Chasing Fire

by Нора Робертс

  They’d already formed a unit, she determined, and the smaller connections within it. Friendships, rivalries—both could be useful.

  “Fifty push-ups,” she ordered, noting them down as they were completed.

  “I’m going to lead you over this course, starting here.” She gestured at the low platform of horizontal squares, moved on to the steep steel walls they’d need to hurdle, the ropes they’d climb, hand over hand, the trampoline flips, the ramps.

  “Every one of these obstacles simulates something you will face during a fire. Get one done, hit the next. Drop out? You’re done. Finish it, you might just be good enough to jump fire.”

  “Not exactly Saint Crispin’s Day.”

  “Who?” Dobie asked at Gull’s mutter.

  He only shrugged, and figured by the sidelong glance the bombshell blonde sent him, she’d heard the remark.

  “You, Fast Feet, take the lead. The rest of you, fall in behind him. Single file. If you fall, get your ass out of the way, pick up the rear for a second shot.”

  She pulled a stopwatch out of her pocket. “Are you ready?”

  The group shouted back, and Rowan hit the timer. “Go!”

  Okay, Rowan thought, fast feet and nimble feet.

  “Pick up those knees!” she shouted. “Let’s see some energy. For Christ’s sake, you look like a bunch of girls strolling in the park.”

  “I am a girl!” a steely-eyed blonde shouted back, and made Rowan grin.

  “Then pick up those knees. Pretend you’re giving one of these assholes a shot in the balls.”

  She kept pace with Gull, jogging back as he raced for, charged up, then hurdled the first ramp.

  Then the little guy surprised her by all but launching over it like a cannon.

  They climbed, hurdled, crawled, clawed. L.B. was right, she decided. They were a damn good group.

  She watched Gull execute the required flips and rolls on the tramp, heard the little guy—she needed to check his name—let out a wild yeehaw as he did the same.

  Fast feet, she thought again, still in the lead, and damned if he didn’t go up the rope like a monkey on a vine.

  The blonde had made up ground, but when she hit the rope, she not only stalled, but started to slip.

  “Don’t you slide!” Rowan shouted it out, put a whiplash into it. “Don’t you slide, Barbie, goddamn it, and embarrass me. Do you want to start this mother over?”

  “No. God, no.”

  “Do you want to jump fire or go back home and shop for shoes?”

  “Both!”

  “Climb it.” Rowan saw the blood on the rope. A slide ripped the skin right off the palms, and the pain was huge. “Climb!”

  She climbed, forty torturous feet.

  “Get down, move on. Go! Go!”

  She climbed down, and when she hurdled the next wall, left a bloodstain on the ramp.

  But she did it. They all did, Rowan thought, and gave them a moment to wheeze, to moan, to rub out sore muscles.

  “Not bad. Next time you have to climb a rope or scale a wall it might be because the wind shifted and fire just washed over your safe zone. You’ll want to do better than not bad. What’s your name—I’m a Girl Barbie?”

  “Libby.” The blonde rested her bloody hands on her knees, palms up. “Libby Rydor.”

  “Anybody who can climb up a rope when her hands are bleeding did better than not bad.” Rowan opened the first-aid kit. “Let’s fix them up. If anybody else got any boo-boos, tend to them, then head in, get your gear. Full gear,” she added, “for practice landings. You got thirty.”

  Gull watched her apply salve to Libby’s palms, competently bandage them. She said something that made Libby—and those hands had to hurt—laugh.

  She’d pushed the group through the course, hitting the right combination of callous insult and nagging. And she’d zeroed in on a few as they’d had trouble, found the right thing to say at the right time.

  That was an impressive skill, one he admired.

  He could add it to his admiration of the rest of her.

  That blonde was built, all maybe five feet ten inches of her. His uncle would have dubbed her statuesque, Gull mused. Himself? He just had to say that body was a killer. Add big, heavy-lidded blue eyes and a face that made a man want to look twice, then maybe linger a little longer for a third time, and you had a hell of a package.

