Under Fire

by Beth Cornelison

  “Didn’t you have radios? Why couldn’t you radio from the mountain for help?” Billows asked Lauren.

  “The signal repeater for that region is out,” she explained. “A malfunction, dead battery, destroyed by lightning or the fire. Who knows?”

  The sheriff looked up from his notes, tapped his pen, arched one graying eyebrow. “So you had no communication? None of this has been reported anywhere?”

  Jackson leveled a hard stare on the sheriff. Something about the man’s off-hand demeanor chafed Jackson’s raw nerves. “We’re reporting it now.”

  Billows bridged his fingers and returned a slit-eyed glare that raised Jackson’s hackles. “Mr. McKay, do you—”

  “Doctor,” he corrected, aware that he sounded defensive. Not caring. “It’s Dr. McKay.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Lauren swing a startled glance his way, obviously puzzled by the challenge in his tone.

  “Sorry. Dr. McKay,” Billows replied, his smile stiffly polite. “Are you aware of the penalties involved for filing a false police report? Especially one alleging terrorist activity?”

  Jackson tensed, his pulse pounding at his temples. “You think I’m making this up?”

  “Under the Patriot Act, filing false charges of terrorist activity is a felony. You could go to jail for a long time if you are lying to me.”

  Jackson shot to his feet and slammed his hands down on the sheriff’s desk. He stuck his face inches from Billows. “And I can bring charges of dereliction of duty against you if you blow me off,” he growled. “I have to get my daughter away from those bastards. Now are you going to take me seriously, or do I need to call the state police?”

  Billows rose calmly to his feet and met Jackson’s glare evenly. “Have a seat, Dr. McKay.”

  “I want my daughter back.”

  “I understand your concern. I’m a father myself.”

  “Then why the hell are you threatening me with jail time? Why would I make this up?”

  Without taking his eyes off Jackson’s, Billows opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a laminated sheet. He held it up for Jackson to get a good look. The heading on the sheet read, Homeland Security Emergency Contacts. “See this? These guys take talk of terrorism very seriously. Before I yank the big dog’s chain, I want to make damn sure he’s got no reason to bite me on the ass. When we start talking national security, chemical attacks, I’m gonna cross all my ‘t’s and dot all my ‘i’s before I sign off.”

  Jackson’s pulse stuttered. Finally, they were getting somewhere. He gave Billows a tight nod. “Good.”

  “Now sit down, and we’ll crack open this can of worms.”

  Jackson paced the narrow space beside Billows’ desk, his attention divided between the gathering dusk out the window and the sheriff’s conversations with various federal agencies. He heard their situation explained over and again to faceless individuals on the other end of Billows’ phone. Faceless individuals who held his daughter’s life in their hands.

  Lauren intercepted him on one of his trips past her chair, rising to brace a hand on each of his shoulders. “I know this is difficult for you, but all your pacing is about to drive me bonkers.”

  “Why is this taking so long? What’s the hold up?” He fiddled with the strap of the arm sling Billows had arranged for a nurse at the nursing home to bring over along with another dose of pain medicine.

  “Red tape, I guess.” When he groaned, she tightened her grip.

  Jackson shoved a hand through his hair. “We should be doing something now!”

  “You have done something. You’ve done everything any father could. More. They’re working on a plan, but these things, coordinating all the agencies, mobilizing people, takes time.”

  “Too much time,” he groused, knowing his bad mood wasn’t helping anything. He grimaced. “Sorry. I’m just…”

  “Tired. Worried about Emily. Impatient. Hungry,” she supplied.

  “Try starved.”

  “I know. Me too. But do you want these people to do this job fast or do it right?”

  With a half-grin, he caught Lauren’s chin between his fingers, stroked her skin with his thumb. “You don’t have to hang out here if you don’t want to. I can take it from here.”

  She slid her arms around his waist and leaned into him. “Maybe I want to hang around. See this thing through to the end.”

