Wildfire on the Skagit (Firehawks Book 9) (14 page)

Chapter 15

The town of Concrete
went nuts. It was the only way Krista could describe it.

Once the helos had fished them and their gear off the top of the mountain—and they’d slept the clock around—several of the smokies decided a trip up the Skagit to the fly-in would be fun.

She suspected that Evan was behind all of the sudden interest, but she couldn’t prove it.

It took a little bit of shifting gear and personnel at the airport. The helos and most of the smokies headed south, back to the MHA air base for their days off. But they convinced Doug and Terry to bring their black-and-flame painted DC-3,
Jump M1,
up to the fly-in for the second day of the event.

Once they were on the ground, she got clear of the plane as fast as she could. The seventy-year-old bird had created its own sensation, far and away the largest plane to come to the fly-in, which was fine.

Krista wanted no part of it.

But there were disadvantages to being so tall, broad, and blond. In addition to scaring off most men—though not Evan as he’d proven most satisfyingly once they woke up this morning—it also made her easy to pick out in any crowd.

Krista was recognized.

Mayor Veronica Tam now Nelson had been the head cheerleader for the Concrete Lions—thin, pretty, and popular. But seeing how she’d been letting herself be treated was the reason that Krista had ultimately epoxied the quarterback into his locker.

“Krista! I haven’t seen you since…”

Pop’s funeral. Veronica had been one of the few to attend other than herself. When Krista had finally thought to ask, Veronica’s answer had surprised her.

“When you locked up Brian, I finally understood that I had some value. It took me a while, but I got rid of him and found myself a decent guy. I’m here for you, not your dad. I hope that’s okay.”

Still the only real friend Krista had ever made in Concrete. Odd to call one conversation ten years ago a friendship, but it was.

“What brings you home?” Veronica wanted to know.

“I was in the area,” she’d evaded.

Then Evan, damn him, leaned in with that charming smile of his and whispered to Veronica. “Number Two smokejumper,” then he pointed up to the scorched scalp of Goat Mountain looming high above the Skagit River valley.

Veronica’s jaw dropped; her gaze swinging back and forth between the fire that had come within hours of forcing her entire town to evacuate and Krista’s own face.

Krista was hard pressed not to blush.

“I forgot you were a smokejumper,” Veronica whispered in shocked awe.

“Number Two on the top team flying,” Evan gleefully put in.

Krista was on the verge of fisting his ribs, maybe hard enough to crack a couple, when he kissed her cheek.

“Best damn smokie I’ve ever jumped with.”

Her surprise stopped her intent to perform mayhem upon him.

That’s when the place went nuts.

Akbar had already gone south to spend his days off with Laura, so Krista was the senior member of the team. Everyone instantly assumed she’d been the lead smokie as well as Incident Commander of the entire firefight that had ultimately included a dozen aircraft and well over a hundred people.

Ox, Ant-man, Nick the Greek, and Evan were suddenly her personal entourage and weren’t helping her efforts in the least about fixing the misunderstanding.

The pilots were over with their DC-3, talking pilot things with the other fliers—the immaculate seventy-year-old plane was a huge hit.

But for the “Lead Smokie” and her collection of men, suddenly nothing was good enough.

Tacqueria Los Jarritos, the best Mexican food in the Pacific Northwest, was serving up their killer burritos in smokie-sized portions. Pints of Boundary Bay stout appeared at their sides.

While they ate, the Concrete Lions High School Marching Band played along the airfield, occasionally having to scamper for cover as planes returned from flying over the extinguished fire.

“The Lions?” Evan raised his voice to ask over a slightly off-key but very cheery version of
Louie Louie.

“The Concrete Lions. School mascot.”

Then that crazy smile of his appeared.

“What?”

“Krista the Mama Lion!” he declared.

“No!”

“Yes!” Ox jumped in. “Rook! That’s perfect!” And he and Evan high-fived.

