Chasing Fire

by Нора Робертс

  Rowan slid open her eyes to see Matt watching her with a sleepy smile. “What’s your pick, Matt?”

  “My ma’s chicken and dumplings. Best ever. Just pour it in a fivegallon bucket so I can stick my head in and chow it down. Cherry cobbler and homemade whipped cream.”

  “Everybody knows whipped cream comes in a can.”

  “Not at my ma’s house. But I’m hungry enough to eat five-day-old pizza, and the box it came in.”

  “Pizza,” Libby moaned, then tried to find a more comfortable curl on her seat. “I never thought I could be this empty and live.”

  “Eighteen hours on the line’ll do it.” Rowan yawned, rolled over, and let the voices, the snoring, the engines lull her toward sleep.

  “Gonna hit the kitchen when we get back, Ro?” Matt asked her.

  “Mmm. Gotta eat. Gotta shower off the stink first.”

  The next thing she knew they were down. She staggered off the plane through a fog of exhaustion. Once she’d dumped her gear she stumbled to her room, ripped the wrapper off a candy bar. She all but inhaled it while she stripped off her filthy clothes. Barely awake, she aimed for the shower, whimpered a little as the warm water slid over her. Through blurry eyes she watched it run dingy gray into the drain.

  She lathered up, hair, body, face, inhaling the scent of peaches that apparently tripped Gull’s trigger. Rinse and repeat, she ordered herself. Rinse and repeat. And when, at last, the water ran clear, she made a halfhearted attempt to dry off.

  Then fell onto the bed wrapped in the damp towel.

  The dream crept up on her in the twilight layer of sleep, as her mind began to float back from the deep pit of exhaustion.

  Thundering engines, the whip of wind, the heady leap into the sky. The thrill turning to panic—the pound, pound, pound of heart against ribs as she watched, helplessly, Jim plunge toward the burning ground.

  “Hey. Hey. You need to wake up.”

  The voice cutting through the scream in her head, the rough shake on her shoulder, had her bolting up in bed.

  “What? The siren? What?” She stared into Gull’s face, rubbing one hand over her own.

  “No. You were having a nightmare.”

  She breathed in, breathed out, slitting her eyes a little. It was morning—or maybe later—she could tell that much. And Gulliver Curry was in her room, without her permission.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  “Maybe you want to hitch that towel up some? Not that I mind the view. And, in fact, could probably spend the rest of the day admiring it.”

  She glanced down, saw she was naked to the waist, and the towel that had slipped down wasn’t covering much below either. Baring her teeth, she yanked it up and around. “Answer the question before I kick your ass.”

  “You missed breakfast, and you were heading toward missing lunch.”

  “We worked the fire for eighteen hours. I didn’t get to bed till about three in the morning.”

  “So I hear, and good job. But somebody mentioned you didn’t get to eat, and have a fondness for bacon-and-egg sandwiches, with Jack cheese. So...” He jerked his thumb at the bedside table. “I brought you one. I was going to leave it on the nightstand, but you were having a bad one. I woke you up, you flashed me—and just let me insert you have the most magnificent rack it’s ever been my privilege to view—and that brings us up to date.”

  She studied the sandwich, the bottle of soda beside it. This time when she breathed in, the scent nearly made her weep with joy. “You brought me a bacon-and-egg sandwich?”

  “With Jack cheese.”

  “I’d say you earned the flash.”

  “I can go get you another if that’s all it takes.”

  She laughed, yawned, then secured the towel before grabbing the plate. The first bite had her closing her eyes in ecstasy. Wrapped in pleasure, she didn’t order him off the bed when she felt it give under his weight.

  “Thanks,” she said with her mouth full of bite two. “Sincerely.”

  “Let me respond, sincerely. It was way worth it.”

  “I do have exceptional tits.” She reached for the drink, twisted the top off. “The fire kept changing direction on us, spitting out spots. We’d get a line down, and she’d say, Oh, you want to play that way? Try this. But in the end, she couldn’t beat the Zulies. Have you got any word this morning on Stovic?”

