by Anne Marsh
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Behind him, he sensed rather than heard Livy move. Damn it. She wasn’t staying put, either. That put a little pickup in his step and he moved away from their sleeping bag, blade out, scanning the shadows.
Holm Arthurs shot out of the shadows with no warning. Despite the camouflage paint on his face, there was no mistaking the lethal intent there. The knives hung about the man and the ammo belt strapped to his chest warned that the tango was packing. And he wasn’t hunting bear.
He was hunting Livy.
Sam, however, was making damned sure that never happened again.
Holm thrust, straight and hard, sending twelve inches of lethal nasty punching towards Sam’s gut. He held a second blade in reserve in his left.
“Park’s closed.” Sam snarled the words, twisting to move out of the danger zone. He pushed his arms down hard in an X-block, forcing Holm’s blade hand downwards as his steel toe made contact with Holm’s thigh. In the next moment, he pulled Holm’s arm over and back into a wristlock.
“Looks like you’re open for business to me.” Holm’s lips peeled back in a rictus of anger and pain. The man wasn’t giving up and the crazed look in those eyes said no one was home, either. “You like my fire, ranger?”
Hell. Three hundred acres and Sam’s team was on the line. He damned sure hadn’t liked the implications of the arsenal stashed in Holm’s woodland bunker, but these words were fuel for his fury.
Holm wasn’t done yet, though. Cursing, he fought Sam’s wristlock. A snap of bone announced he was free. “You got to be willing to sacrifice,” he snarled, putting a few feet between him and Sam.
Well, hell. That was two kinds of crazy. A second later, he heard Livy behind him.
Holm charged and it was like being hit by a freight train. Holm rained down lethal punches, and Sam returned the favor, striking hard and fast as he kept his body between the other man and Livy, leading him away from their campsite. Another blow and he and Holm were locked arm in arm, grappling fiercely.
Strike. Hit hard. Block.
The world shrank to the man trying to kill him.
When the trip wire had sounded, Sam had rolled off her, putting his finger to her lips. Motioning for silence. In the predawn light, he was an unfamiliar warrior. This was the man who fought overseas, who picked up a gun and did what needed doing to keep his country safe. Now he was keeping her safe—and the fiercely protective look on his face was both thrilling and annoying.
She had a job to do here, too.
Rolling silently to her feet, she’d pulled on her boots and chambered a round in her Glock. She’d trained for this kind of confrontation and she wasn’t helpless.
The warmth and something else she felt at his fierce protectiveness were satisfying, but she wasn’t hanging back and waiting for him to take care of business. This was her business. FBI business. Pushing to her feet, she’d moved out. This could simply turn out to be a false alarm, a nocturnal four-legged visitor who’d wandered into Sam’s trip wire.
Or not.
Twenty feet downslope, Sam was a dark shadow. And he wasn’t alone, not by a long shot. Sam lunged in a blur of motion and the other male grunted. She heard the wet thud of flesh slamming into flesh. Her gun was a liability in the near-dark. She couldn’t see to aim—and no way she would run the risk of hitting Sam. Her eyes were adjusting to the lack of light, but not enough to take the chance.
The sharp, acrid smell of smoke almost choked her. Downslope, the smoke was thicker and denser, a moving carpet of gray. The forest fire that had kept them out here still burned on the horizon. The night sky was black, the stars smoked out, except along that deadly orange edge. When she looked, she caught the occasional bright, hot flicker as a ponderosa candled and flamed up.
That smoke was drifting away; the twinkle of spot fires was like some kind of otherworldly Christmas lights. The slope here, however, was lit right up, bright enough to make out individual pines and the thick haze of smoke. Holm had started another fire. She’d bet everything on that.
Drawing, she pointed her weapon at the combatants.
“FBI. Stand down,” she snarled. “Get your hands up, Holm Arthurs.”
