She considered him. “So what do we do? Convince Mom and Dad to sell the place? What would they do? Where would they go?”
“Sell? No. Of course not.”
She held up her hand. “Sorry. I just thought . . . Well, it felt like you wanted to move on—”
“I want to make it better, Sis. I’ll do whatever it takes to put Evergreen Resort back on the map, to pack out the house like in the old days. For Mom and Dad. And for Tiger.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a change. Are you convincing yourself, or do you mean it?”
“I mean it. Don’t you think Tiger deserves the childhood we had?”
Eden finished her malt, then picked up her trash. “You want to make Tiger’s childhood better? Give him a future? Call Ivy.” Getting up, she walked around to Tiger and wiped his mouth. “C’mon, pal. Did you know if you put salt on a seagull’s tail, you can catch him?”
“Really?” Tiger talked with his mouth full, climbing off the bench.
“Nice, Eden.”
She gave Darek a toothy smile and led Tiger off toward the beach.
Her words netted in Darek’s chest. You want to make Tiger’s childhood better?
Yes, he did.
Darek took a breath, pulled out his phone, and walked away from the table, toward the parking lot. He just had to call her. Ask her what she was doing this weekend. Maybe take her fishing.
Fishing? Oh, c’mon. He could do better than that. He stared at the phone, wishing for words. Anything.
Hey, Ivy, it’s Darek. He’d gotten that far in his head when he heard a vehicle pulling into the lot. He stepped back onto the grass and looked up just as it rolled to a stop beside him.
He stilled. It couldn’t be.
The vehicle resembled an ambulance, with two bay doors in the back that opened to supplies and beds. Along the outside of the truck, door handles indicated four compartments—he knew from memory that the other side contained identical spaces for personal gear, foodstuffs, medicine, firefighting supplies.
A fresh coat of lime-green paint covered the surface, with the words Jude County Hotshots painted along the top.
Darek lowered the phone.
The Jude County Hotbox had just rolled into town.
And then—he should have expected it—the door opened and from the passenger side jumped the man who’d been his squad leader. Now Jed Ransom wore the word Foreman on his shirt pocket.
“I told you we’d find him, guys.” Jed approached Darek, hand out. “Dare, how you doing? Feeling like fighting some fire?”
“WE HAD A FLYOVER SIGHTING on Sunday morning, around six.” Jed unrolled a map on a large conference table in an interior room of the National Forest Service building. He always stood a foot taller than other men Darek knew, not just in size but in stature. Dark-haired and from Montana, with the slightest Western drawl, Jed could read a fire like no one else. He’d started as a ground pounder when he was eighteen, risen up the ranks, graduated from Butte College with a degree in fire science, and now trained and worked as the ramrod of one of the tightest crews in the West.
He was the man Darek had once hoped to be.
The Jude County Hotshots trained in Ember, Montana, but deployed out of Boise, from the National Interagency Fire Center, their type-one crew often called first when a fire started to blaze. Especially one in the tinder-crisp forest of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, where a blowdown ten years ago had left dead trees like matchsticks across a million acres of forest.
Darek could barely contain the adrenaline shooting through his veins as he heard the conversations of arriving hotshots, the buzz of radios in the NFS office. “Where did it start?”
“They think here, on the southeast corner of Swan Lake.” Jed pointed to a place on the map twenty-three miles northwest of Deep Haven, thick in the BWCA. “Weather service pinpointed a thunderstorm there Friday night with somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand lightning strikes. Could have been one or more, but no one noticed any activity until the morning.”
Darek remembered the air that night—crisp, almost a sizzle to it.
That was the night he’d kissed Ivy.
“Right now, it’s inaccessible by land; we’d have to paddle in. So far it looks to have incinerated over thirteen thousand acres of boreal forest.”