  A package with attitude. And God, he had a hard time resisting attitude. So he stalled until she crossed the field, then fell into step beside her.

  “How are Libby’s hands?”

  “She’ll be okay. Everybody loses a little skin on the playground.”

  “Did you?”

  “If you don’t bleed, how do they know you’ve been there?” She angled her head, studied him with eyes that made him think of stunning arctic ice. “Where are you out of, Shakespeare? I’ve read Henry the Fifth.”

  “Monterey, mostly.”

  “They’ve got a fine smoke-jumper unit in Northern California.”

  “They do. I know most of them. I worked Redding IHC, five years.”

  “I figured you for a hotshot. So, you’re wanted in California so you headed to Missoula?”

  “The charges were dropped,” he said, and made her smile. “I’m in Missoula because of Iron Man Tripp.” He stopped when she did. “I’m figuring he must be your father.”

  “That’s right. Do you know him?”

  “Of course. Lucas ‘Iron Man’ Tripp’s a legend. You had a bad one out here in 2000.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was in college. It was all over the news, and I caught this interview with Iron Man, right here on base, after he and his unit got back from four days in the mouth of it.”

  Gull thought back, brought it into the now in his head. “His face is covered with soot, his hair’s layered with ash, his eyes are red. He looks like he’s been to war, which is accurate enough. The reporter’s asking the usual idiot questions. ‘How did it feel in there? Were you afraid?’ And he’s being patient. You can tell he’s exhausted, but he’s answering. And finally he says to the guy, ‘Boy, the simplest way to put it is the bitch tried to eat us, and we kicked her ass.’ And he walks away.”

  She remembered it as clearly as he did—and remembered a lot more. “And that’s why you’re in Missoula looking to jump fire?”

  “Consider it a springboard. I could give you the rest of it over a beer.”

  “You’re going to be too busy for beer and life stories. Better get your gear on. You’ve got a long way to go yet.”

  “Offer of beer’s always open. Life story optional.”

  She gave him that look again, the slight angle of the head, the little smirk on the mouth that he found sexily bottom-heavy. “You don’t want to hit on me, hotshot. I don’t hook up with rookies, snookies or other smoke jumpers. When I’ve got the time and inclination for... entertainment, I look for a civilian. One I can play with when I’m in the mood over the long winter nights and forget about during the season.”

  Oh, yeah, he did like attitude. “You might be due for a change of pace.”

  “You’re wasting your time, rook.”

  When she strolled off with her clipboard, he let himself grin. He figured it was his time to waste. And she struck him as a truly unique experience.

  Gull survived being dragged up in the air by a cable, then dropped down to earth again. The not altogether fondly dubbed slam-ulator did a damn good job of simulating the body-jarring, ankle-and-knee-shocking slam of a parachute landing.

  He slapped, tucked, dropped and rolled, and he took his lumps, bumps and bruises. He learned how to protect his head, how to use his body to preserve his body. And how to think when the ground was hurtling up toward him at a fast clip.

  He faced the tower, climbing its fifty feet of murderous red with his jump partner for the drill.

  “How ya doing?” he asked Libby.

  “I feel like I fell off a mountain, so not too bad. You?”


  “I’m not sure if I fell off the mountain or on it.” When he reached the platform, he grinned at Rowan. “Is this as much fun as it looks?”

  “Oh, more.” Sarcasm dripped as she hooked him to the pully. “There’s your jump spot.” She gestured to a hill of sawdust across the training field. “There’s going to be some speed on the swing over, so you’re going to feel it when you hit. Tuck, protect your head, roll.”

  He studied the view of the hill. It looked damn small from where he was standing, through the bars of his face mask.

  “Got it.”

  “Are you ready?” she asked them both.

  Libby took a deep breath. “We’re ready.”

  “Get in the door.”

  Yeah, it had some speed, Gull thought as he flew across the training field. He barely had time to go through his landing list when the sawdust hill filled his vision. He slammed into it, thought fuck!, then tucked and rolled with his hands on either side of his helmet.

