Summer of the Burning Sky

by Susan May Warren

  Until this moment, they’d found it playing darts and talking trash about some football team playing in a rerun on the flat screen below the moose head.

  Now, the table of teammates stilled, poised.

  Skye cast her gaze over the others in the room. The lucky guys with the chili fries at the table nearby also watched the conversation, a couple of them moose sized. But at the bar, a big guy wearing a denim shirt ignored the entire thing, his cowboy boot hooked onto the rail.

  But Riley had turned, setting his beer on the bar.

  Then, a chair scooted out and Romeo and Seth rose.

  One of the moose men at the table of flannel slipped out of his chair.

  “I just want to make sure—” Tucker said.

  Tough Guy sent Tucker into the rail with a right hook.

  The entire bar erupted. Flannels against firefighters. Tucker tackled Tough Guy so fast that Skye lost him in the crowd. Riley leaped on one of the moose men.

  Grunting, the skid of chairs and overturned furniture, shouts, and the beefy woman bartender went over the bar wielding a baseball bat and yelling.

  Skye pushed out of the booth, not sure where—or how—to start. Because she’d never been in a fight, but her heart told her she had to do something.

  Except, watching men grapple, hearing shouts and curses and grunts—she froze.

  A gun shot punched through the chaos. Sharp and stinging, it jerked everyone to a halt.

  The brunette, fire in her eyes, held a gun over her head. “Stop it!”

  Skye’s heart thundered.

  Then the bartender unleashed enough bar room language to make even the flannels blush. “Every one of you, get out! Unless you’re willing to behave yourselves.”

  Apparently, no one wanted to surrender their dinner. Or their night off. Her team began to pick up the chairs, a couple of the flannels helped, slinking back to their table, a couple more to a nearby booth.

  Tucker got up and ran his gaze across his guys, then her, as if checking in. “Let it go, guys.” Then he turned to the bar.

  Tough Guy slammed his way outside.

  Skye slid back into her booth and took a full breath, her pulse in her ears. Maybe that was it—the flame out, the drama for the night spent.

  Across the room, Riley was getting a little medical treatment from Larke, who picked up a napkin and dotted some blood at the corner of his mouth.

  Oh brother. That Riley McCord was a heartbreaker—she’d seen the damage he’d done in Ember over the past few summers. He’d even made a few moves on her back in the early days. He might not wear any big arm tattoos, but behind those charming brown eyes, the rakish smile, the unruly golden brown hair was trouble.

  And the last thing Skye wanted in her life was a bad boy, thank you.

  Not that she had any room in her life for any sort of relationship, but if she did, she’d pick, say, the clean-cut blond tourist, maybe a little older than herself, in the blue Life is Good T-shirt and hiking boots, watching the action from the bar. He sat on a stool, leaning against the rail, holding what looked like a lemonade. A nice guy, probably in town to do some hiking.

  Riley walked over and put a quarter in the jukebox.

  Come and get your love…

  When he held out his hand, Larke drifted into his arms.

  Skye shook her head. The guy was smooth, no doubt.

  The music soothed the tenor in the room. The Zulies enticed a couple of pretty tourist twins onto the floor. Probably just by flexing their smokejumper muscles.

  And wow, she’d turned cynical.

  Her chili fries came, finally, and she watched the flirting on the dance floor. She wasn’t immune to the fine cut of her teammates, but she’d drawn a line years ago between work and romance.

  Although in truth, she’d sort of forgotten what romance looked like.

  Felt like.

  She did remember that romance was messy and complicated and meant a guy would eventually look beyond the exterior. She might look tough and capable and fierce, but inside lived a mess she spent most of the time trying to ignore. And sure, God had helped untangle a lot of it—enough for her to forgive herself, most of the time. But she wasn’t taking any chances letting someone close enough to see her darkness. Her secrets.

  No, romance wasn’t worth the cost.

  Abba’s “Dancing Queen” came over the jukebox. What, didn’t they have anything from this century?