  The crush of her body jolted his tired muscles with renewed energy. Moving his good arm to circle her back, he pulled her closer. He inhaled the subtle scents of pine, fresh air and woman that clung to her, savoring what could be one of his last chances to touch her. “Don’t you need to report in? Tell your bosses where you are, arrange a ride home?”

  She twisted her mouth in a scowl. “Yeah. I’ve been stalling.” Ducking her chin, she lowered her gaze and plucked at his shirtfront. “But I guess I shouldn’t.”

  Billows dropped the phone into the cradle and expelled a deep breath. “That was the FBI. They’re arranging a SWAT team. Drawing up a tactical plan. They need to talk to you, get as many specifics about the location of this cabin as you can give them.”

  “Whatever they need. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Lauren nodded toward the phone. “Are there two lines? I need to make a call.”

  “Go ahead.”

  As Lauren stepped around the desk and raised the receiver, Billows gave her a measuring look. “When’s the last time you folks ate?”

  “Power bars for breakfast,” Lauren said.

  The sheriff nodded. “Why don’t you go get something to eat. I’m waiting on several calls to be returned, and nothing’s gonna happen until first light tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Jackson huffed. “Why? What’s the hold up?”

  “Logistics. They need time to map this operation out. And they don’t want to operate in the dark. They feel finding the cabin and getting a jump on your daughter’s captors will go smoother as an early morning raid.”

  Jackson gritted his teeth and stewed over this newest delay.

  On the phone, Lauren said, “Yes, this is Lauren Michaels. I need to speak with the squad leader.”

  Someone from the smokejumping command center in Boise could be here to pick Lauren up within a few hours. But what about him? He faced the sheriff. “What am I supposed to do until morning? I’ve got no money, no car, no place to go.”

  Billows crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. “Tell you what. You two go on over to Erma’s diner. Erma’s the blonde behind the cash register. Tell her I sent you and have her put your meals on my tab.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Thank you, but I can’t—”

  “Dr. McKay, tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a long day. You’d be advised to swallow your pride about now and accept a little help.” Billows pulled out his wallet and tossed a couple of twenties on his desk. “I, for one, don’t want to deal with you anymore on an empty stomach and no sleep.” He slid the cash across to Jackson. “That should cover a room at the Catch-a-Wink down the road a couple blocks. If you’re worried about the money, just mail me a check when this mess is settled.”

  Jackson pocketed the bills and started to thank Billows, but the sheriff wasn’t through. “Just be sure it’s not rubber. Bounced checks are a pain in the ass to deal with. Now get outta here. I’ll call you at the Catch-a-Wink if there’s any news.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lauren said into the phone. “No. We couldn’t. No. I’m all right, and so’s Whitefeather, but Jake Randolf is seriously injured. He’ll need a chopper evac.”

  Billows whistled at Lauren, and she raised her gaze.

  “I’ve already got things in the works for your friend’s evacuation,” the sheriff said. “Tell ’em to get in touch with a Dan Smith with the FBI. His number is here…”

  While Billows ruffled through his stack of notes, Lauren relayed the information.

  Jackson watched her with a heavy feeling in his chest. He wasn’t ready to
tell her goodbye. With all they’d been through in the past two days, she’d found a way under his skin. Maybe even into his heart. He knew he’d never be able to thank her for all she’d done to help him. Without a doubt, Lauren Michaels was an incredible woman.

  As if she’d read his thoughts, she raised her chin at that moment and their gazes clashed. “Actually, sir, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to wait. I’d like to go with the search and rescue team in the morning to look for Boomer and Birdman.” Pause. “Yes, sir, I understand that, but…” She gripped the phone tighter, her eyes still locked with Jackson’s. “There’s a motel here where I can spend the night. I could use the sleep.”

  “Here’s the number.” Billows separated a sheet from the rest in the stack. “Let me talk to him.” He reached for the phone.

  “Yes, sir. Uh, the sheriff wants to give you some information. Right. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Thank you, sir. I will.” She handed the phone to Billows and moved back around the desk, a mysterious little grin tugging her lips as she approached Jackson. “If you don’t have other plans, would you like some company for dinner?”