  Willing his breath back into his lungs, he looked over at Libby. “Okay?”

  “Definitely on the mountain that time. But you know what? That was fun. I’ve got to do it again.”

  “Day’s young.” He shoved to his feet, held out a hand to pull her to hers.

  After the tower came the classroom. His years on a hotshot crew meant most of the books, charts, lectures were refreshers on what he already knew. But there was always more to learn.

  After the classroom there was time, at last, to nurse the bumps and bruises, to find a hot meal, to hang out a bit with the other recruits. Down to twenty-two, Gull noted. They’d lost three between the simulator and the tower.

  More than half of those still in training turned in for the night, and Gull thought of doing so himself. The poker game currently underway tempted him so he made a bargain with himself. He’d get some air, then if the urge still tickled, he’d sit in on a few hands.

  “Pull up a chair, son,” Dobie invited as Gull walked by the table. “I’m looking to add to my retirement account.”

  “Land on your head a few more times, you’ll be retiring early.”

  Gull kept walking. Outside the rain that had threatened all day fell cool and steady. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked into the wet. He turned toward the distant hangar. Maybe he’d wander over, take a look at the plane he’d soon be jumping out of.

  He’d jumped three times before he’d applied for the program, just to make sure he had the stomach for it. Now he was anxious, eager to revisit that sensation, to defy his own instincts and shove himself into the high open air.

  He’d studied the planes—the Twin Otter, the DC-9—the most commonly used for smoke jumping. He toyed with the idea of taking flying lessons in the off-season, maybe going for his pilot’s license. It never hurt to know you could take control if control needed to be taken.

  Then he saw her striding toward him through the rain. Dark and gloom didn’t blur that body. He slowed his pace. Maybe he didn’t need to play poker for this to be his lucky night.

  “Nice night,” he said.

  “For otters.” Rain dripped off the bill of Rowan’s cap as she studied him. “Making a run for it?”

  “Just taking a walk. But I’ve got a car if there’s somewhere you want to go.”

  “I’ve got my own ride, thanks, but I’m not going anywhere. You did okay today.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s too bad about Doggett. Bad landing, and a hairline fracture takes him out of the program. I’m figuring he’ll come back next year.”

  “He wants it,” Gull agreed.

  “It takes more than want, but you’ve got to want it to get it.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  On a half laugh, Rowan shook her head. “Do women ever say no to you?”

  “Sadly, yes. Then again, a man who just gives up never wins the prize.”

  “Believe me, I’m no prize.”

  “You’ve got hair like a Roman centurion, the body of a goddess and the face of a Nordic queen. That’s a hell of a package.”

  “The package isn’t the prize.”

  “No, it’s not. But it sure makes me want to open it up and see what’s in there.”

  “A mean temper, a low bullshit threshold and a passion for catching fire. Do yourself a favor, hotshot, and pull somebody else’s shiny ribbon.”

  “I’ve got this thing, this... focus. Once I focus on something, I just can’t seem to quit until I figure it all the way out.”

  She gave a careless shrug, but she watched him, he noted, with care. “Nothing to figure.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said when she started into the dorm. “I got you to take a walk in the rain with me.”

  With one hand on the door, she turned, gave him a pitying smile. “Don’t tell me there’s a romantic in there.”

  “Might be.”

  “Better be careful then. I might use you just because you’re handy, then crush that romantic heart.”

  “My place or yours?”

  She laughed—a steamy brothel laugh that shot straight to his loins—then shut the door, metaphorically at least, in his face.

  Damned if he hadn’t given her a little itch, she admitted. She liked confident men—men who had the balls, the brains and the skills to back it up. That, and the cat-at-the-mousehole way he looked at her—desire and bottomless patience—brought on a low sexual hum.

  And picking up that tune would be a mistake, she reminded herself, then tapped lightly on Cards’s door. She took his grunt as permission to poke her head in.