  She finished her fries, wiped her mouth, her hands, and was finishing off her Coke when Life Is Good came up to her table. He smiled at her as she stared up at him.

  “So, are you with these guys?” He nodded toward her Jude County Smoke Jumpers T-shirt emblem. “Smokejumpers?”

  “Mmmhmm,” she said, stirring the ice in her Coke, trying to catch his vibe.

  The Zulies were cutting it up with the twin tourists.

  Up close, the man looked like an English teacher or a public defender from the Lower 48. Clean-cut, hair just behind his ears, the smattering of a five o’clock shadow. Built, lean body, honed by a gym but suited to the outdoors. He smiled, and it was sweet, and not at all creepy. “Cool. Wanna dance?”

  Oh. Deer in the headlights.

  “C’mon, Pope, let’s get out of here.”

  The voice came from behind the man, over his shoulder, and Skye’s gaze landed on the big man in denim from the bar, and particularly on a scar that ran down his cheek, just below his eye, and dissected his upper lip. As if he’d been clawed by Wolverine. A tincture of red along the scar betrayed either the heat of the bar or a wound not quite healed to white.

  Pope—Mr. Life Is Good—turned at the voice. And for a second, Skye thought she saw his eyes narrow, his jaw tighten. Something about it ran a cold finger down her spine.

  Then, he smiled, and clamped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Yep, you’re probably right.”

  He turned back to Skye. “Sorry. We’ll have to take a rain check on that dance.”

  She offered him a half smile and watched him go.

  “Hey, Skye.” Romeo slid into her booth. He set his Coke on the table.

  “I’m not dancing.”

  He held up his hands. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”

  Oh. With his sweet brown eyes, tousled dark blond hair, lithe and toned body, Romeo probably could live up to his name. Except he seemed a little shy around the ladies—she hadn’t seen him with even one girl since they started rookie smokejumping camp together.

  Which meant, given his ease with talking to her, he probably didn’t see her that way. Good.

  Still, she’d stuck her foot in her mouth. “Sorry. I’m just in a bad mood.” Her gaze flashed to Riley, back in the corner now with Larke, one hand braced over her shoulder as he leaned against the wall. With the other, he ran his finger across her cheek, tucking her white-blonde hair behind her ear. Definite leaning happening at eleven o’clock.

  Skye shook her head.

  Romeo laughed, turning back from where he’d followed her gaze. “Yeah, Riley knows how to charm them.” He took a sip of his Coke. “Why didn’t you sit with us?”

  She shoved her straw into her ice, like a pick. “I screwed up.”

  Romeo leaned forward, his hands folded on the table. “If you’re talking about the great circle of fire you created, nah. Your torch just malfunctioned. That wasn’t on you.”

  “Riley had to rescue me.”

  “That’s what teammates are for.”

  She eyed Romeo. “I froze—”

  “You nearly pulled a Joan of Arc.”

  “I just… I don’t want everyone thinking I need a babysitter.”

  Romeo held up his hands. “No one here is babysitting you.”

  She shoved her glass away. “Do you know how rare it is for a woman to make a smokejumping team?”

  Romeo nodded. Folded his hands over his chest. “We had bets—”

  “On whether I’d make it?”

  “I had twenty on your success.”
<
br />   “Really?”

  “Yep. The odds against you were pretty good. I made a pile.”

  She narrowed her eyes and he grinned.

  “C’mon. We’re getting out of here.” He got up and motioned to Riley. “Think we should rescue Larke?”

  Skye put down a twenty on the table, then glanced at Riley, a giggling Larke. “No. Larke can take care of herself.” Anyone who grew up in Alaska, served as an army medic, and knew how to fly a bush plane could probably handle Riley’s charms. Besides, despite his penchant for breaking hearts and his bad boy smile, Riley had a good soul. He knew what no meant when he heard it. She’d heard that firsthand from a few of the gals down at the Ember Hotline Saloon and Grill back home.