“No!” she tried to protest once more to no avail, already knowing it was a lost cause. This piece of the past, this place, would now follow her for her entire jumping career. Though maybe that wasn’t a completely bad thing. She did love these hills and the river. Maybe when she finally retired she’d build a cabin out here and spend some time learning the new forest.

Whatever else the fire had felt like, the countryside had felt like home—a place so familiar that she would always belong no matter how long the absence. Or how much of it was torched. The forest was always changing, and this was a natural one. What was unnatural was that they’d stopped it.

Once the marching band was done, the PA come on.

Krista turned to look at the announcing stand—the flatbed of a rusting lumber truck—when she recognized Veronica’s voice. The Mayor thanked the marching band and then…

Mayor Veronica Nelson announced that the smokies who’d killed the Bell Creek Fire and saved the town were on site.

Krista was going to kill her one high school friend.

The crowd roared with approval. In moments everyone was on their feet all around the airfield, cheering and clapping.

Veronica was waving her up to the platform.

No goddamn way!
She shook her head hard and kept her seat.

She was on her feet before she realized that Ox and Evan were lifting her up.

“They love you,” Ox told her.

“No they don’t.” Krista knew from long experience that she was not beloved of the people of Concrete. She’d never fit in anywhere other than as an MHA smokie.

“Their loss,” Evan said as he began using that Special Forces’ strength to walk her toward the stand.

She tried to bolt, but Ox, Ant-man, and Nick were right there behind her. Still, she might have tried to fight them, but Evan’s arm wrapped possessively around her waist was confusing her.

“What do you mean their loss?” she managed as her fellow smokies—who she swore to hate forever more—continued nudging her toward the platform.

“Should be obvious, Mama Lion.”

Krista shook her head. It wasn’t. The ongoing cheers and applause were turning into a blur around her.

Somewhere a chant had started as more locals recognized her and it was gaining speed, “Krista! Krista!” No one had ever done that before.

They reached the base of the little ladder that had been propped up as a set of stairs onto the lumber truck’s flatbed.

Evan pulled her around to face him as the chants and applause continued.

“It’s their loss, Krista, if they don’t love you. Because I do and it’s about the best feeling of my life.”

“
About
the best feeling?” He loved her? Was he just saying it or—

“I expect when we get married it will feel even better.”

All she could do was blink. Then she managed a gasp. “But…you haven’t asked!” Did she even want him to? She knew the answer to that.

And realized that the question didn’t matter worth a damn.

All that mattered was the answer.

“Yes!” she shouted and dragged him into a kiss.

The crowd erupted with cheers.

Beneath the roar she pulled back to look into those dark eyes and knew that Evan Greene would take the future just as seriously as he’d taken both of their pasts.

“That’s a commitment, Lover.”

“Damn straight, Mama Lion.”

Krista kissed him quickly and climbed the ladder, waving the other smokies to climb up behind her.

“Lee the Ant-man.”

“Nick the Greek.”

“Gustav the Ox,” she introduced each one as they reached the platform and the crowd roared and cheered.

Then she looked deep into Evan’s eyes as he stepped up beside her and Krista knew.

This is what forever felt like.

This is what it felt like to leave behind the out-sized girl and embrace the powerful woman.

“And this…” she waited for the crowd to still. “This is Lover Boy.”

“Lover Boy?” Ox asked in surprise. “Yes!” He crashed a fist into Evan’s shoulder.

Evan groaned as the crowd laughed and cheered.

But his smile was all for her.

And best of all, she’d be reminded of that every single time his new name echoed down the fireline.

About the Author

M. L. Buchman has
over 35 novels in print. His military romantic suspense books have been nominated for the RT Reviewer’s Choice of the Year award, and been named Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the Year,” Booklist “Top 10 of the Year” and RT Book Reviews “Top 10 Romantic Suspense of the Year.” In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.

In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife. He is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing by subscribing to his newsletter at
www.mlbuchman.com.

