He held her tightly as she stroked a hand up and down his back and, for only the second time in his life, he let the shakes come.
Ripley sat in the cockpit and looked down at the scene playing out so near. Vanessa wasn’t pretty, she was gorgeous. She’d spent all day flying to fire, and still her hair floated behind her as she ran up to Gordon. Her figure should be in a magazine, not a flightsuit.
And the way Gordon held her was like a knife to the heart.
You only met him today. Decent and funny guy, taken long before you came around. Telling herself all that didn’t help how it felt.
He’d looked at Ripley…like she was an attractive woman, which she already knew. It had seemed like there was more behind it and, dammit, she’d let herself feel it and enjoy the attention. That would teach her. She’d just have to hang on and wait for another handsome jerk to come along. Them she always did fine with. If not fine, at least the course of the relationship would be completely predictable.
But her mind was stuck on the man in the model’s embrace. His easy banter after a near-death experience had made her want to laugh more than she had in a long time. Brad and Janet’s antics could always make her smile, but Gordon had made her laugh any number of times. During a firefight!
He’d done a splendidly ridiculous job with his sportscaster’s running commentary, lightening that particularly dismal stretch that typically occurred through the second third of battling a wildfire—when there was no hope of beating “the beast”—until at long last turning the corner and the Visiting Squad of firefighters were actually beating the Home Team fire.
He’d let her hope for more. It had been a long time since she’d hoped for anything.
Ripley had thought she was fine with that. She loved flying. Fighting wildfire was challenging and kept her in the air. But the taste of hope was something she wasn’t ready for and it was strange, almost bitter on her tongue. The last place she’d belonged, really belonged…she didn’t know. Even in Muskogee, Oklahoma as a kid, her deeply academic family life in a land of wheat and hogs had made her a misfit far and wide. Something that hadn’t ended with the Naval Academy. She—
“Come on!” someone called into the cockpit loud enough to shock her out of the dark hole she’d crawled into. She was alone. Brad and Janet were gone. Some outer part of her had kept functioning through shutting down the aircraft, even if her inner part hadn’t.
Out the window, Ripley could see that they had even already attached the stabilizer lines to the tips of the rotor blades and tied them back to the aircraft to keep the rotor from turning over the engine if the wind caught it wrong. That meant they were completely done with preparing her bird for takeoff at a moment’s notice. The only thing left was the fuel truck she could see working down the line. How long had she been sitting here?
“Ripley?” It was Gordon Finchley’s voice.
She turned. He was standing with just shoulders and head exposed in the high doorway of her Aircrane.
“You okay?”
“Never been better. Just admiring the stunning view,” she waved a hand toward the buildings on the far side of the airfield.
“Not the greatest, I know. You hungry? We’re all going to The Doghouse.”
“Famished. But why does that sound even worse than this place?”
“The Doghouse actually is great. Trust me. I know you don’t have a vehicle here, so do you and your crew want a ride? I don’t think there’s too much crap in my pickup. No rabid schnauzers anyway. Can’t much guarantee what else you’ll find.”
“Uh…sure,” she answered before she remembered the lovely Vanessa. And then felt too awkward to ask if they’d all fit. He’d offered, she’d accepted. “I once dated a guy who had a rabid schnauzer. Well, maybe not rabid, but tricky not to step on in the dark.”
“I’m already jealous.”
And that had her studying him again as they crossed the field. Maybe he was just being funny, because someone with Vanessa couldn’t be jealous of anything.
Soon they were all crowded into the same pickup. Gordon’s was an old black Toyota Tundra with the front right quarter panel mashed in.
“Ran it off the road and into a tree last winter while getting firewood to a friend’s cabin I’d rented.” He drove and Vanessa sat in front.
That left Ripley and Brad in the back with random and miscellaneous garbage (a large Fritos bag and a half dozen Starbucks cups along with other normal floor detritus, and a worn denim jacket on the back seat that probably looked damned good on him, accenting the cowboy vibe).
