12-Alarm Cowboys

by Cora Seton

  “Impossible.”

  “You like reducing your girls to blubbering, soppy messes?”

  “Actually, it’s never happened before.” He smiled gently and let go of her face.

  She lowered and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

  He placed a hand behind his head and raised it, and then tipped her chin so that once again, their gazes locked. “Baby, I’ve never felt like that either.”

  Chapter Five

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  Saturday morning arrived, and Jeremiah was grumpy, having slept little the night before. They’d returned home in the late afternoon. Carly had hurried straight upstairs to clean up, and then threw herself into chores around the house. No matter how hard he tried to corner her to talk, she managed to slip away.

  He hadn’t slept worth a damn because every time he closed his eyes, he relived those last moments when he’d made love to Carly, remembering how she’d arched and cried out, and then gone limp beneath him.

  He’d never had a woman pass out on him during sex, and it had scared him half to death until she’d moaned and slowly stiffened. The moment her eyes opened, he hadn’t felt any relief because she stared with bruised, damp eyes.

  Her expression haunted him. And he knew why. There was no escaping the fact they’d both found something unimaginable when they’d finally thrown down their defenses and crashed together.

  They’d found a powerful connection. One he wasn’t willing to ignore.

  If only she wasn’t so determined to do exactly that.

  This morning, they stood with the group of volunteers in a field just outside of town. Pale, prickly stalks of cut hay awaited their drip torches. Every volunteer wore fire gear: hard hats, goggles, fire retardant clothing, leather gloves, and boots. Tools had been distributed according to what each person’s role would be during the burn.

  Jeremiah held a drip torch. A two-way radio was clipped to his belt.

  Glancing at Carly, he eyed the oversized yellow fire jacket he’d found because he didn’t want her wearing plain cotton. Her gloves were a little large, too, because he’d borrowed those from Mayra. Carly held a rake, and a sack was tucked and hung from her back pocket. The hard hat and goggles obscured her face, but he could see the grim line of her mouth.

  Again, he wished he knew what was going through her mind. Was she excited or fearful? Either way, he’d keep close to her.

  Caldera’s Fire Chief, Blake Thacker, had been made the Fire Boss above the rep from park services because he was experienced with prescribed burns and knew the local people. He stood on a wooden platform and held a bullhorn. Already, they’d formed teams, talked about their duties during the fire, and now they’d practice setting then extinguishing fires. Each group had their own little piece of the field to practice with, the boundaries marked with white stakes.

  Blake raised a handheld device that measured wind speed. They were all waiting for the moment the speed rose past five miles per hour, because fire wouldn’t move without enough of a breeze to carry it along. He lowered the device and raised his bullhorn. “Teams, set your fires.”

  “Okay, team, get behind the line.” Jeremiah stepped to the boundary line he’d dug with a shovel to mark the border of their burn area and pointed the long nozzle of the drip can at the ground, dispensing a stream of fuel, a mixture of gasoline and diesel. Then he struck and dropped a match.

  The fire ignited, and he walked the end of the small trail he’d already lit and continued squirting fuel to extend the line of flames. When he reached the end of his borderline, he stood behind it with the others, watching as the wind pushed the flames away from them, and caught more of the dry hay, making it crackle and sending up white smoke.

  One corner of the fire wasn’t moving fast enough.

  Jeremiah pointed to Carly. “Use the rake and add more fuel.”

  She raked together a pile of hay and pushed it over the weak flame. The pile ignited, and she stepped back, glancing up at Jeremiah who gave her a thumbs-up.

  He looked around at the advancing flames. “Keep the fire moving forward. Use your shovels and sprayers to put out any flames and embers that persist as we follow the fire.”

  The area they were burning wasn’t very large, but it did give his green crew a chance to practice what they’d learned from Blake and the park service expert when they first arrived. They’d learned about building fireguards and what the terms “front fire”, “back fire” and “flank fire” meant. They’d learned how to use the various forms of rakes and dampers, wet cloths, and sprayers.