She had to play this by the book. An arrest was risky, but her job was to bring him in. Not stand here like a damsel-in-distress and watch Sam pummel him. Or get pummeled.
Holm landed a punch, a hard left hook to Sam’s jaw that snapped Sam’s head back. Sam just growled and returned the blow. She didn’t know how Holm was fighting with a clearly injured wrist, but the man was a demon.
“You’re not leaving my woods,” Holm spat around a mouthful of blood. “Stupid coming here.”
He pulled a blade and smashed his head into Sam’s jaw.
“Draw,” Sam ordered her, rolling and pinning the other man’s arm to the ground.
Holm scissored his legs up, jackhammering into Sam’s back. The knife disappeared between the two men.
“Take the shot,” Sam roared. “Livy, just fucking do it!”
She got her finger on the trigger and pointed the gun. At the man she just might love. Can’t do this. The two men rolled again, reversing positions, and she still couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring herself to take the chance that her bullet would slam into Sam’s side, Sam’s back.
Think.
There had to be another way to end this. Fast. Grabbing a burning branch, she waited for the next desperate roll and then brought her makeshift weapon down hard. Holm reared up, blade coming down, and Sam groaned. Pushed back.
Again.
She raised the branch over her head, but then Holm was screaming, a high-pitched animal noise. Sam brought his feet up and pushed hard against Holm’s chest and the man staggered downhill. On fire. The heat from the branch had ignited the camouflage paint on his face. In a frenzy, the man ran and the flames leaped greedily, sucking in the air generated by his run, and crawling over his forehead. His hair. Down his clothes.
The flames from the branch bit into her fingers and she dropped it. Oh, God. All she could do was stand there and watch as Holm disappeared into the forest fire he’d set, screaming until he stopped and there was nothing left but the sounds of the flames.
“Christ, woman.” Sam rolled, extinguishing flames, and pushed to his feet. “Are you trying to set me on fire?”
Chapter Seven
As soon as the sun came up, Sam had them hiking towards the smoke jumper pickup. Based on yesterday’s intel, the jumpers were working five miles inland in rough terrain and had been for two days. That meant some of their number would be flown out soon for some rest before rejoining the firefight. Part of Olivia wished he wasn’t in such a rush. Leaving their makeshift campsite seemed all too final. They’d spent the night together, but would that really make a difference in the grand scheme of things, even if he’d kissed her?
More than kissed her.
Hell, her knees were still jelly from the orgasm he’d given her.
Their almost-sex had been amazing, but it hadn’t been just a one-night quickie. Not for her. No, she’d apparently made the mistake of thinking his touching her meant something more. Instead of hiking out with a lover, however, she appeared to be stuck with the park ranger this morning.
If Holm Arthurs had been watching today, she and Sam could have been any man and woman out for a little day hike, pulling each other along and pointing things out. The forest hadn’t burned here, although that ominous plume of smoke—smaller today—still boiled up on their left.
They talked as they walked, but not about the night. Instead, he caught her up on what he’d been doing, and she did the same. Almost as if they were two not-quite-strangers who’d had a chance re-encounter in a bar and decided to condense ten years into a few hours. Filling in the blanks was nice, but strangely impersonal. So, all in all, it was too bad she didn’t have the beer. Then maybe she’d have found the courage to ask him why he was pushing her away when that was the last thing she wan
ted.
Instead, she hiked along beside him and didn’t know whether she should be relieved or disappointed when he paused and pointed.
“There,” he said, and moments later they broke out of the trees and onto the edge of a large field. “That’s our pickup point, right there in the middle.”
Overhead a tanker finished dropping its load of retardant and lumbered away southeast. Another smaller, sleeker plane moved in, taking the tanker’s place. Sam eyed the newcomer from behind his aviator glasses.
“That’s a Donovan Brothers plane, so they’ll have Spotted Dick running the controls. He’s one of the best in the business. Watch—he and his kicker will put that load down square in the bottom of the canyon.”