  “You’re staying?”

  “I told you I wanted to see this thing through to the end.”

  “In that case, I’d love some company at dinner.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Whitefeather predicted, Emily’s company lifted Boomer’s spirits and helped pass the time for both men. Obviously a bright child, Emily spent the afternoon asking endless questions about smokejumping, mountain lions, Boomer’s injury and, of all things, chemical warheads and Agent Orange. Whitefeather couldn’t fathom why a third grader would be concerned with Agent Orange and its effects on people, but he answered as best he could.

  Finally he ran interference, taking Emily on a “nature walk” so that Boomer could get some healing sleep. On their hike around the area, he showed her where to find mullein leaves, which they collected to brew as a tea to ease her asthma.

  Later that evening, Whitefeather poked at the small campfire he’d built and noticed that Emily had grown uncharacteristically quiet. “You okay, little one? Have you run out of questions?”

  Emily shrugged and propped her chin on her hand. “I miss my dad. How long does it take to hike off the mountain anyway?”

  Whitefeather wondered the same. He’d thought Lauren and McKay would have sent help by now. If they’d encountered trouble, they could have been delayed. Whitefeather didn’t want to think what kind of trouble they might have met, didn’t want to give the negative thoughts any power.

  “My grandfather used to say the spirit guides have their own schedule. It doesn’t serve man any good to grow impatient.”

  “Spirit guides? Are they like Indian angels?” she asked.

  Whitefeather grinned. “Something like that.”

  She glanced over where Boomer now snored softly then back at the campfire. “So when do you think my dad will find us?”

  He tossed aside the stick he’d used to poke the fire and moved to sit beside Emily. “I don’t know, little one. Maybe tomorrow. Let’s hope it’s tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “Why do you call me ‘little one’? I’m not that little. Dad says I’m tall for my age.”

  He put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a small hug. “I don’t mean it as anything bad. My grandfather used to call me ‘little one’. He was an elder of the Crow Nation. I was raised by my grandmother and grandfather on the Crow reservation after my father—” He hesitated. No point going into the ugly details of his family’s feud. “Well, my father left.”

  “What about your mom? Where was she?”

  Another long unpleasant story. “My mother is white. She lives in Seattle now, and I see her occasionally. When I can.”

  His evasive answer seemed to satisfy her.

  “My mother died.” Emily looked at him and sighed.

  He’d wondered about McKay’s wife. Where she was, why she wasn’t part of the picture. Raking his long hair back from his face, Whitefeather rolled back to lie on the ground and look at the stars. “Come here, Emily.”

  When he extended an arm in invitation, she nestled against him. Her hands were icy to the touch. He knew she had to be freezing in her thin nightgown, but she hadn’t complained once. Other than his own smelly T-shirt, he had no extra clothes to offer her. She’d wrinkled her nose when he tried to put his sweat-and-smoke ripe shirt on her earlier, so he’d told her to stay close to the campfire instead.

  “You know what I believe?” He rubbed warmth into her arms.

  “What?”

  “I believe the spirits of our ancestors never truly go away. Our bodies die, but spirits live on. I believe my grandfather’s spirit still guides me. Still helps me when I need him, just like when I was a boy.”

  Emily tipped her head toward him. “Cara said she thinks my mom still looks after me.”

  “Are you a mind reader? That’s what I was going to say!”

  She grinned for a moment then sobered. “Do you think my mom sent you to find me? To save me?”

  “I’d bet on it.” He nodded toward the sky. “Look at those stars, little one. Those same stars were in the sky when our ancestors walked the earth. They’ll be here when your children have children.”

  She rolled on her back and gazed at the sky, through the veil of branches. “Did you know the light that we see actually left the stars millions of years ago?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Another sweet smile touched the girl’s lips, before she looked back up at the night sky. In the distance, a wolf howled for its mate, and Emily trembled.