  He looked, to her eye, a little pale, a lot bored and fairly grungy. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Shit, I’m okay. Got some bug in my gut this morning. Puked it, and a few internal organs, up.” He sat on his bed, cards spread in front of him. “Managed some time in manufacturing, kept dinner down okay. Just taking it easy till tomorrow. Appreciate you covering for me.”

  “No problem. We’re down to twenty-two. One of them’s out with an injury. I think we’ll see him back. See you in the morning then.”

  “Hey, want to see a card trick? It’s a good one,” he said before she could retreat.

  Tired of his own company, she decided, and gave in to friendship and sat across from him on the bed.

  Besides, watching a few lame card tricks was a better segue into sleep than thinking about walking in the rain with Gulliver Curry.

  3

  Gull lined up in front of the ready room with the other recruits. Across the asphalt the plane that would take them up for their first jump roared, while along the line nerves jangled.

  Instructors worked their way down, doing buddy checks. Gull figured his luck was in when Rowan stepped to him. “Have you been checked?”

  “No.”

  She knelt down so he studied the way her sunflower hair sculpted her head. She checked his boots, his stirrups, worked her way up—leg pockets, leg straps—checked his reserve chute’s expiration date, its retainer pins.

  “You smell like peaches.” Her eyes flicked to his. “It’s nice.”

  “Lower left reserve strap attached,” she said, continuing her buddy check without comment. “Lower right reserve strap attached. Head in the game, Fast Feet,” she added, then moved on up the list. “If either of us misses a detail, you could be a smear on the ground. Helmet, gloves. You got your letdown rope?”

  “Check.”

  “You’re good to go.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’ve been checked, thanks. You’re clear to board.” She moved down to the next recruit.

  Gull climbed onto the plane, took a seat on the floor beside Dobie.

  “You looking to tap that blonde?” Dobie asked. “The one they call Swede?”

  “A man has to have his dreams. You’re getting closer to owing me twenty,” Gull added when Libby ducked through the door.

  “Shit. She ain’t jumped yet. I got ten right now says she balks.
”

  “I can use ten.”

  “Welcome aboard,” Rowan announced. “Please bring your seats to their full upright position. Our flying time today will depend on how many of you cry like babies once you’re in the door. Gibbons will be your spotter. Pay attention. Stay in your heads. Are you ready to jump?”

  The answer was a resounding cheer.

  “Let’s do it.”

  The plane taxied, gained speed, lifted its nose. Gull felt the little dip in the gut as they left the ground. He watched Rowan, flat-out sexy to his mind in her jumpsuit, raise her voice over the engines and—once again—go over every step of the upcoming jump.

  Gibbons passed her a note from the cockpit.

  “There’s your jump site,” she told them, and every recruit angled for a window.

  Gull studied the roll of the meadow—pretty as a picture—the rise of Douglas firs, lodgepole pines, the glint of a stream. The job—once he took the sky—would be to hit the meadow, avoid the trees, the water. He’d be the dart, he thought, and he wanted a bull’s-eye.

  When Gibbons pigged in, Rowan shouted for everyone to guard their reserves. Gibbons grabbed the door handles, yanked, and air, cool and sweet with spring, rushed in.

  “Holy shit.” Dobie whistled between his teeth. “We’re doing it. Real deal. Accept no substitutes.”

  Gibbons stuck his head out into that rush of air, consulted with the cockpit through his headset. The plane banked right, bumped, steadied.

  “Watch the streamers,” Rowan called out. “They’re you.”

  They snapped and spun, circled out into miles of tender blue sky. And sucked into the dense tree line.

  Gull adjusted his own jump in his head, mentally pulling on his toggles, considering the drift. Adjusted again as he studied the fall of a second set of streamers.

  “Take her up!” Gibbons called out.

  Dobie stuffed a stick of gum in his mouth before he put on his helmet, offered one to Gull. Behind his face mask, Dobie’s eyes were big as planets. “Feel a little sick.”

  “Wait till you get down to puke,” Gull advised.

  “Libby, you’re second jump.” Rowan put on her helmet. “You just follow me down. Got it?”