Some Like It Hot: Christian romantic suspense (Summer of the Burning Sky Book 3)

by Susan May Warren

  Stay alive.

  You betcha.

  The rest of the team landed unscathed, and Tucker set them cutting a fire line along the western perimeter, a safety precaution, while he called in slurry drops.

  Which, apparently, there weren’t any.

  “The planes are being used for a fire up in Fairbanks,” Tucker said when he hiked back to the crew.

  Tucker outlined his plan then—another line cut into the meadow below the ridge, a burn toward the main blaze. Then they’d trust in the hardy birch and tonight’s dew points, along with the winds to cooperate and slow the fire down enough for a water drop to snuff it out.

  “The BLM is sending in a hand crew—south of here about a half mile. I want you to scratch out a line down to this point here.” Tucker had crouched on the rock, using a stick in the dirt to outline his plan, drawing it down to where the two cut lines would meet. He indicated the far western edge of the meadow where it flattened to rock. “I’ll work the crew coming in, meet you there. Our goal is to corral the fire enough for Barry to get some mud on it and take it down.”

  His plan was met with a few hoo-yahs.

  Tucker sent Skye off to sit watch on a cropping of rocks to the north, and Riley suspected that Skye’s brush with the fire torch had spooked him. Especially since he was now acting fire boss.

  Skye seemed less than thrilled with the gig, her voice over the walkie bearing shades of a thirteen-year-old sent to her room.

  But someone had to watch the fire line. And frankly, Riley also fought the memory of seeing Skye standing in the middle of a fire, frozen.

  “Riley.” Tucker motioned him over, away from Eric and Hanes, who were doing the initial scrape, and Seth and Romeo, cleaning up the line.

  “S’up, boss?” Riley said.

  Tucker ignored the new moniker. “Listen, here’s the deal. We need reinforcements, and with everyone working the fire up north, we’re beggars.”

  Riley frowned. “What? Are they sending in a bunch of church volunteers?”

  “I wish. Convicts. Actually, low-security guys—I don’t think they’re even bringing a guard with them. But they’re from the local correctional facility.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  Tucker shook his head. “It’s not like we haven’t worked with the Department of Corrections before—”

  “Those were guys trained to fight fires. Are these guys trained at all?”

  “Probably just volunteers who can dig.” Tucker lifted a shoulder. “The BLM sounded like it was a decent option.” He glanced over at Skye.

  Riley picked up on what he was laying down. “Yeah, all right. I’ll keep an eye out. Anything else you want me to do?”

  “Keep our guys focused. I’ll meet the hand crew and get them started on the burn line.” He looked back at Riley. “Stay alert. I don’t want trouble.”

  Which led to problem number two. Because Riley had kept an eye on the work crew, starting all the way from when the chopper from Sky King ranch landed. The crew disembarked, all wearing bright orange shirts, not unlike his own yellow Nomex, with CCCF printed on the back. Tucker gave them a briefing, armed them with shovels, and put them to work on the meadow line.

  “Those are prisoners,” Romeo said, sweating hard and coming up beside Riley. His guys had scraped the line down to the connection point, embers and char stirring in the air as the blaze grew.

  “Yeah,” Riley said. “But minimum security, apparently.”

  “Doesn’t mean they don’t want a get out of jail free card,” Romeo said.

  Tucker had called up right about then and deployed Riley to the meadow line to start the backfire. As Riley had assessed the fire from his vantage point, he admitted Tucker’s strategy just might work. If they burned out the meadow below the ridgeline and met the main blaze, they could stop it long before it hit the forest on the other side.

  Riley ran along the burn line, starting the fire, yelling instructions. “Don’t let anything past you! Snuff it out with dirt or the back of your shovel!”

  He got a good look at the crew.

