“I’m in the creek,” Jill called. “Stuck trying to get back to your side.”
Randall looked down the slope and saw the big red engine down in the bottom of the valley. The fire was still running hot through the trees, headed her way. This first fireline was only to get the fire off the slopes. The second battle would be down in the those trees, so there was nothing set up there yet to protect her.
He slammed into gear and raced down the hill toward her, barely remembering to warn Sheila to hang on before he slammed over a foot-thick fallen tree.
“I stuck it good,” Jill called out as he drove up. She already had a length of chain hooked up to her front bumper, but the slope was steep and he wouldn’t have a lot of extra power to pull her free while trying to climb. Hopefully it would be enough because she was wheel deep in creek water and the fire was on the move.
He backed down as close as he dared, already feeling the first of the fire’s heat through the window. Jill shot him a thumbs up as soon as she had the chain hooked up and raced back to her truck.
They eased into first gear together, but it wasn’t budging. The fire wasn’t going to give him time to unhook, circle around, and try pulling her back the other way.
Sheila cursed from beside him and then was gone with a slam of her door.
He didn’t have time to deal with whatever snit-fit she was having. In the rearview mirror he kept an eye on Jill in the stuck fire engine’s driver’s seat as they tried once more to dislodge it without success.
The warmth of the fire was now up to a hot summer’s day and climbing fast. Even with both engines pumping, the flames would be too big to fight directly.
Then, shortly before he was going to call her to abandon her engine, he saw Sheila stalk up to Jill’s driver-side door. She yanked it open and, with little ceremony, shoved Jill over into the passenger seat.
“Give me five feet of slack,” her terse command snapped over the radio.
Randall glanced once at the flames. He should call for them to abandon the engine. There would barely be time to undo the chain and get the hell out.
“Don’t think. Do it!”
Randall smiled to himself as he eased off the chain. That sounded just like his Sheila.
She began rocking the truck back and forth in the creek. The slick rocks gave her little purchase, but she was getting some motion as she slammed back and forth between drive and reverse.
“On five. Give me everything you’ve got, Randall.”
He shoved in the clutch, shifted into first, and revved the engine. It had better work on five because by ten the fire would overrun both of them.
Sheila counted down her increasing rocking motion.
Her shout of “Now!” came just halfway between a rear swing and a forward one.
Anticipating her, he came off the clutch hard and slammed down on the gas.
The five feet of slack jerked out of the chain, jarring him hard against his seatbelt.
He kept his foot down and the big diesel groaned with power.
As if the creek didn’t want to let go, the other engine emerged a foot at a time, sheeting water to the sides.
There was a moment when their momentum hung in the balance as grass and mud sprayed off their spinning tires, but his front pair found some traction on good soil and it was enough to drag them both forward and up the slope.
He checked the rearview and watched as a burning tree crashed down where the engine had been stuck just moments before.
12
“That felt good,” Sheila couldn’t stop saying it. “That felt soooo good.”
“Hey!” Randall complained. “You’re only supposed to be saying that about me.”
Sheila grabbed Randall and shoved his back against the rear wall of the fire station. He stopped complaining when she kissed him. The joy that coursed through her ran deep and hot and she poured it into the kiss.
His strong arms clamped tight around her just as they had that first night she’d climbed into his bed. Except now it wasn’t about being held—it was all about who was holding her.
“You don’t feel good, Randall,” she nibbled at his neck making him squirm. “You feel incredible!”
He laughed at her crow of delight.
“Will you two cut it out?” Candace stuck her head out the back door of the equipment bay. “We can hear you right through the wall.”
“Nope,” Sheila had no intention of stopping with Randall any time soon.
Candace looked at her watch. “I figure you have one hour to get home, shower, and get back here after picking up the pies at Sam’s place. Get a move on, I don’t like my pies or my hotshots to be late.” And she slammed the door.
Randall laughed and tried to pull her back into a kiss, but she held off.
Her mental processes really weren’t slow. They didn’t feel slow anyway. Maybe that was all part of the issue. But she’d heard something that…
“Did Candace just say ‘hotshots’? Plural?”
Randall sobered and turned to study the closed door.
Then she felt his shrug.
“Could be…”
13
The shower was fun as always.
Sheila almost felt shy sharing it with the firefighter that Randall had turned into, but shy had never been a thing between them. Still, now that she knew the hard-core firefighter that lurked beneath his easy-going demeanor, it was like she was with someone else. Someone even better than she’d thought she was with, which was astonishing as she’d been counting herself damned lucky of late.
And Randall got her to smile as they went into the Bavarian Bakery to pick up the pies for dinner; the place was such classic German kitsch. But the sample cinnamon rugelach they’d split had been splendidly authentic.
It was so different walking through town now than it had been a month ago. It didn’t matter that the snow was artificial; the town glittered with tiny ice crystals. The polka band was in full swing as were the chaotic crowds of children. She managed to dodge all collisions this time, so there would be no test of their reaction to her—something she still wasn’t ready for.
“Damn, I keep forgetting to buy twinkle lights.”