Wildfire at Dawn
(excerpt)
book 1 of the Firehawks Smokejumper trilogy

Mount Hood Aviation’s lead
smokejumper Johnny Akbar Jepps rolled out of his lower bunk careful not to bang his head on the upper. Well, he tried to roll out, but every muscle fought him, making it more a crawl than a roll. He checked the clock on his phone. Late morning.

He’d slept twenty of the last twenty-four hours and his body felt as if he’d spent the entire time in one position. The coarse plank flooring had been worn smooth by thousands of feet hitting exactly this same spot year in and year out for decades. He managed to stand upright…then he felt it, his shoulders and legs screamed.

Oh, right.

The New Tillamook Burn. Just about the nastiest damn blaze he’d fought in a decade of jumping wildfires. Two hundred thousand acres—over three hundred square miles—of rugged Pacific Coast Range forest, poof! The worst forest fire in a decade for the Pacific Northwest, but they’d killed it off without a single fatality or losing a single town. There’d been a few bigger ones, out in the flatter eastern part of Oregon state. But that much area—mostly on terrain too steep to climb even when it wasn’t on fire—had been a horror.

Akbar opened the blackout curtain and winced against the summer brightness of blue sky and towering trees that lined the firefighter’s camp. Tim was gone from the upper bunk, without kicking Akbar on his way out. He must have been as hazed out as Akbar felt.

He did a couple of side stretches and could feel every single minute of the eight straight days on the wildfire to contain the bastard, then the excruciating nine days more to convince it that it was dead enough to hand off to a Type II incident mop-up crew. Not since his beginning days on a hotshot crew had he spent seventeen days on a single fire.

And in all that time nothing more than catnaps in the acrid safety of the “black”—the burned-over section of a fire, black with char and stark with no hint of green foliage. The mop-up crews would be out there for weeks before it was dead past restarting, but at least it was truly done in. That fire wasn’t merely contained; they’d killed it bad.

Yesterday morning, after demobilizing, his team of smokies had pitched into their bunks. No wonder he was so damned sore. His stretches worked out the worst of the kinks but he still must be looking like an old man stumbling about.

He looked down at the sheets. Damn it. They’d been fresh before he went to the fire, now he’d have to wash them again. He’d been too exhausted to shower before sleeping and they were all smeared with the dirt and soot that he could still feel caking his skin. Two-Tall Tim, his number two man and as tall as two of Akbar, kinda, wasn’t in his bunk. His towel was missing from the hook.

Shower. Shower would be good. He grabbed his own towel and headed down the dark, narrow hall to the far end of the bunk house. Every one of the dozen doors of his smoke teams were still closed, smokies still sacked out. A glance down another corridor and he could see that at least a couple of the Mount Hood Aviation helicopter crews were up, but most still had closed doors with no hint of light from open curtains sliding under them. All of MHA had gone above and beyond on this one.

“Hey, Tim.” Sure enough, the tall Eurasian was in one of the shower stalls, propped up against the back wall letting the hot water stream over him.

“Akbar the Great lives,” Two-Tall sounded half asleep.

“Mostly. Doghouse?” Akbar stripped down and hit the next stall. The old plywood dividers were flimsy with age and gray with too many showers. The Mount Hood Aviation firefighters’ Hoodie One base camp had been a kids’ summer camp for decades. Long since defunct, MHA had taken it over and converted the playfields into landing areas for their helicopters, and regraded the main road into a decent airstrip for the spotter and jump planes.

“Doghouse? Hell, yeah. I’m like ten thousand calories short.” Two-Tall found some energy in his voice at the idea of a trip into town.

The Doghouse Inn was in the nearest town. Hood River lay about a half hour down the mountain and had exactly what they needed: smokejumper-sized portions and a very high ratio of awesomely fit young women come to windsurf the Columbia Gorge. The Gorge, which formed the Washington and Oregon border, provided a fantastically target-rich environment for a smokejumper too long in the woods.