  A motley bunch of eight—three youngsters no more than twenty, an older man in his fifties, a pudgy redhead rank with sweat, who looked like he might fall over, a tattooed gang member, a tourist who looked like he’d been picked up for nothing more dangerous than shoplifting, and one guy whose eyes followed him and raised the hairs on the back of Riley’s neck.

  The man had dark, pensive warrior eyes, the kind Riley had seen from some of the spec-op guys in his dad’s unit. Definitely former military the way he kept his head down and kept working.

  The oncoming fire roared just out of sight, black smoke churning, seeping down the hill, meeting the gray fog from their backfire. The chopper returned, dropped a bucket of water on the eastern edge, slowing down the assault.

  Riley noticed that Tucker had gone up to assess the situation from the ridge.

  And that’s when it happened.

  One of the prisoners—of course the guy with the gang tats—bolted, with Riley inconveniently on the far end of the meadow trying to snuff out a spot fire with the redhead.

  “Hey!” Riley said, about to spring for the escapee, but Gangland was already on top of the ridge running—

  Toward the fire?

  The man vanished over the top of the ridge, right into the chaos of flame and smoke.

  What the—

  And where was Tucker?

  Riley grabbed up his radio, shouted for Tuck, and in a moment, he saw him appear on the ridge, one arm over Gangland’s wide shoulders.

  Huh.

  Then they scrambled into the scree behind the ridge, the safety zone, and the main blaze engulfed the hill, shooting over the ridge and down the meadow.

  Riley stopped, breathing hard, his brain taking in the fact that Tucker had nearly burned to death all because Riley had been worried about the stupid prisoner escaping instead of watching the fire. If it weren’t for—

  “Run!”

  Watching the fire approach, one of the youngsters on the line had thrown down his shovel, and Riley turned just in time to see the older man grab his arm, pull him around.

  Escape averted because the kid stopped, watching, almost mesmerized as the burn did its job. The blaze died out, almost like a miracle as it searched for fuel and came up hungry.

  It amazed Riley every single time. The fact that just like that, a roaring blaze could die if you didn’t feed it. “Stay alert for spot fires!”

  Tucker came into view, leaning hard on his Pulaski and—wait.

  He wasn’t alone. As Riley watched, the brunette—from the bar last night?—appeared as if she’d materialized right out of the smoke and flame.

  What on earth?

  The older man—clearly the one in charge of the convicts—stalked up to Gangland and grabbed his collar. Riley didn’t hear what went down, but something dark by the way Gangland clamped the older man’s wrist.

  The older man let him go, and Gangland picked up his shovel, a move that Riley sort of wanted to veto.

  Except, he hadn’t been escaping. But why was the brunette here and—oh. She wore a blue jacket with a US Marshal emblem on the breast.

  Well, well, it was about time.

  “Let’s start mopping up!” Tucker yelled. “Turn over the soil along the line and make sure the fire’s out.”

  As if, Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

  Skye blew by Riley so fast he had a little windburn. “Tucker! I’m so glad you’re okay!” She launched herself at Tucker, her arms around his neck, as if—

  No. Certainly there wasn’t anything—

  Tucker hesitated a moment, then put her away from him, a hint of annoyance in his eyes.

  Huh.

  He said something to Skye, then left her there, stalking over to Riley, glancing at him, then at Skye. But Riley didn’t have time to chase down Tucker’s weird glance. Not with the smoke billowing off the meadow, now turning black, and the need to
keep anything from reigniting. Riley dove in with the rest of the crew, turning over soil, chopping up hot spots.

  For his part, Gangland acted like he belonged there, digging in like he’d fought fires all his life.

  It wasn’t until they broke for dinner hours later, with the sun sinking behind the snow-laced mountains—which probably meant it was close to midnight—that Riley learned the man’s name.

  Rio. As introduced to him by Skye, who’d discovered his name from Tucker. They were camped beyond the fire line in a safety area, eating MREs and power bars. The Department of Corrections had shipped in supplies along with the hand crew, and they each had their own canteen, MREs, and a space blanket.