“Brenna, she will be bringing your wife down with her,” Vanessa had half twisted around to talk to Brad. Her voice in real life was even more pleasant than on the air. “Once they have all of the services done on all of the helicopters.” That hint of Italian was ever so charming. It had to be an act that—
Ripley wanted to smack herself for being so rude.
“Sounds good,” Brad said as if speaking to just another woman.
Did marriage do that, make even stunning women like Vanessa of no further interest? It probably did if you were as good a guy as Brad was. Whereas Gordon was starting to piss her off. Had she really misread that he was flirting with her during the flight? She didn’t think so. Was he the sort of guy who couldn’t help himself around women? Too much like her ex, Petty Officer Weasel Williams, for comfort.
It was a half hour down to the town of Hood River. Gordon and Vanessa did a tag team tour guide thing all the way to town.
“This is called the Fruit Loop, just like the cereal, except this is real fruit. Thousands of acres of apple, cherry, peach, pear. You name, they’ve got it.” After that she heard about one word in four.
Fires did that to her. Since leaving Medford in southern Oregon this morning, she’d been in the seat for over ten hours and she always remained in some kind of a hyper-alert state while flying. Afterward, she mentally crashed. Thankfully, Brad carried the conversation and, as Ripley was sitting directly behind Gordon, it only took leaning her head against the window to be out of his sightlines in the rear view mirrors.
She could certainly do worse for the last of the summer and the fall. MHA was the top team out there, and with Emily Beale and Mark Henderson driving them, it wasn’t hard to understand why. She’d expected to find big egos to go with it, but at least Gordon had been pleasant. Of course they hadn’t been flying together as pilot and copilot—maybe that’s when his inner control freak came out. Early on she’d flown with plenty of pilots who wouldn’t give her an hour of stick time in a hundred. Personally, she chose to make sure that Brad and Janet both had plenty of control time. Janet was one of the few pilot-qualified crew chiefs out there. She’d lose them all the sooner when they were promoted to pilot-in-command positions, but it would be her training that got them there.
The Doghouse, when they arrived, was even less impressive than MHA’s base. The ramshackle structure on the outer fringes of the town of Hood River should have collapsed in the last strong breeze, something for which the Columbia Gorge was notorious. The battered sign hadn’t been painted in years and the large windows were tinted so that you couldn’t see in. Firefighting vehicles already took up a whole section of the lot—clearly marked by “Firefighters are hot!” bumper stickers and the like.
Great, they were taking her to a strip joint—classic pilot outing.
“Maybe I’ll just walk into town and find a pub.”
Gordon snagged her arm. “Wonder Woman won’t find a better one anywhere in town.”
“It is true,” Vanessa said softly from Ripley’s other side. Meekness, too? Someone give her a break.
She let them drag her through the front door.
Instead of thumping music, there was country and western playing—good CW, Little Big Town, and as background rather than blast. The space was brightly lit with the sun streaming in through the large, tinted windows. And the walls, even the ceiling, were covered with pictures of doghouses. Big ones
, little ones, cartoon ones, photos of ones, even papier-mâché ones…nothing but hundreds—thousands—of doghouses. A long oak bar ran down one side with a dozen beer taps, all Oregon microbrews by the look. The tiny galley kitchen at the end of the bar was filling the room with luscious burger and fries type of smells.
“Holy shit!”
“Told you so!” Gordon sounded very pleased at having surprised her.
“No, I mean holy shit this is a dive, but as long as we’re here anyway…”
He grinned at her tease and tugged her—by her arm that she was shocked he still held—toward the tables. A group of them had been pulled into a line all along one wall. Someone must have called from the base to say they were coming because the other tables were crowded with patrons. Some locals, a bunch of overly fit men and women in their twenties who were probably here for the windsurfing in the Gorge, and the long MHA table.
Gordon even held her chair for her.
If he gave her one more mixed signal…
Then he sat next to her as Vanessa sat with Brad and another pilot further down the table.