All that black spruce, jack pine, balsam fir, and paper birch, gone. Darek could imagine the fire almost as if he were there—sweat pasting his yellow shirt to his back, Pulaskis swinging, dirt flying, chain saws roaring, the searing breath of the dragon on their backs. He could smell the acrid odor, feel the embers falling like snow, dusting his helmet. The furnace would dry his throat, make him tuck his handkerchief over his nose and keep digging right beside twenty other of his fellow ground pounders, battling together.
Yeah, he missed it.
“We estimate, with the debris left by the blowdown, that there might be fifty to a hundred tons of dry fuel per acre. The fire is jumping lakes by connecting with islands, and a flyover this morning estimated flame lengths up to a hundred feet.”
Around them, Darek recognized a few of the hotshots who had filtered in—Graham, a seasoned Native American sawyer built like a fortress, and Pete Holt, former military who did a couple tours in Afghanistan and had a kid on the way right about the time Darek left. He looked like he might be a crew boss now for the way he was hollering at the youngsters, college kids looking to pay for their tuition.
One woman on the team, a blonde who wore her hair in a long braid down her back, immediately made friends with Tiger, who was admiring their Pulaskis, helmets, and gear. She offered Tiger her whistle and he blew on it while everyone laughed.
Tiger was having the time of his life.
So much like his father.
The NFS command center buzzed with activity, flyover reports from spotters coming in, the weather report rattling away on a nearby radio.
Jed alternated between listening to the weather and to an explanation of the terrain from a local NFS fire supervisor. “If we can contain the fire before it gets here, to Bower Trout Lake, then we won’t have to evacuate. There’re about seventy homes located on Trout.”
“There haven’t been any prescribed burns in this area—ever,” Darek said, skimming his hand over the region between the fire zone and Trout, then farther to Two Island Lake. “We need to stop it before it gets to Two Island. South of Two Island, we start to encroach on residential areas. There’s a group home here, the Garden . . .” He pointed to a large area just north of Evergreen Lake. “And then, of course, Evergreen has about 120 homes, not to mention our resort.”
“From there it’s a straight shot to Deep Haven,” Graham said.
“We’ll stop it long before it endangers Deep Haven,” Jed said. “We’ve asked to deploy a Bombardier CL-215 tanker plane—should be here later today. We’ll get that in there and see if we can make a dent in it.”
Darek looked at the map, traced the fire road, then the portage line into Ball Club Lake. “You could start a prescribed burn on the north side of Ball Club, see if you can use up the fuel, shut it down.”
Jed leaned over the map. “Good call. After the plane gets in, we’ll assess whether we need to send in the crew.” He turned to Darek. “By the way, it’s great to see you. How’ve you been?”
“Good.”
“We miss you on the team. No one can sing Johnny Cash like you and Jensen.”
“I miss ‘A Boy Named Sue’!” Pete Holt yelled.
Darek refused to let his smile dim. Maybe they didn’t know, or remember, how everything between Jensen and him had gone south. Yet those had been good days.
The energy in the room, the way the men congregated around the fire stats, seemed contagious. They’d sent in a crew because of the last fire, years ago, near Sea Gull Lake that took out so many resorts and homes. Apparently the NFS wasn’t taking any chances in this dry season.
Indeed, the entire county could go up in smoke if they didn’t
snuff out the fire, and soon.
Someone had put an orange Nomex helmet on Tiger, was letting him dig through a backpack of equipment. Darek had no doubt there might be a dream igniting inside his five-year-old.
A man came into the room carrying a large box. A little under six feet, he had dark-blond hair, a military build. He set the box on the floor, then came over to the table and opened a laptop. “I’ve already pulled up the map and plugged in the weather conditions, the fuel loads. That should tell us a little about how the fire will run.” His screen came to life, the fire box surrounded in red, a map underlying the burning area.
“Dare, I’d like you to meet Conner Young. He hitched on board with us last year doing some advanced communications work. He developed a program to help us read and predict fire behavior.”
“Hard to do that from twenty-plus miles away. Better to get close to it, see it, hear it.” Still, the program might save precious time and resources if they could predict the run of the fire. “Does it work?”