  Rio sat against the tree, glancing at Skye, who had tried to talk to him.

  Riley could probably blame himself for that. He’d told the rest of the crew the story of seeing the guy save Tucker. Skye had filled in a few details from her vantage point on lookout. Like the fact that Tucker had fallen off the ridge right into the path of the fire and if it hadn’t been for Rio seeing him and running straight into the flames with no gear, Tucker might have been burned. Alive.

  So maybe Riley had misjudged the guy a little.

  The team had also spent a little time wondering about the sudden appearance of the brunette US marshal.

  “She’s the one from the bar last night,” Skye had said. “The one Tucker was fighting over.”

  They clearly weren’t fighting now. The woman sat next to Tucker, practically cozy as she eyed the assembly of prisoners like they might stage an uprising any moment.

  It hadn’t exactly left Riley’s mind, either.

  “I thought she looked familiar,” said Seth. He’d eaten the same cold dinner of beef stroganoff like Riley had and was finishing it off with coffee stirred 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 gestured to the middle-aged man who’d stopped one of the youngsters from running.

  Yeah, maybe.

  “Archer,” Skye said. “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 said. He had finished his dinner and now rolled the trash up and shoved it into a plastic storage bag. Pulled out a protein bar. “There’s nothing but wilderness in every direction.”

  Somehow his rationale didn’t make him feel any better. Riley stripped off his shirt, filthy that it was, and grabbed his sleeping bag, shaking it out. He was going to set it next to Skye’s, but Seth beat him to it.

  So he wasn’t the only one staying alert.

  And not only the guys on the team, either. Because the tall, quiet man whom Riley had pegged as former military—maybe—sat farthest away from the crew, arms folded, eyes not missing a thing.

  It was a little creepy, really.

  Riley noticed he hadn’t eaten, his MRE unopened. He debated a second and then, he didn’t exactly know why, he picked up the protein bar, got up, and walked over to the man.

  Held it out. “We need you all in tomorrow if we want to go home.”

  Which, at the moment, he very much wanted. At least to return to Sky King ranch.

  The man lifted his gaze, let it land on Riley.

  Cool, unflinching, but there, behind his eyes, a flicker. Then a tightening of his brow.

  He shook his head.

  Riley dropped the bar into the grass. “Suit yourself.” He was turning when—

  “Interesting ink.”

  Riley stopped, glanced at the man.

  His gaze dropped to Riley’s wrist.

  Riley turned his wrist, revealing the tat inside. Bold italics. If. Riley debated the answer, then said simply, “For my dad. After he died. Sort of a memorial.”

  “‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs…’” The man met Riley’s eyes. “‘If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you…’”

  Riley stared at him, nodded. “‘Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!’”

  “Rudyard Kipling.” The man reached out for the power bar. Took a breath. “Thanks.”

  Riley considered him. “Riley McCord.”

  The man tucked the protein bar into his shirt pocket and held out his hand. “Logan Thorne.”

  Riley shook it. “It’s not a very popular poem.”

  “A guy I knew used to quote it.” Thorne’s eyes turned distant again. “Long time ago.”

  He looked away, his jaw hard.

  Ho-kay.

  Riley returned to his sleeping bag, settled in a clearing. No tent for him, not tonight when he just wanted to watch the sun settle beyond the black mountains, see the flames of orange and red burn through the indigo sky.

  He lay down, put his hand on his chest, right where Larke had warmed it.

  Two strikes. There wouldn’t be a third.

  Because he’d promised her he’d stay alive.

  And he had a kiss waiting for him.

  The fire always found Larke’s eyes first, searing into them with a flash that blinded her, leaving the retinas splotched with orange and red, gritty and burning as she slammed her fists into them, trying to rub away the burn.

  Then the smoke. Choking her, coating her throat with grime and soot and swelling it closed.

  Finally, the shouting, then her name rising above the chaos and sirens screaming. Shots over her head, around her, through her as she clamped her hands over her head.