  After instruction, each of the teams had broken off, and the team leaders had showed them on a map their area of responsibility come Monday morning, when, if the weather and the wind held out, they’d begin the burn in the early morning hours.

  The low roar of several fires now burning filled the air, along with gusting clouds of smoke. But all was going well. The fires were moving in the desired direction.

  And then Jeremiah noted a sideways gust of wind that carried the smoke toward those on the left flank of the fire. The flames ate at the dry plants, spreading beyond their assigned area. “Get a sprayer over there.” He pointed, then watched as Tater Johnson ran toward the outer edge and began laying down water from the backpack he carried.

  While he sprayed, the rest of his crew pulled away excess hay, robbing the fire of fuel. As Jeremiah watched, all his crew members worked in concert, and slowly, the unruly flames were put out.

  A snap sounded, something settled in the middle of the fire, a flame shot upward, hotter from the color of the flame. A dry branch had somehow found its way into the field. Embers flew high, wafting on the wind. Most blinked out, but a couple were carried into another part of the field, igniting a fresh patch.

  Blake pointed to Tater and Carly and then toward the blaze. “Get that fire out!”

  The two ran toward the flickering flames.

  Jeremiah planted his fists on his hips and watched. He couldn’t do it for them. Come Monday, they’d have to handle any emergency on their own. Still, he grew tense as the flames continued traveling, riding the tall stalks, bending them down, and then leaping to the next.

  Tater flanked it and began laying down water. Leaning over, Carly beat at the flames with her wet sack. Soon, the patch became more smoke than flame. The sizzle of water dousing fire sounded from across the clearing.

  When it was out, Jeremiah sent crew members with shovels and dampers to turn the earth and smother any flame that might still be left.

  Carly walked toward him, holding out her sack, listing a bit to the right. Her mouth wasn’t a thin tight line now, but it was lax and open. Her skin, where it wasn’t smudged, was ghostly pale. “Take it,” she whispered, dropping the sack, and then she crumpled at his feet.

  “Bring me water!” he shouted, going to one knee beside her.

  Tater came up beside him and held out his nozzle. Water sprayed, soaking both Jeremiah and Carly.

  “I meant to drink,” Jeremiah said, sliding up his goggles to see better.

  “Sorry,” Tater muttered. “She okay?”

  “Yeah, get back to the fire.” Jeremiah patted her cheek.

  She slowly blinked open her eyes. Instantly, she sat up. Her hands went to his calf, then his knee as she climbed his body to stand.

  “What happened?” he asked quietly, keeping track of the crew still following the fire from the corner of his eye.

  Carly shook her head and brushed a hand over her mouth. “Guess I should have drank more water before we came out here,” she said, her voice sounding a little hoarse. “The fire dried me out.”

  Jeremiah frowned. “Everyone has to be safety conscious. On Monday, there might not be anyone around to help you. You sure you can do this?”

  She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “Yeah, I’ll head to the mule and get some water.” After turning, she began to walk away.

  Jeremiah bent to grab the wet sack from the ground. “You forgot your equipment.”


  She turned and eyed the sack, then took a deep breath and held out her hand. As she walked away, he noted that she held the sack like she might a snake—like something she feared.

  He wasn’t sure what was going on there, but he didn’t have time to figure it out now. Later, they’d talk—even if he had to tie her to a chair to keep her from eluding him.

  That last thought lingered, and he shook his head, ridding himself of the image of her bound. He had a fire to tend.

  Carly pulled off her gloves, dropping them to the ground, and then pressed the button on the spigot of the water cooler strapped to the back of Jeremiah’s mule. She poured water into a Styrofoam cup, drank down half the contents, then poured some into her palm, and splashed it at her face.

  Dehydration wasn’t why she’d passed out. The air wasn’t hot enough to cause any problems like that. She’d fainted because, as she’d flapped the wet sack at the ground, she’d forgotten to breathe. She’d been caught in a memory of the last time she’d tried to smother a fire.