“You’re too tall to be short of anything,” Akbar knew he was being a little slow to reply, but he’d only been awake for minutes.

“You’re like a hundred thousand calories short of being even a halfway decent size,” Tim was obviously recovering faster than he was.

“Just because my parents loved me instead of tying me to a rack every night ain’t my problem, buddy.”

He scrubbed and soaped and scrubbed some more until he felt mostly clean.

“I’m telling you, Two-Tall. Whoever invented the hot shower, that’s the dude we should give the Nobel prize to.”

“You say that every time.”

“You arguing?”

He heard Tim give a satisfied groan as some muscle finally let go under the steamy hot water. “Not for a second.”

Akbar stepped out and walked over to the line of sinks, smearing a hand back and forth to wipe the condensation from the sheet of stainless steel screwed to the wall. His hazy reflection still sported several smears of char.

“You so purdy, Akbar.”

“Purdier than you, Two-Tall.” He headed back into the shower to get the last of it.

“So not. You’re jealous.”

Akbar wasn’t the least bit jealous. Yes, despite his lean height, Tim was handsome enough to sweep up any ladies he wanted.

But on his own, Akbar did pretty damn well himself. What he didn’t have in height, he made up for with a proper smokejumper’s muscled build. Mixed with his tan-dark Indian complexion, he did fine.

The real fun, of course, was when the two of them went cruising together. The women never knew what to make of the two of them side by side. The contrast kept them off balance enough to open even more doors.

He smiled as he toweled down. It also didn’t hurt that their opening answer to “what do you do” was “I jump out of planes to fight forest fires.”

Worked every damn time. God he loved this job.

# # #

The small town of Hood River, a winding half-an-hour down the mountain from the MHA base camp, was hopping. Mid-June, colleges letting out. Students and the younger set of professors high-tailing it to the Gorge. They packed the bars and breweries and sidewalk cafes. Suddenly every other car on the street had a windsurfing board tied on the roof.

The snooty rich folks were up at the historic Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood itself, not far in the other direction from MHA. Down here it was a younger, thrill seeker set and you could feel the energy.

There were other restaurants in town that might have better pickings, but the Doghouse Inn was MHA tradition and it was a good luck charm—no smokie in his right mind messed with that. This was the bar where all of the MHA crew hung out. It didn’t look like much from the outside, just a worn old brick building beaten by the Gorge’s violent weather. Aged before its time, which had been long ago.

But inside was awesome. A long wooden bar stretched down one side with a half-jillion microbrew taps and a small but well-stocked kitchen at the far end. The dark wood paneling, even on the ceiling, was barely visible beneath thousands of pictures of doghouses sent from patrons all over the world. Miniature dachshunds in ornately decorated shoeboxes, massive Newfoundlands in backyard mansions that could easily house hundreds of their smaller kin, and everything in between. A gigantic Snoopy atop his doghouse in full Red Baron fighting gear dominated the far wall. Rumor said Shulz himself had been here two owners before and drawn it.

Tables were grouped close together, some for standing and drinking, others for sitting and eating.

“Amy, sweetheart!” Two-Tall called out as they entered the bar. The perky redhead came out from behind the bar to receive a hug from Tim. Akbar got one in turn, so he wasn’t complaining. Cute as could be and about his height; her hugs were better than taking most women to bed. Of course, Gerald the cook and the bar’s co-owner was big enough and strong enough to squish either Tim or Akbar if they got even a tiny step out of line with his wife. Gerald was one amazingly lucky man.

Akbar grabbed a Walking Man stout and turned to assess the crowd. A couple of the air jocks were in. Carly and Steve were at a little table for two in the corner, obviously not interested in anyone’s company but each others. Damn, that had happened fast. New guy on the base swept up one of the most beautiful women on the planet. One of these days he’d have to ask Steve how he’d done that. Or maybe not. It looked like they were settling in for the long haul; the big “M” was so not his own first choice.