Sam followed the plane moving into position like a man eyeing a football and the distance to the uprights down field. He was all hotshot now, his concentration sexy as hell as he measured the tall ponderosas lining the clearing with obvious concern.
Thin ribbons of colored streamers flew out the door of the DC-13, riding the air down until Livy lost sight of the streamers in the treetops.
“They’ll unload now.” Unexpectedly, Sam took her hand, pulling her up against his side. His fingers tangled with hers. She wished they were skin to skin, without the Nomex barrier between them, but safety came first.
“Yeah, baby,” he muttered, squeezing her hand, as the plane finished its recon pass, turned steeply, and the pilot—this Spotted Dick—lined it up with the patch of bare ground that was apparently the day’s drop zone.
Spotted Dick came back, smooth and steady down the canyon, the sun lighting up the plane’s tail. Before the plane reached the field, a series of cardboard boxes wrapped in webbing harness shot out the open side door one after the other and fell towards the ground. Seconds later, chutes snapped open above the boxes, slowing the free fall. One after another, the boxes floated lazily down and slammed into the cleared space with a bone-jarring thud. Whooping, the guys hanging back on the edge of the clearing swarmed the cargo, thumbs-upping the pilot.
Sam let go of her hand and started towards the jumpers.
“We should be able to hitch you a ride back to Big Bear with the jumpers who are ready to pack out.”
The events of the previous day and night seemed like a dream. Logically, she understood that they both had jobs to do—and those jobs were pulling them in separate directions just like that last summer ten years ago. Now wasn’t the time for kisses. Sam needed to go back to his hotshot crew, and she needed to hunker down at the local FBI office and debrief. She’d taken down a domestic terrorist. She’d earned her promotion. So why did she feel so lost? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about last night and about Sam and second chances?
As they got closer, the noise got louder. Smoke jumpers catcalled and teased one another, filling the air with good-natured cursing and instructions beneath the deafening roar of the tankers overhead. There was fire here, too, but less than what she’d seen yesterday, and none of it had crossed the raw, black line of earth cutting along the edge of the clearing.
Maybe that was because there had to be—she did a quick headcount—at least ten smoke jumpers digging hard and fast. And damned if the fire wasn’t giving way before their fierce determination. If sheer strength of will could put out flames, these boys had this fire contained.
When Sam pushed through the brush and approached, they slapped him on the back, nodded their heads towards her, and kept on digging. Like two more people popping out of a wildfire was just par for the course and nothing mattered more than that line in the dirt.
Sam headed straight for the big-ass man at the end of the line. “You got room for one more on your next pickup?”
The jumper directed a curious look towards her. “Sure. But who’s your new friend?”
“You got a new dating service out here in the bush?” The man cutting line next to the first jumper eyed her and smiled, a slow, hot smoky smile that should have been illegal—and that definitely should have made her feel something. But nope. Nada. The man was a walking ad for naughty, even two days into the job, and she didn’t care. For a moment, she panicked, but she knew the reason for her don’t-give-a-damn was standing next to her. She only had eyes for Sam Clayton and that was the real problem.
Mr. Tall, Golden, and Sexy continued his play, sending her another bone-melting grin. “’Cause, if that’s so, you got to sign me up. She’s way better looking than this lot.”
“Special Agent Albert.” Sam nodded towards the big smoke jumper and then at the man cutting line next to him. “Evan Donovan. Rio Donovan.”
Fleetingly, she wondered how two such polar opposites could be brothers. In the end, she supposed it didn’t matter. God help the female population. Both of them were well-built men who clearly knew a thing or two about working with their hands. They’d make most women wonder what they’d be capable of in their downtime. In bed. On the floor. Hell, in their fire engine. If a woman was going to fantasize, she might as well go all the way.
“Ma’am.” Evan’s large hand swallowed hers. Hell. He might be built like a linebacker, but his grip was careful. A quick close-and-release before she even had time to worry that he might accidentally crush her fingers.