  The last time had been seven years ago, and Carly had flapped at a fire she’d caused with the blanket she’d slept wrapped inside during an overnight class trip to the canyon. The camping trip had been long anticipated by all of her classmates, and she’d been just as eager. But the event had turned into one long hazing, thanks to Tater’s constant teasing.

  “Carly, where’d you get those shoes? I think my mama gave them to Good Will.”

  “Give Carly the butt end of the chicken, she won’t be too picky what she eats.”

  All she’d wanted was to pay him back for making that trip and her entire high school experience a misery. Yes, she’d known a burn ban was posted inside the park, but what harm could a string of firecrackers do?

  She’d lit them, tossed them into his tent, and then listened, smothering giggles as they exploded and he’d screamed and rushed out into the clearing in his underwear.

  But her glee had turned to horror as first his tent, and then the dry grass around it, caught fire. She’d grabbed her blanket and attempted to smother it, but she’d been too vigorous flapping it at the flames, and the cheap acrylic material wasn’t fire retardant—the blanket went up in flames.

  Sparks had flown to nearby pine trees, which had gone up like Roman candles. Before too long, every teen in the campsite was running for their vehicles or the river, and the fire had spread toward the canyon rim. The fact no one had been injured was a miracle, something the judge said as he’d pointed his finger toward her when he rendered his judgment.

  Carly poured the rest of the water into the dirt and reached down to swipe up the gloves. She hated showing weakness. Hated that fear had overcome her. Hated even more that Tater, but especially Jeremiah, had been witness to her moment of weakness.

  But she had to get through the next couple of days. Not only to make sure her record would be expunged, but to prove to everyone in Caldera, she wasn’t that same reckless, stupid girl.

  She picked up the wet sack, held it beneath the spigot, soaking it again, and then returned to the fire line, giving Jeremiah a smile and hoping he’d let the whole issue drop. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened. Didn’t want to continue to relive it. After she’d set the fire, she’d spent the last of her teenage years either in juvie or group homes, every action scrutinized like she was criminal—and in fact, she had been.

  All around her, the fire continued to eat the hay, flickering and crackling. Pretty flames were the destroyer of lives and of dreams. The only thing she felt these days when she looked at them was dread. Just two more days, and her long ordeal would be over. She could go back to her life and make it better. Hell, maybe she’d move again. Far away from her past.

  Against her will, she found her gaze seeking Jeremiah’s tall frame as he shouted orders to his team. A dull pain settled in her chest. Sure, it was nice that he’d forgiven her, and sex with him had been amazing, and she knew she’d miss the way she felt when they were alone together, but there was nothing, not even the truth, between them.

  That afternoon, Jeremiah stood watching as Carly knelt beside a mama goat whose udder was painfully swollen with milk. Watching her catch the goat had been so comical, he’d had to fight laughter. The goat had run in circles inside of the pen while Carly attempted to coax her to come closer by shaking a grain bucket.

  But once the goat had a rope slipped around her neck, she’d followed docilely behind Carly who led her to the milking stand. As instructed, Carly had set the grain bucket into the holder at the front of the stanchion and grinned when the goat put her head through the slatted, wooden bars to reach her food. Then Carly used sterile wipes to clean her udder.

  She’d been tentative at first. Penny, the goat, had eyed Carly with suspicion and given a mournful bleat.

  Now, Carly placed a bucket beneath her to catch the milk.

  As he leaned against the barn, he hid a smile and chewed on the end of a piece of grass. He’d offered to show her how to milk a goat, but she’d refused, saying Mayra had explained it all, and she wasn’t stupid.

  Carly didn’t look so sure now as she moved beside the goat. Her eyebrows were lowered in a fierce frown. Her lips were crimped into a stubborn line.

  Maybe he wasn’t being fair watching as she worked her way through the process, but that was just her tough luck. He wasn’t budging.

  They still hadn’t had their little talk. He’d let her milk the goat, then he’d draw her away to have a private conversation.