Carly was also one of the best FBANs in the business. Akbar was a good Fire Behavior Analyst, had to be or he wouldn’t have made it to first stick—lead smokie of the whole MHA crew. But Carly was something else again. He’d always found the Flame Witch, as she was often called, daunting and a bit scary besides; she knew the fire better than it did itself. Steve had latched on to one seriously driven lady. More power to him.

The selection of female tourists was especially good today, but no other smokies in yet. They’d be in soon enough…most of them had groaned awake and said they were coming as he and Two-Tall kicked their hallway doors, but not until they’d been on their way out—he and Tim had first pick. Actually some of the smokies were coming, others had told them quite succinctly where they could go—but hey, jumping into fiery hell is what they did for a living anyway, so no big change there.

A couple of the chopper pilots had nailed down a big table right in the middle of the bustling seating area: Jeannie, Mickey, and Vern. Good “field of fire” in the immediate area.

He and Tim headed over, but Akbar managed to snag the chair closest to the really hot lady with down-her-back curling dark-auburn hair at the next table over—set just right to see her profile easily. Hard shot, sitting there with her parents, but damn she was amazing. And if that was her mom, it said the woman would be good looking for a long time to come.

Two-Tall grimaced at him and Akbar offered him a comfortable “beat out your ass” grin. But this one didn’t feel like that. Maybe it was the whole parental thing. He sat back and kept his mouth shut.

He made sure that Two-Tall could see his interest. That made Tim honor bound to try and cut Akbar out of the running.

# # #

Laura Jenson had spotted them coming into the restaurant. Her dad was only moments behind.

“Those two are walking like they just climbed off their first-ever horseback ride.”

She had to laugh, they did. So stiff and awkward they barely managed to move upright. They didn’t look like first-time windsurfers, aching from the unexpected workout. They’d also walked in like they thought they were two gifts to god, which was even funnier. She turned away to avoid laughing in their faces. Guys who thought like that rarely appreciated getting a reality check.

A couple minutes later, at a nod from her dad, she did a careful sideways glance. Sure enough, they’d joined in with a group of friends who were seated at the next table behind her. The short one, shorter than she was by four or five inches, sat to one side. He was doing the old stare without staring routine, as if she were so naïve as to not recognize it. His ridiculously tall companion sat around the next turn of the table to her other side.

Then the tall one raised his voice enough to be heard easily over her dad’s story about the latest goings-on at the local drone manufacturer. His company was the first one to be certified by the FAA for limited testing on wildfire and search-and-rescue overflights. She wanted to hear about it, but the tall guy had a deep voice that carried as if he were barrel-chested rather than pencil thin.

“Hell of fire, wasn’t it? Where do you think we’ll be jumping next?”

Smokies. Well, maybe they had some right to arrogance, but it didn’t gain any ground with her.

“Please make it a small one,” a woman who Laura couldn’t see right behind her chimed in. “I wouldn’t mind getting to sleep at least a couple times this summer if I’m gonna be flying you guys around.”

Laura tried to listen to her dad, but the patter behind her was picking up speed.

Another guy, “Yeah, know what you mean, Jeannie. I caught myself flying along trying to figure out how to fit crows and Stellar jays with little belly tanks to douse the flames. Maybe get a turkey vulture with a Type I heavy load classification.”

“At least you weren’t knocked down,” Jeannie again. Laura liked her voice; she sounded fun. “Damn tree took out my rotor. They got it aloft, but maintenance hasn’t signed it off for fire yet. They better have it done before the next call.” A woman who knew no fear—or at least knew about getting back up on the horse.

A woman who flew choppers; that was kind of cool actually. Laura had thought about smokejumping, but not very hard. She enjoyed being down in the forest too much. She’d been born and bred to be a guide. And her job at Timberline Lodge let her do a lot of that.