  Whitefeather paged through his memories of childhood and searched for something of interest to distract the girl. “Want me to tell you one of the stories my grandfather used to tell me about the mighty Crow warriors from years ago? Or I can tell you how the Crow believe the Earth was made.”

  Emily rolled to her side and pillowed her hands under her cheek at his shoulder. “Okay.”

  “Well, when Old Man, our creator, came into the world there was only water and darkness in the world. Old Man saw two ducks swimming in the water, and he called to them.” Whitefeather racked his brain to remember the story details.

  If Emily’s mother had seen fit to turn her over to his care, he wouldn’t take that responsibility lightly. A child was a sacred thing.

  “You have that I’m-thinking-about-Emily-and-worried-out-of-my-gourd look again,” Lauren said, when Jackson lapsed into a pensive silence over their pot roast and potatoes at the diner.

  He looked up from his plate, giving his head a tiny shake. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. That wasn’t meant as a criticism.” She stabbed a bite of beef and chewed it slowly. She was beginning to feel human again, having a warm meal in her stomach and a comfortable place to sit and rest.

  “None taken. I just feel guilty eating so well when she…” He sighed and pushed his potatoes around his plate.

  “For the sake of your sanity, let assume that she’s having a hot meal tonight, and she’ll be safe with you tomorrow night.”

  He set his fork aside and rubbed a hand over his face. “God, if they touched her…if they hurt—”

  “Jackson!” Lauren grabbed his hand and clasped his fingers. “Stop it, okay? Worrying is fruitless. It’s natural, but a total waste of energy. You need to be channeling everything you have toward tomorrow, toward constructive things like renewing your strength and resting your mind and body. She needs you to be one hundred percent tomorrow. Focus on the positive. We made it down the mountain, and her rescue is in the works even as we speak.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts.” She shook her head and squeezed his hands tighter. “Don’t borrow trouble. Stay positive.”

  He closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. With a lopsided grin, he met her eyes. “All right.” He brought her hands up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I will. For you.�
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  “No. Not for me. For Emily. Do it for Emily.” Her voice held a husky, seductive note that surprised her.

  She tried to ignore the sexy rasp of his four-day beard against her skin, tried not to notice the warmth of his lips or the gentle caress of his breath. But, Lord, the longer she was around this man the more he shook her to the core.

  “I want Emily to meet you. I want her to know the woman who facilitated her rescue.” His gaze held with hers, his pupils as large and seductive as a harvest moon. He grazed her knuckles with his thumbs, a slow hypnotizing stroke that sucked her into the magnetic lure of his rapt attention.

  “I’d like that too. Maybe in a few weeks after she’s had a chance to recover some from…” She almost said her trauma, but she didn’t want to plant anymore negative terms in Jackson’s head. “All that’s happened.”

  “Can I get you folks anything else?”

  Lauren cleared her throat and reluctantly pulled her hands from his grasp as the waitress refilled their glasses of water.

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  “What do you have for dessert?” Jackson asked.

  “Apple pie, lemon chiffon pie, spice cake and strawberry, butterscotch or hot fudge sundaes.”

  Jackson twisted his lips as he considered the choices. “Bring us a fudge sundae. And two spoons.”

  “Comin’ right up.” The waitress swished away.

  Lauren laughed. “Someone has his appetite back.”

  Jackson quirked a grin and forked in a bite of roast. “Just staying positive.”

  There it was again. The giddy pitter-patter in her chest when he smiled. But what woman in her right mind wouldn’t feel a little flutter in her gut when faced with Jackson’s bedroom eyes and boyish grin?

  Okay, time for a reality check.

  “Will you excuse me for a minute?” she asked as she slid out of the booth.

  Jackson, the consummate gentleman, quickly rose from his seat as she left the table. “Sure, take your time.”

  His antiquated gesture puddled a gooey warmth at her core. She’d grown used to the other smokejumpers treating her as one of the guys and wasn’t certain how to react to his old-fashioned politeness. Still, his thoughtfulness made her feel feminine and special, despite wearing two days of grime and stale clothes.