  He needed to know she was all right after passing out in the hay field. More than that, he needed to hold her again. Last night, he’d been restless and horny, thinking about their time beside the stream. After tomorrow, she might disappear again, and he had to know whether any chance at all existed that she might agree to continue seeing him. He wasn’t ready to let her go.

  Carly set aside the cloth and gripped both teats. The fact she was holding a goat’s teats in her hands was bizarre enough. The fact she had to get milk out them kind-of grossed her out.

  But she’d agreed to this chore, even though she was sure Jeremiah was silently laughing behind her back. Yes, she’d seen him standing there, muscled arms crossed over his broad chest and his cowboy hat tipped low.

  Lord, he was sexy. He didn’t have do anything, didn’t have to speak. Just the sight of him did something to her. Reminded her of all the nasty things he’d done to her there beside the stream with his hands, his mouth…and his wicked, wicked tongue.

  Last night, she’d been tempted half a dozen times to creep down the hallway to his bedroom, but didn’t want to seem too desperate. If she’d heard him knock on her door, she would have let him in, but he hadn’t.

  Her fingers tightened, she squeezed. Nothing happened. She tried again, this time squeezing harder, but only made the goat bleat louder.

  A soft chuckling came from beside her. “Are you giving up? I can show you how.”

  Carly aimed a glare up at him. “Fine. Show me. The sooner I get this done—”

  “I know. The sooner you can get the hell away from me.”

  He said the words like the idea rankled with him. Were his feelings hurt? She frowned as he settled behind her, so close the heat of his skin warmed her back. “Put your hands on her teats.”

  She really hated that word. Teats. Like it was more polite than tits. So why were her own nipples tightening? She gripped the teats as she had before, her thumb and forefinger holding the appendages close to the udder.

  His arms encircled her, his hands closed over hers, his fingers aligning atop her fingers. “Squeezing at the top traps the milk in her teats.”

  “I know that,” she muttered. “Show me something I don’t.”

  “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” he asked, his mouth beside her ear.

  She squirmed on the stool. “I slept great.”

  “Funny,” he said, his voice dropping deeper. “I didn’t. I kept thinking about what happened.
I kept wishing you’d slip into my bed. Why didn’t you?”

  Carly grew warm. Her skin prickled into goose bumps. She should laugh and tell him she hadn’t thought about him at all. But she liked the way he felt, wrapped around her, his hands holding hers. Laughter would be a kind of rejection, and the last thing she wanted was to push him away. “You didn’t invite me,” she said, keeping her voice even.

  He chuckled. “Didn’t think I had to. I apologize. Neither of us should have spent a restless night.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, the milk is trapped, now you have to coax it down the—”

  “Teat,” she ground out, clamping her jaw tight.

  “You don’t like that word?”

  “It just sounds wrong. Especially the way Mayra said it with her accent.”

  His laughter rocked his chest against her back, and she leaned against him to keep from toppling.

  “You squeeze your fingers, one at time, moving down the tit,” he whispered.

  A squirt of milk rang against the side the bucket.

  Success. Carly laughed and turned her face to Jeremiah’s. Her smile faded as she stared into his taut features. Her gaze went to his mouth, and he leaned toward her.

  The goat bleated.

  Carly jerked away. “We should milk her.”

  “Quickly,” Jeremiah said, continuing to coach her with presses against her fingers.

  The bucket filled, and the pungent scent of goat milk rose to surround them.

  “Think that will do it,” he said, and then stood, helping her with a hand at her elbow. He dipped down to turn the goat’s head and push her out of the stanchion.

  Penny trotted away, bleating as she rejoined her kids.

  Jeremiah picked up the bucket, and then grabbed for Carly’s hand. “Let’s drop this with Mayra.”

  She didn’t even try to tug away her hand. She liked the way his felt, surrounding hers, forcing her to follow.

  Mayra was nowhere in sight when they entered the kitchen.

  He set the bucket in the sink then moved through the kitchen doors to the living room, tossing his hat toward the sofa. Then he turned to head down a dark hallway. At the end, he opened the door of an office or a library, or maybe it was both.