  “Now known as Chainsaw. He and his twenty-seven stitches are doing fine.”

  “I should’ve kept a closer eye on him.”

  “He passed the audition, Rowan. Accidents happen. They’re part of the job description.”

  “Can’t argue, but he was part of my team, and I was senior member in that sector.” She shrugged. “He’s okay, so that’s okay.”

  She shifted her gaze. “Your hands look better.”

  “Good enough.” He flexed them. “I’m back on the jump list.”

  “Dobie?”

  “He’s coming along, but it’ll be a couple more days anyway. Little Bear discovered Dobie can sew like Betsy Ross, so he’s been keeping Dobie chained to a machine. I won fifty-six dollars and change at poker last night, and Bicardi—one of the mechanics—got half lit and sang Italian opera. That, I believe, is all the news.”

  “I appreciate the update, and the sandwich. Now go away so I can get dressed.”

  “I’ve already seen you naked.”

  “It’ll take more than a breakfast sandwich for you to see me naked again.”

  “How about dinner?”

  God, he made her laugh. “Out, hotshot. I need to hit the gym, put my time in and work out some of these kinks.”

  “To show what a classy guy I am, I’ll refrain from making any of the obvious comments to that statement.” He rose, picked up the empty plate. “You’re one gorgeous female, Rowan,” he said as he walked out. “It keeps me up at night.”

  “You’re one sexy male, Gulliver,” she murmured when he’d gone. “It’s messing with my head.”

  She put in ninety in the gym, but kept it light and slow to avoid overworking her system, then hit the cookhouse.

  Feeling human again, she texted the basics to her father.

  Killed the fire. Am A-OK. Love you, Ro

  She headed to the loft to check the chute she’d hung the night before. She began to check for holes, snags, defects.

  She glanced up when Matt and Libby came in.

  “Well, don’t you look flat-tailed and dull-eyed.”

  “Remind me never to eat like a pig before crawling into bed.” Libby pressed a hand to her belly. “I couldn’t settle till after five, then lay there like a beached whale.”

  “You didn’t make it to the cookhouse,” Matt commented when he brought his chute over.

  “By the time I scraped off the stink, I barely made it from the shower to the bed. Slept like a rock,” she added, smiling at Libby. “Had room service, put in my ninety PT, ate more, and here I am ready to do it all again.”

  “Sweet.” Libby spread out her chute. “Room service?”

  “Gull brought me a breakfast sandwich.”

  “Is that what they call it in Missoula?”

  Rowan pointed a finger. “Just the sandwich, but he did earn some points. Have either of you seen Chainsaw?”

  “Yeah, I poked in before I ran into Matt. He showed me his stitches.”

  “Is that what they call it in California?”

  “Walked right into that one.”

  “He’s lucky,” Matt said. “Only hit meat. An inch either way, different story.”

  “It comes down to inches, doesn’t it?” Libby ran her fingers over her chute. “Or seconds. Or one tiny lapse of focus. The difference between having an interesting scar or...”

  She trailed off, paled a little. “I’m sorry, Matt. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t even know him.” He continued his inspection, cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know, not for sure, if I was going t
o be able to really do it again until yesterday. In the door, looking down at the fire, waiting for the spotter’s hand to come down on my shoulder. I didn’t know if I could jump fire again.”

  “But you did,” Rowan murmured.

  “Yeah. I told myself I did it for Jim, but until I actually did it... Because you’re right, Libby. It is about inches and seconds. It’s about fate. It’s why we can’t let up. Anyway.” He let out a long breath. “Did you know Dolly’s back?” he asked Rowan.

  “No.” Surprised, Rowan stopped what she was doing. “When? I haven’t seen her on base.”

  “She came back yesterday, while we were on the fire. She came by my room this morning after breakfast.” He kept his gaze fixed on his chute. “She looks okay. Wanted to apologize for how she was after Jim died.”

  “That’s good.” But Rowan felt a twist in her belly as she completed her chute inspection.

  “I told her she ought to do the same to you.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Can I ask who Dolly is?” Libby wondered. “Or should I mind my own business?”