He hesitated in front of the Christmas store window, and she didn’t even cringe.
“When I told my sister that I was in love, she said I should get some twinkle lights for the bedroom,” he set off walking again.
“When you told your sister…what?” Sheila ground to a halt. In love? Some chattering tourist couple slammed into her from behind and bounced off.
Randall simply smiled at her. “I think making love to you by the light of twinkle lights would be a very good thing.”
“No. What’s that other thing you said?”
“See? I told you there weren’t any issues with your reaction time,” he kissed her on the nose and then kept walking toward the fire station with his armful of pie boxes.
Sheila wasn’t used to having to scramble to keep up with a man.
Luke came out of a side street not a dozen steps ahead. There were some things that she definitely wasn’t going to discuss in front of him.
Or at all.
And the crowd built from there.
Or was she?
By the time they reached the fire station, more firefighters and families had joined them. They all greeted her by name, made her feel welcome. Sheila realized that she knew all of their names as well. Had eaten at several of their houses. Knew most of the kids’ names too. When did that happen?
With no privacy, she could only puzzle at Randall’s statement. The problem was that the more she did, the less strange it became. She cared for Randall. She really did. Is that what love felt like? If it was, how in hell was she supposed to know.
It was halfway through the dinner before she was able to track down Candace and ask her what that “hotshots” comment had meant.
“One of the main things I look for when I’m building my hotshot team is what you show
ed today.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not afraid of fire. You keep thinking even when it’s right on top of you. Damned hard to test that without a real fire.”
Sheila had driven through enough shellings and bombardment that the fire hadn’t fazed her at all. “What are the other things?”
“Saving my damned engine,” Candace grinned at her. “Work with Randall, get your red card. Tryouts are in the spring, not that you need to worry about that.” She punched Sheila on the arm like guys did and strutted back into the crowd. It was no longer a surprise that she had married a Navy SEAL and was keeping him happy.
It was only at the end of the night, as she and Randall were walking arm in arm back through the sleeping village that Sheila really connected that this was Christmas Eve…she checked the cuckoo clock in the window of Der Markt Platz…no, Christmas Day. She’d known it was close. Obligatory call with Mom about whether or not she was coming home for it, etc. etc. But the firehall dinner had just been a Christmas party. Not the official Eve of.
“I didn’t get you anything, Randall. Please tell me that you didn’t get me a present either.”
He looked aside as if seeking a subject change.
“Oh no! What did you get me? Are there any shops open past midnight?” The empty street answered that one. “Maybe McDonald’s up on the highway is open and I could get you some French fries.”
Now he seemed to be the one having trouble connecting words. After a few slowing paces, he turned and led her away from the shops to the small park where the band had been playing Christmas carols earlier. She could still hear them on the night air. That should have reminded her to get him something, would have if they hadn’t been playing them since the moment of her arrival back at Thanksgiving.
He led her to the little gazebo and sat beside her on the bench.
“I got you something,” his voice was low and rough. “Probably pretty damned stupid, but…” His shrug showed his sudden unease.
“Just, I don’t know, just give it to me and I’ll get you something equally stupid when the stores reopen. Then we’ll be even.” It came out in a mad rush. She didn’t know why she was feeling so nervous. It wasn’t like her.
“Equally stupid?” There was a tease in his voice that she’d come to like. There was never a hidden agenda behind it; it was more his way of laughing with her rather than at her. And he took her return teases in stride just as easily as he took her silences.
“I promise,” Sheila raised her right hand. “Equally stupid.”
“Okay,” he blew out a hard huff of breath that made a brief cloud in the chill air. He dug into a pocket, pulled out a small box, and opened it.
Inside was a golden ring with a small ruby the color of fire. “It’s beautiful. Simple and perfect.”
“It’s yours, if you want it.”
“Of course I do, it’s—” and with those words her brain seized up.
I do? Randall hadn’t offered her a present. Well, not a present like a present present. Her brain was babbling.
She looked up into his dark eyes and studied him carefully by the soft street lighting. He didn’t look away. Didn’t shy off.
“You said to just give it to you,” he explained. “I had a speech, which I can’t remember. I’ll kneel if you’d like. But the important part is that every one of my days has been better for having you in it. I’m betting that isn’t going to change. I know it won’t.”
Sheila wanted to protest that she was a wreck, but she didn’t feel like one. Not when Randall was around. She felt capable, strong…
She looked at the ring once more. It wasn’t as simple as it had first appeared. The band was twisted, like a mobius strip. All one side, the inside becoming the outside and the outside in. It was an elegant piece of work.
And it was who she was, all twisted up, the inside and the outside blurred until they became one because of the man waiting patiently beside her.
Well, not altogether patiently. She knew him well enough to see the strain, but he’d never pushed her to be other than who she was. That’s when she knew that the ring wasn’t the gift, Randall Jones was. A life-long sized gift.
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly.
“Something equally stupid…” she whispered against his lips. “I promise. I really do.”
If you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy:
Wild Fire
The riveting conclusion to the Firehawks series!