“We’re still testing it, but he’s able to upload his data right to the handhelds.” Jed pointed to the box. “Sort of like smartphones but with better service.”
“Like the kind that can survive being dropped in the dirt, kicked, and burned?”
“Oh no. We leave that to the hotshots,” Conner said, smiling.
Darek put him in his late thirties, maybe early forties, experience around his eyes. He liked him. “How often does the data refresh?”
“Right now, it’s dependent on satellite—the same Doppler the weather service uses. But we can also receive data from airplanes, and in Montana, we are developing a remote video surveillance system that is affixed to the fire lookout towers.” He glanced at Jed. “But we admit, there is no substitute for experience and hands-on surveillance.”
Darek leaned in, got his bearings, then touched the screen. “If we had to, we could go in through here—” He traced his way up the portage route, moving his finger east, then south. “There’s a large clearing along Forest Route 153. A great place to set up a fire camp.”
Jed checked his route on the map. “Dare, I’d love for you to jump aboard and help me work the fire—even at the command center. If you want, you could hike in with us. You know this area, know how the fire might react with this fuel.”
Yes. The word was nearly on his lips. Nearly . . . “I . . . I’d love to, but—” He glanced at Tiger. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have anyone to watch him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Surely his mother wouldn’t mind. Or Nan. She’d jump at the opportunity to keep him. Even overnight.
Except wouldn’t that give her perfect evidence for her belief that he didn’t really want to be a father, that he would rather race out to fight fire than take care of his son?
“Daddy! I gotta go!” Tiger had run up to him and was holding himself, doing the potty dance.
Darek steered his son by the shoulder toward the bathroom. He could hear the guys laughing behind him. He stood in front of the door, his neck hot, while Tiger took care of his business.
“No problem, Dare. You have your hands full,” Jed said. He gave him a kind, almost-pitying smile.
Or maybe Darek just imagined the pity.
He drew in a long breath. “Where are you guys staying?”
“Dunno. Know of any good places in town? Forest service is picking up the tab.”
Darek smiled. There was more than one way to get in on the action. “As a matter of fact, I have just the place.”
“Why on earth would you want to spend your lunch hour losing at checkers? I think this was a bad idea.” Gibs jumped two of Jensen’s red chips. “Crown me.”
“You’re better company than the seagulls,” Jensen said, adding a black chip to Gibs’s. “Besides, I’ve won a couple times.”
The sun streamed in through the man’s hospital window, across his bed to the red recliner, where Jensen sat opposite the bedside table. His half-eaten sub sandwich lay on the nightstand.
Actually, what he might call this, if anyone really put him on the rack, was cowardice. He hadn’t known that Claire would be there when he arrived two days ago to build the ramp. Being around her made him lose his focus—if he didn’t watch it, he’d slice off a finger or slam his thumb with a hammer.
Or say something stupid, like his comment about going to jail. After that, she’d looked at him just like he deserved.
That’s why she stayed inside, never came out again. Why today he couldn’t bear to head back up there until he knew she started her shift at two o’clock.
He could work late into the evening, no problem. He was good at working in the shadows.
“Jensen, pay attention. I just double-jumped you. If you’re not going to play to win, then don’t bother.”
He glanced at Gibs, but the man wore a smile. “You want me to beat you, old man?”
“You can at least try.”
Jensen moved his piece, waited for Gibs to move, then double-jumped him. “Crown me.”
“That’s more like it. You’re playing like a whipped puppy. That’s not the Jensen I used to know.”
“The Jensen you used to know was reckless and dangerous and got everyone in trouble.”
“No, the Jensen I used to know was a young whippersnapper who was just trying to get the girls to like him.”
Jensen’s mouth opened a bit.
“The first time I met you, you were doing a backflip off the dock. As I remember, it was May, the lake too cold to swim in, but you—and Darek—were showing off for the girls.”