  “She was one of the cooks,” Rowan told her. “She and Jim had a thing. Actually, she tended to have things with a variety, but she’d narrowed it down to Jim most of last season. She took it hard when he died. Understandable.”

  “She came at you with a kitchen knife,” Matt reminded her. “There’s nothing understandable about that.”

  “Well, Jesus.”

  “She sort of came at me,” Rowan corrected as Libby gaped at her.

  “Why?”

  “I was Jim’s jump partner that day. She needed to blame somebody. She went a little crazy, waved the knife at me. But basically she blamed all of us, said we’d all killed him.”

  Rowan waited a beat to see if Matt would comment, but he kept his silence.

  “She took off right after. I don’t think anyone expected she’d be back, or get hired back, for that matter.”

  Matt shifted his feet, looked at her again. “Are you okay with it?”

  “I don’t know.” Rowan rubbed the back of her neck. “I guess if she doesn’t wave sharp implements at me or try to poison me, I’m cool with it.”

  “She’s got a baby.”

  It was Rowan’s turn to gape. “Say what?”

  “She told me she had a baby, a girl, in April.” His eyes watered up a little, so he looked away. “Dolly named her Shiloh. Her ma’s looking after her while Dolly’s working. She said it’s Jim’s.”

  “Well, God, you didn’t know before? Your family doesn’t know?”

  He shook his head. “That’s what she apologized for. She asked if I’d tell my mother, my family, and gave me some pictures. She said I could go see it—her—the baby—if I wanted.”

  “Did Jim know?”

  Color came and went in his face. “She said she told him that morning, before the jump. She said he was really excited, that he picked the name. Boy or girl, he told her, he wanted Shiloh. They were going to get married, she said, in the fall.”

  He drew a wallet-sized photo out of his pocket. “Here she is. This is Shiloh.”

  Libby took the picture. “She’s beautiful, Matt.”

  His eyes cleared at that, and the smile spread. “Bald as a melon. Jim and I were, too, and my sister. I’ve got to call my ma,” he said as Libby passed the photo to Rowan. “I can’t figure out how to tell her.”

  Rowan studied the chubby-cheeked, sparkle-eyed infant before handing the photo back. “Go take a walk, work it out in your head. Then call your mother. She’ll be happy. Maybe a little mad she didn’t know sooner, but overall she’ll be happy. Go on. I’ll take care of your chute.”

  “I can’t get it off my mind, so I guess you’re right. I can finish the chute later.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks. Thanks,” he repeated, and wandered out like a man in a dream.

  “It’s a lot to deal with,” Libby commented.

  “Yeah, it’s a whole lot.”

  She let it simmer in the back of her mind while she worked. Others came in, and since word of Dolly Brakeman’s return spread, it reigned as the hot topic of the day.

  “Have you seen her yet?”

  Rowan shook her head at Trigger. Since she’d finished clearing her own chute, she focused on Matt’s.

  “Word is she came in yesterday afternoon, with her mother and her preacher.”

  “Her what?”

  “Yeah.” Trigger rolled his eyes. “Some Reverend Latterly. The word is it’s her mother’s preacher guy, and Dolly’s going to church regular now. And so they closeted up with L.B. for an hour. This morning, she’s in the kitchen with Lynn and Marg, frying up the bacon.”

  “She can cook.”

  “Yeah, that was never her problem.”

  She met Trigger’s eyes, gave another quick shake of her head. “She’s got a kid now.” Rowan kept her voice low. “There’s no point shaking all that out.”

  “You think the kid’s Jim’s, like she says?”

  “They were banging like bunnies, so why not?” Because, neither of them said, she had a habit of hopping to lots of male bunnies. “Anyway, it’s not our business.”

  “He was one of ours, so you know that makes it our business.”

  She couldn’t deny it, but she tuned out the gossip and speculation until she had stowed the chutes. Then she hunted out Little Bear.

  He straightened from his hunch over his desk, gestured for her to close the door. “I figured you’d be stopping by.”