She was going to have to…
“Ripley Vaughan,” Gordon said in a different tone.
She turned from watching Vanessa introduce Brad to a woman with dark hair that sported a red stripe. Jeannie of the cheery Australian accent—just about how Ripley had pictured her. Ripley turned back to Gordon, wishing she had cue cards for what in the hell was going on.
“This is Mark Henderson and Emily Beale.”
Then she looked across the table at the couple they were directly across from…nothing like she’d expected. Mark Henderson was tall, even sitting down, broad-shouldered, and handsome as hell. He had an easy smile below the mirrored Ray-Bans that he still wore indoors and held out a welcoming hand which she shook cautiously—the strong grip he might give any person, but no crusher proving a point.
Emily Beale was the shocker. She was a trim blonde with brilliant blue eyes and an absolutely deadpan expression. The Ice Queen. That’s how the rumors had tagged her and Ripley could immediately see why.
“Nice flying,” was all Emily said in way of greeting. Her handshake was as brief and abrupt as she was.
Ripley waited for more.
Gordon and Mark laughed together.
“What?”
Gordon leaned in close as if to whisper, but still spoke loudly enough to be easily heard by the others, “That’s your cue to take a bow.”
Ripley looked at him. Had he lost his mind?
“That’s Emily’s version of planting a gold star on your forehead, or at least your term paper,” Gordon informed her.
“Enough, you two,” Emily said it softly and the two men looked as if someone had just cracked a whip. Even her Mr. Macho husband listened when Emily spoke.
“Ripley,” Emily addressed her directly. “Randy said you were the best he had.”
“More than he told me,” Ripley muttered and Emily offered an enigmatic smile.
“You also come very highly recommended by Rear Admiral James Parker.”
“You spoke to…” Ripley caught herself from repeating the obvious, which was better than she usually managed.
“Emily,” Mark laid a casual arm along the back of Emily’s chair, “used to cook for him at dinner parties before she went military.”
Ripley ignored him. “I didn’t even know that the admiral knew who I was.”
“Two Distinguished Service Medals and a Silver Star, trust me James remembered you quite well when I asked. Wasn’t very pleased when you quit.”
Please don’t ask why I quit, Ripley begged silently. There was some dirty laundry she’d rather have stay in the hamper, permanently.
“Is that good?” Gordon whispered. “Two whatevers and a Silver Star?”
“Civilians,” Mark sighed, saving her explaining. “Only two medals higher than the Distinguished Service. You might have heard of one of those; it’s called the Medal of Honor.”
“You won all that?” Gordon looked shocked.
“No,” Ripley did her best not to echo Mark’s sigh. “I didn’t win any medals. No one does. I received them.”
“The Medal of Honor,” Mark continued as if neither of them had spoken. “That one requires an Act of Congress and a presentation by the President. But we could ask Peter if he’d make an exception.”
“Peter?” Ripley managed in a squeak. “You’re on a first-name basis with the Commander-in-Chief?”
Mark hooked a thumb at Emily. “Her, not me. We just refer to him that way to not attract undue attention. They grew up together.”
Ripley’s head was spinning and she hadn’t even ordered a beer yet. A cheery redhead was working her way down the table. Maybe she’d just order ice tea.
Gordon looked at her in surprise. “Shit! Two Distinguished whatevers and a Silver Star. You weren’t kidding about being Wonder Woman.”
Emily actually laughed aloud, causing heads to turn all up and down the table.
“What?” Ripley snapped at Emily. She’d had enough of the games going on around her.
“Your helicopter: Diana Prince. I get it now.”
“About time!” Mark offered. “Knew that one the second she flew over the horizon.”
“You’re the one who grew up on comic books, not me.”
“Not even Wonder Woman?”
Emily shook her head and Mark groaned like he’d just been stabbed. But there was a merry glint in Emily’s eye that had Ripley guessing otherwise. So the woman did have a sense of humor; it was just buried behind one of the most terrifying facades Ripley had ever seen. She’d met a few Night Stalkers over the years, which was how she’d heard stories of—
“Wait a minute. You recruited me specifically? Why?”