He turned to Sam. “They’re looking for her on the radio. Boys she’s riding with are anxious to have her back.”
“Right here,” she said and Sam laughed.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Evan smiled ruefully and waved towards the middle of the field. “Bird’s inbound now and will be here in five. Take a seat in the departure lounge and we’ll be boarding soon.”
Sam led her over to join a group of five jumpers waiting on the other side of the clearing. It certainly wasn’t like waiting for United Airlines to load a plane. The jumpers lounged on the ground, using their packs as impromptu seats. They looked bone-weary, dirty, and smoky as they swapped war stories about fires fought and one-upped each other. The flames, she noted, grew bigger and longer with each retelling. Maybe it was a guy thing.
A few stories later, a Sikorsky roared overhead, dropping its load of retardant over the ridge before swinging round in a wide arc and heading for the clearing. The plume of white fell away beneath the chopper like a veil settling on the ground.
The whole world narrowed to the chopper coming in, the rotors beating a heavy rhythm as the red-and-white bird dropped over the treeline. Dust exploded up from the ground as the pilot put her down.
“Go,” Sam roared in her ear, his hand steadying her elbow and pulling her up into a crouch. She ran with him, making for the chopper’s side. The pilot flashed a thumbs-up when they crossed his sight line. Dirt, rocks, and the odd twig slammed into their legs, kicked up by the rotor wash.
Sam grabbed the door, sliding it open. She seized the handle and climbed in. Then she paused. Sam wasn’t right behind her.
“You’re not coming?” she yelled, fighting to be heard over the chopper’s noise.
“Not yet.” Anything else he said was swallowed up by the roar of the rotors. Then he was backing away from the door and heading back towards the fire.
She grabbed a seat and buckled in as the jumpers clambered onboard. Two minutes later and the chopper was air bound, the forest falling away beneath them. The clearing where the jumpers were working was smack in the path of the inferno, which just figured. All untouched green on one side, fuel waiting to burn, and a maelstrom of white, black, and orange on the other. As the chopper moved, black char replaced the smoking trees below where the fire had come and gone. From her bird’s-eye view in the sky, she couldn’t tell if anything was left besides the smoldering trunks.
“Base, this is X-ray-Four-Foxtrot.”
“X-ray-Four-Foxtrot, Base. Go ahead.”
“I’m inbound to base from the Big Bear fire with a load of five jumpers and one civilian pickup. ETA is thirty minutes.”
She settled back in her seat, picking at the buckle while she stared out the window and the blades chewed up the air with ruthle
ss efficiency. The firefight was part of her past now. As was her night on the crest line with Sam Clayton.
But was there still hope for the second chance she now wanted so badly?
Evan Donovan leaned on his shovel and watched Sam for a long minute. “That’s likely the last chopper out of here until tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Sam grabbed a tool from the neat stack and set to work. Evan Donovan was a big, dark, irritable bear of a man who could have taken his place on a medieval battlefield and fit in just fine. He didn’t talk much either, which was good with Sam. Soot streaked his stubbled jaw and face, a red flag that Evan had spent the night working his ass off to hold the fire, while Sam had spent the better part of his night holding Livy. He knew Evan couldn’t know about those sweet, watchful hours, but damned if he didn’t feel guilty anyhow. Somehow, he should have found a way back to the fight.
“All right.” Evan punched the Pulaski’s sharp edge through the ground in front of him. Flipped a load over. Those muscled forearms promised he could dig line for hours more if he had to.
Somehow, the idea of pulling an all-nighter no longer held any appeal for Sam. He wanted to be headed back to Big Bear Lake. Hell, who was he kidding? He wanted to go home to Olivia Albert, even though she hadn’t given him any indication that she’d consider something permanent with him.
Evan shot him a look and Sam hoped like hell that those thoughts weren’t written across his puss.