  “I just want to know if I need to watch my back. I’d as soon not end up with a bread knife between my shoulder blades.”

  He rubbed a spot between his eyebrows. “Do you think I’d let her on base if I thought she’d give you any trouble?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t mind hearing that right out loud.”

  “She worked here three years before Jim. The only problem we ever had was the wind from how fast she’d throw up her skirts. And nobody much had a problem with that, either.”

  “I don’t care if she gave every rookie, snookie, jumper and mechanic blow jobs in the ready room.” Rowan jammed her hands in her pockets, did a little turn around the room. “She’s a good cook.”

  “She is. And from what I heard a lot of men missed those bj’s once she hooked up with Jim. And she’s got a kid now. From the timing of it, and from what she says, it’s his.” L.B. puffed out his cheeks. “She brought her preacher with her. Her mother got her going to church. She needs the work, wants to make amends.”

  He waved a hand in the air. “I’m not going to deny I felt sorry for her, but I’d’ve turned her off if I hadn’t believed she wanted a fresh start for her and the baby. She knows if she gives you or anybody else any trouble, she’s out.”

  “I don’t want that on my head, L.B.”

  He gave Rowan a long look out of solemn brown eyes. “Then think of it on mine. If you’re not all right with this, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Hell.”

  “She’s singing in the choir on Sundays.”

  “Give me a break.” She shoved her hands in her pockets again as L.B. grinned at her. “Fine, fine.” But she dropped down in a chair.

  “Not fine?”

  “Did she tell you she and Jim were going to get married, and he was all happy about the baby?”

  “She did.”

  “The thing is, L.B., I know he was seeing somebody else. We caught that fire last year in St. Joe, and were there three days. Jim hooked up with one of the women on the cook line; he seemed to go for cooks. And I know they met at a motel between here and there a few times when he was off the jump list. Others, too.”

  “I know it. I had to talk to him about expecting me to cover for him with Dolly.”

  “And the day of his accident, I told you, he was jittery on the plane. Not excited but nervous, jumpy. If Dolly dropped the pregnancy on him before we got called out, that’s
probably why. Or part of why.”

  He tapped a pencil on the desk. “I can’t see any reason Dolly has to know any of that. Do you?”

  “No. I’m saying maybe she found God, or finds some comfort in singing for Jesus, but she’s either lying or delusional about Jim. So it’s fine with me if she’s back, as long as we understand that.”

  “I asked Marg to keep an eye on her, let me know how she does.”

  Satisfied, Rowan stood up again. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “They’re getting some lightning strikes up north,” L.B. told her as she started out.

  “Yeah? Maybe we’ll get lucky and jump a fire, then everybody can stop talking about the return of Dolly. Including me.”

  She might as well clear it up altogether, Rowan decided, and made the cookhouse her next stop.

  She found dinner prep under way, as she’d anticipated.

  Marg, the queen of the cookhouse, where she’d reigned a dozen years, stood at the counter quartering red-skinned potatoes. She wore her usual bib apron over a T-shirt and jeans, and her mop of brown hair secured under a bright pink do-rag.

  Steam puffed from pots on the stove while Lady Gaga belted out “Speechless” from the playlist on the MP3 Marg had on the counter.

  Nobody but Marg determined kitchen music.

  She sang along in a strong, smoky alto while keeping the beat with her knife.

  Her Native American blood—from her mother’s grandmother—showed in her cheekbones, but the Irish dominated in the mild white skin dashed with freckles and the lively hazel eyes.

  Those eyes caught Rowan’s now, and rolled toward the woman washing greens in the sink.

  Rowan lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Smells good in here.” She made sure her voice carried over the music.

  At the sink, Dolly froze, then slowly switched off the water and turned.

  Her face was a bit fuller, Rowan noted, and her breasts as well. She had her blond hair in a high, jaunty ponytail, and needed a root job.

  But that was probably unkind, Rowan thought. A new mother had other priorities. The rose in her cheeks came from emotion rather than blush as she cast her gaze down and dried her hands on a cloth.