“I never—”
“Please.” He moved his piece, blocking Jensen’s next jump. “All you and Darek did all summer was flex and show off your tans to Claire and Felicity. Even when you weren’t driving your father’s speedboat around the lake, you seemed to be hanging around. But while Darek was always trying to find the next great adventure, you were the one who made sure the girls got home safely. You always had a smile for Nelda and me. And don’t tell me you weren’t the one who came over early and stacked my shipments of wood. I’m not stupid.”
Jensen moved a piece across the board, affecting some semblance of strategy.
“It’s nice to have you back, is all. I’m just wondering if my granddaughter has anything to do with that.”
Jensen looked up, tried a smile. “Nah. You saw her last time I was here.” He wasn’t sure Claire had mentioned her household improvements to her grandfather. “Besides, I never left, Gibs.”
Gibs moved his piece forward, a strategy that made no sense to Jensen. “Sure you did.”
“I’ve been living in the same place, my father’s house, for three years. You know that.” He moved his piece closer, attacking.
“Just because you’ve been living there doesn’t mean you didn’t disappear.” Gibs moved his piece back, away from Jensen’s. “The day you walked out of that courthouse, bound to Deep Haven, you vanished. The Jensen I knew simply died. And this strange boy who walked with his face to the ground took his place.”
Jensen studied the board. “What was I supposed to do? I had to live here. But I didn’t have to like it. You can’t imagine how terrible it is to walk around with a target on your back, people talking about you, accusing you of something you didn’t do.” He moved his piece.
Gibs moved his king across the board, flanking Jensen’s position, should he jump Gibs’s piece. “I know exactly how you felt, son. I’m a Vietnam vet. I came home to a country that hated me, accused me of killing children, of burning villages. They threw blood and paint on me, and they refused to serve me at the VFW. I was a pariah in this country, even this town. I knew I hadn’t done what they accused me of, but it didn’t matter. They believed what they wanted. Your move.”
But Jensen couldn’t move. He stared at Gibs. “I’m sorry.”
“Once people form an opinion, it’s very hard to change it, and the frustration of that went inside, became a battle I faced every da
y. For a while there, I let it eat at me. I turned to drink, made a nuisance out of myself. I still can’t believe Nelda hung on to me. Booted me out of her bed but not the house. I thank God for that. And then one night, I came home, buttered. Took a smoke on the sofa and fell asleep. My son, Ricky, woke me up, yelling—he was about eight at the time. Scared the tar out of me, but the rug was on fire. Nelda and I carried it outside, beat out the flames on the sofa, and then she lit into me.”
He met Jensen’s eyes. “I nearly lost them both that night because I was angry at how I was treated. My Nelda cleared through the fog in my head when she told me that I might not have killed any babies in Vietnam, but I was still a sinner back here in Deep Haven.”
Jensen frowned.
“She pulled her Bible off the shelf and shoved it at me. I’ll never forget her words. ‘No one is righteous, not even one. So stop acting all wounded and realize that you’re a mess, Jack Marshall Gibson’—scared me half to death when she used my full name. ‘The good news is that God still loves you. And so do I.’”
He made a face. “That’s when she finally threw me out of the house and barred the door.”
“Ouch.”
“I went straight to my little church there on Third and Third, got down at the altar, and wept. See, she was right. I was angry at how I’d been treated, calling it unjust. But it didn’t matter what they accused me of; I was still a sinner. I wasn’t guilty of war crimes, but I’d done plenty to be ashamed of. The truth is, if we had to walk around with our sins taped to our backs . . . well, we’d all be finding ways to hide in the woods, huh, Jensen?”
Jensen stared at him, not sure who he might be talking about. Just once he’d like the town of Deep Haven to take a good look at Darek and his part in the nightmare that destroyed so many lives.
But they’d never looked hard at the golden boy to see the truth. Just found it easier to point to the rich kid.
Gibs’s face softened. “As unjust as their accusations were, God used them to remind me that Nelda was right—no man is right before Him. I’m not saying that I—or you—didn’t get a bum rap. But the Bible says that if we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. God sees your heart, Jensen, and He knows the truth. And yes, that thought should cripple you. I know it did me.”
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