  No—no. She could do better.

  She must do better. She pushed herself up, the ground bleeding, soaking into her pores, and found the body. Specialist Nickolay. She brailled her fingers to his neck for a pulse.

  Nothing, but she didn’t have time to grieve, not with more explosions, not with the night turning to blaze around her.

  She still couldn’t see, the world glossy and reddened, her eyes turning to water. But his voice—she always heard his voice parting the smoke, the gunfire, the piercing whine of the rockets. Larke!

  Here. I am here!

  He still felt so achingly real when he landed on her, his body armor all sharp panes and bulky. His helmet slammed against hers, his breath cascading over her face, his chin strap bumping hers.

  “Stay down.”

  Hard breathing, but she knew his smell, knew the strength of him, and for a moment—too long maybe—she simply dug her hands into his vest and held on.

  Freeman.

  He completely covered her body, his trembling over hers, holding himself there as long as he could before he began to sink onto her.

  Only then did she feel the moisture saturating her, sticky and hot, and when she reached between them—

  No!

  The scream always slithered through her like a snake, coiling, greedy jaws open to clamp into her windpipe, teeth against her flesh, ripping, choking as she fought to tear the sound from her body.

  Freeman!

  She managed, this time, to get her hands up, to push him off her, to roll him over and clamber on top of him.

  To take off his helmet and wipe the soot and ash from his face, find his eyes—

  Riley.

  Her entire body jerked, those brown eyes staring up at her, into her, finding her bones, holding her still, so much power in his gaze she stopped breathing.

  Until he jerked, his entire body trembling, and suddenly he was convulsing, shaking her off. She clung to him, pinning him down. No— Riley!

  With a shout she came awake, hard and ripping through the layers of the nightmare into the harsh sunlight that poured through her skylight.

  So much sunlight cascading across the shiny pine flooring, rippling into the folds of her sweaty, tangled sheets. She lay on top of them, having ripped them off, and now pressed both hands to her chest, gulpi
ng in breaths.

  Freeman, not Riley.

  Not Riley.

  And she barely knew the man, so—

  Yeah, she needed to get her head on right. Larke sat up, let the chilly floor on her bare feet shudder a little brutal reality through her.

  Her nightmares were simply playing tricks on her, probably reaching out of her subconscious to haunt her with the words she’d spoken yesterday.

  Stay alive.

  She got up, walked downstairs to the bathroom, and splashed water on her face. Glanced at the clock.

  After 8:00 a.m. Seriously. She turned on the shower, stepped inside, and let the water sluice the dream away, bracing her hands on the tile walls.

  Or tried to, because Riley’s brown eyes kept finding her, even after she’d turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, dried herself, and pulled on her bathrobe.

  She made coffee, got dressed in a pair of loose jeans and a T-shirt, poured herself a cup of black fuel, and stepped outside.

  Smoke still tufted the sky in the distance, although it seemed thinner, as if dying, and deep inside a fist released. She might have been holding her breath—it sort of felt like it.

  Sinking into one of her Adirondack chairs, she leaned her head back and set the coffee on a thick arm.

  She could have saved him. The thought clung to her like a burr, dug deeper every time she survived another dream-slash-memory. She could have saved Freeman.

  If she’d known he was hurt, she could have tried to stop the bleeding, called for an evac, maybe saved his life.

  Instead, he’d bled out, his arms around her. Protecting her.

  She hated that she’d needed protecting.

  Hated that even two nights ago, she’d let herself sink into Riley’s arms as if she were that girl.

  Okay, sometimes she was.

  And that’s what she hated the most. That she couldn’t be stronger. That after everything, her brothers were right.

  She wasn’t as tough as she thought. As she wanted to be.

  As she should be.

  Boots sounded on the path, kicking rock. She opened her eyes and spied her father, cap on, wearing his jacket, dressed for flying, and heading toward her, a grim expression on his face.