Jed in his head. Standard Firefighting Order number nine. Be in control of your forces at all times.

  Oh, I’m trying, boss.

  Tucker’s team had cut a line three feet wide, about two hundred back-breaking yards down the side of the ridge toward the saddle, where he’d anchored a line from the bald granite, working out below the ridge. Here in the meadow, the white reindeer moss grew four inches deep, the mineral soil easy to scratch out. Once the team cleared it of any ladder fuels and assembled along the line, he’d fire a burn and further choke out the oncoming blaze. When the fire crested the ridge, it would dead-end before it reached more forest.

  Meanwhile, his jumpers were hotspotting, putting out spot fires along their line, and mopping up while he supervised the indirect attack made by the prisoners.

  Correct that—firefighters. Because while he’d expected tattooed, bald, and angry men with the demeanor and girth of grizzlies, what he received from the Copper County facility was actually a handful of quiet, hardworking men. Eight in total, they wore a facsimile of the standard fire service uniforms of Nomex shirts, hard hats, and green pants, although their shirts were orange and had CCCF Prisoner stamped across the back.

  “Rule number four!” he’d shouted to the prisoners after they’d first arrived, when they lined up to be accounted for. “Identify your escape routes and safety zones and make them known.” He’d gone through the safety zone they’d established, then the other fire orders, along with the watch-out situations.

  One man introduced them, a fellow prisoner who seemed to be in charge, named Archer. Late fifties, thick brown hair, whiskers, a lined face, but his body was lean and toned for a man his age. He barked a few orders, picked up a shovel, and started digging with the rest of the men.

  The fact they hadn’t been issued Pulaskis seemed like the right decision. The half axe, half scraper could do serious damage to a man’s skull, never mind the brush he might be trying to clear.

  Tuck
er had pointed out the objective to the crew—dig a line three feet wide down to the mineral soil and almost two hundred feet long.

  They dug in with the fervor of a bona fide hotshot crew.

  “Rule number six! Be alert. Keep calm. Think clearly. Act decisively!”

  Tucker worked alongside them—shouting directions when needed, stealing glances at them—and couldn’t help but wonder what they might be serving time for.

  Take, for example, the three dark-haired youths no more than twenty-one. DUIs? Maybe drug charges? They stuck together, grinning like they might be frat brothers of a different order.

  What about the clean-cut lawyer type with the brown hair and glasses? He looked like he’d taken the wrong turn out of some graduate school. What had he done—skipped on his taxes? Tucker tried to remember his name. Clancy, maybe?

  The slightly overweight redhead hardly seemed the type who landed in prison. Baby-faced and more determined than capable, he kept his head down and worked and didn’t emanate even the faintest bad-guy aura.

  And then there was the ex-military guy. Or at least he carried himself like a soldier—maybe a mercenary. He called himself Thorne. Short brown hair, thick beard, ruddy and bearlike, he kept his eyes down and stood away from the group, his arms folded, as if not looking for trouble.

  The only one Tucker pegged as a real criminal might be the dark-haired, pensive-eyed fighter who worked with the intensity of three men but wore suspicion in his gaze, watching the rest of the crew as if they might turn on him. A tribal tat inked the back of his neck and darkened his right arm in a nearly full sleeve, something faded, and a scar dissected his jaw near his ear. He even had a gangsta-type name—Rio.

  Yeah, Tucker might stay away from that guy.

  Which only knotted his gut because he knew a little what it felt like to be judged by his looks. And outside one night in the county jail, he’d never done real prison time, despite a few predictions by his teachers and one angry mother.

  “Take a water break!” Tucker yelled, walking over to the cubinators the helicopter had left behind. Barry had also dropped a gear box—a Fat Boy—with overnight supplies—a tarp, sleeping bags, MREs—but Tucker wanted the prisoners off his line before they bedded down.