Mark instantly sobered.
Ripley’s side glance told her that all of this was news to Gordon.
Emily turned to the waitress. “Hi, Amy.” And she placed her order.
When it was Ripley’s turn she chose the simple expedient of holding up two fingers having no idea what Emily had just said. She’d been recruited…to a firefighting outfit. Why would they check her out all the way back to Admiral Parker?
After the waitress moved on, she turned back to Emily. But Emily didn’t give her a chance to speak.
“Let us see how we get on first,” Emily laid it down on the table like a decree. “We can discuss other matters later.”
“But…” She was cut off by another group of people arriving at the table.
A handsome, broad-shouldered man with an easy smile sat beside Mark, across from Gordon. Next to him, a tough-looking white-blonde with a choppy haircut and a leather bomber jacket despite the warm day kicked out a chair, then crash-landed into it. To Gordon’s other side sat Brenna, the mechanic, and Janet.
“Aren’t you going to save a seat for your girlfriend?” Ripley asked Gordon.
Gordon had to scratch his head at that one. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Ripley rolled her eyes. “Wait, fiancée? Wife? What is she?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Vanessa.”
“Vanessa?” He was definitely missing something.
Ripley was shifting from a little sad, something he’d been puzzling at during her long silence on the drive down, to kinda pissed. He’d wager that if she was ever angry, she’d be lethal.
“Ow! Shit!” Someone had just kicked him under the table, hard. He spotted Mickey’s smile.
“Dude, you and Vanessa? Secret’s out. You two have been pretty circumspect…” he shared a lascivious grin with Robin.
There’d been nothing circumspect about the two of them.
“…but everyone knows.”
“Knows what?” He glanced down the table. Vanessa and Jeannie were chatting away as if everything was normal. But Cal and now Vern were shifting their attention in his direction. “Knows what?”
“Why you hiding it,
boy?” Mark faced him squarely across the table.
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“You mean you two aren’t…” Ripley tapered off.
“Aren’t what?” Gordon was slowly connecting the pieces, but apparently too slowly for the crowd. Maybe it was nearly being killed twice that was slowing him down. It had been a long day.
“Lovers, Gordon. You two aren’t lovers?” She looked as if the words pained her.
“I wish!” Okay, not his most tactful answer. Especially not to the attractive woman sitting so close beside him. “Uh…we were. Briefly. It didn’t work out.”
“Wait a second!” Mickey boomed out. “I practically gave her to you.”
Robin spun on him.
“What I meant was…”
“No, explain that one,” Robin faced him. “I’ve got to hear how you gave a woman to Gordon.”
Gordon was half tempted to let Mickey cook on his own fire, but they’d been best friends for a long time.
“He told me not to be charming,” Gordon said it softly. At Ripley’s whispered what? he repeated it louder. “Said I should just be myself.”
“That’s all I did,” Mickey raised his hands in surrender. “It was the day you hit base, Robin. That very morning when the team split to the two different fires.”
She inspected her husband through narrowed eyes. “No. It isn’t. I know you, Mickey Hamilton. You were gunning for her yourself.”
He sighed. “I was. And getting nowhere.”
“Making me second choice.”
“No! Why do you think I stopped trying and gave her to Gordon? One look at you, honey and—”
“I’d shut up now if I were you, Mickey.” Mark said softly.
“I didn’t mean give. I meant…” Mickey finally shut up. Robin cuffed him on the back of the head and then pulled his head down and kissed his temple.
“You two really aren’t?” Brenna looked at him strangely.
“No. It didn’t work.”
“Sure looks like it worked,” Ripley said softly and several of the others began nodding. Was that why he’d landed in a relationship dead zone ever since the spring? Because everyone had thought he and Vanessa were together so they wouldn’t even consider him or introduce him to someone or…
Wild Fire Page 5