Excerpt
“Gordon. Hit the hotspot at your two o’clock.”
“Perfect,” Gordon Finchley mumbled to himself. The call came from Mark Henderson, the Incident Commander-Air, the moment after Gordon carved his MD 530 helicopter the other way toward a flaming hotspot at eleven o’clock and hit the release on his load of water.
Two hundred gallons spilled down out of his helo’s belly tank and punched the cluster of burning alders square in the heart. He glanced back as he continued his turn and the flames were now hidden in the cloud of steam, which meant it was a good hit.
“Die, you dog!” He yelled it at the flames like…Austin Powers…yelling at something. He really had to work on his macho. Or maybe just give it up as a lost cause.
“I have the other one, Mark,” Vanessa called up to the ICA from her own MD 530. Her touch of an Italian accent still completely slayed Gordon…and any other guy who met her. Because her “Italian” was more than just her voice.
Gordon twisted his bird enough sideways to watch her, which was always a pleasure, in the air or on the ground. Vanessa Donatella flew her tiny, four-seater helicopter the same way she looked: smooth, beautiful, and just a little bit delicate. Her water attack was also dead on. It punched down the second spot fire, which had been ignited by an ember cast far ahead of the main fire.
The two of them were fighting their aerial battle beyond the head of the wildfire—he and Vanessa were making sure that nothing sparked to life ahead of the line of defense. He could just make out the Mount Hood Aviation smokejumpers suited up in flame-resistant yellow Nomex, defending a ridgeline. The heavy hitters of the main airshow, MHA’s three Firehawks and a Twin 212 helicopter, were attacking the primary fire, ducking in and around the columns of smoke and flame to deliver their loads where the smokejumpers most needed them.
He twisted back to straight flight, popped up high enough to clear the leading edge of the flames, then ducked through the thin veil of smoke and dove down over the burning bank at the lake’s shore. He could feel the wash of radiated heat through the large windshield that gave him such a great view—a nearly unbroken sweep of acrylic starting below his feet on the rudder pedals, then sweeping above his head. It became much cooler once he punched out over the open lake.
Gordon slid to a hover with his skids just ten feet over the water—low enough to unreel his snorkel hose and let the pump head dip below the lake’s surface. It would be forty seconds until he had two hundred more gallons aboard.
Vanessa slid her helo down close beside him and dunked her own hose.
Their helos were identical except for the large identifying numbers on the side. The MD 530 was as small as a helicopter could be and still have four seats. Last season they’d switched from dipping buckets dangling on longlines to belly tanks attached between the skids. There was an art to steering the swinging buckets to their target that Gordon could get nostalgic about, but the tank was certainly more convenient.
Their helos were painted with the MHA colors: gloss black with red-and-orange flames running down the sides. The effect was a bit ruined by the big windshields that made up the whole nose of the aircraft, but Gordon would take the visibility any day.
“Nice hit,” he offered. The pilots kept a second radio tuned to a private frequency so that they could coordinate among themselves without interfering with the ICA’s commands to the airshow. It also allowed them to chat in these brief quiet moments. In the background was a third radio tuned to the ground team. Than
kfully, there weren’t any fixed-wing aircraft attacking the fire or there’d be a fourth radio running. When flying solo, it could be harder to fight the radios than the fire.
“You too. It is such a pity that you hit the wrong fire.” He could feel Vanessa’s warmth in her tease.
“Even a couple seconds more warning would have worked. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mark was doing it on purpose.”
“Whine. Whine. Whine.”
They shared a smile across the hundred feet that separated them. It was a real bummer that it hadn’t worked out between them. After months of silent but—he eventually discovered—mutual attraction, they’d gotten together. Only to have nothing come of it. Making love to someone as beautiful and gentle as Vanessa was a joy, but there’d been no spark. They’d talked about it, tried again, and still nothing. Despite his typical awkwardness around stunning women (most women really) and Vanessa’s natural shyness—or perhaps because of the combination—they’d come out of it as close friends. Friends without benefits, which was still a pity, but good friends.
His water tank gauge reached full and he lifted aloft as he reeled in his hose. Vanessa would be about ten seconds behind him.
Together they flew over the flaming bank that sloped steeply up from the lake. No point in fighting that fire, it would burn down to the shore and then there would be nowhere else for it to go. It was simply one flank of the main fire. The head itself was a long burn running south toward a community of homes at the other end of the lake—that they had to defend.
Henderson gave him enough lead time to pick his path this time. His whine to Vanessa had some basis. Messing with a pilot didn’t sound like Henderson at all, but lately there’d definitely been something going on.
Gordon shrugged to himself.
He was never big on worrying about what came next. After three years of flying for the man, Gordon knew that whatever Henderson’s game was, it would show up only when he was good and ready to reveal it. But another part of him—the one that had told his father precisely where he could ram a hot branding iron the day he’d left the family ranch for the last time—decided that if Henderson kept it up, Gordon might need to buy a branding iron of his own.
A Hotshot Christmas Page 3