  Still, watching Riley lean over and whisper something into Larke’s ear stirred an unfamiliar longing inside her, despite her line in the sand.

  Oh brother. She shook it off and headed outside with her team.

  Tucker was sitting on the back of a pickup with the brunette from the bar. Interesting. He got up when he spotted the team leaving.

  Skye glanced at the woman. Pretty, and she was looking at Skye, too, a little frown on her face.

  Skye climbed into the van from Sky King ranch and leaned back in her bench seat as Tucker slid into the driver’s seat. They headed back to the ranch.

  The hot, red evening sun hovered over the jutted rim of the Denali range, casting twilight-hued fingers through the black pine and across the tiny platinum lake that edged the ranch property—a main lodge, an airplane hangar, a garage, vacation rentals, and a few other outbuildings. A Piper Cub seaplane floated at the dock, bobbing with the ripples from the mountain winds.

  The ranch encompassed an entire valley rimmed by forest, and on the far southwestern edge, a balding, granite ridge that acted as a wall to the state park to the north. A homestead cabin sat at the far western end of the lake, nestled under the shadow of the ridge.

  On the eastern shore of the lake, a cluster of rental cabins housed the team, and as they got out of the van, Tucker headed down to his digs.

  Skye followed a few of the guys to the massive deck that rimmed the ranch lodge, a beautiful log and timber building, and sat down on one of the Adirondack chairs.

  The entire valley smelled of pine and wildflowers and the finest hint of remaining smoke from the faraway mountain fire.

  A motorcycle pulled up and wouldn’t you know it, Riley and Larke had returned. They cut down the rutted dirt road that led along the lake and out to the homestead cabin at the far end.

  That Riley.

  Yeah, the last thing Skye would let herself do was fall for a bad boy like Riley. No thank you.

  “The problem with Alaskan sunsets in summer is that we don’t have them.”

  She turned, and bush pilot Barry Kingston sat down next to her, handed her a bottle of lemonade. “Which makes watching the sunset a very long date.”

  She laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

  She liked him. The owner of Sky King Ranch was in his mid-sixties, with wise, kind, blue eyes, his white hair shaved down to bristles. He wore a faded cap and a thick white handlebar mustache that brought to mind images of an older Sam Elliott. Barry prayed before meals. She liked that.

  Apparently, he could read minds too, because he spoke, “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.’” He looked at her. “Living out here always makes me think of the twenty-third psalm.”

  “I learned it at church camp, Living Translation,” she said. “‘Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.’”

  “‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’”

  Skye wanted to nod. To add an amen and agree with him. Instead, she watched the sun burn through the sky and wished it would char away the feeling of doom that churned in her gut.

  Please, God, keep me from killing anyone.

  It wasn’t Tuesday. Because if it was Tuesday, then Rio Parker wouldn’t be sitting in the Copper County Correctional Facility cafeteria, dressed in the prison orange shirt and gray pants, stirring the gray swill that might be beans.

  He wouldn’t feel and smell like a criminal. No, he’d be dressed in a suit, in court seeing justice prevail.

  Hopefully. Please.

  Most of all, he wouldn’t have to sit on the sidelines watching Jaden Maguire trying to dodge the lockup bullies.

  “Step back!”

  Rio caught the voice—a tough veneer over a quivering shell, shaky and a little too high to be menacing—from the eighteen-year-old wanna-be thug who’d somehow landed on the wrong side of trouble. Baby-faced and skinny, his head recently shaved to reveal the bumps and scars of a too-white head, Jaden backed up against a pillar, holding his tray like it might be a shield as Boneyard Wells slapped a hand on the cement behind his head.

  Rio set his spoon down, his gut knotting.

  Around him, the other prisoners seemed unmoved. He glanced at Archer Mills—an older guy he’d pinpointed as former law enforcement the way he knew how to handle himself. No one really messed with Archer. But Archer didn’t mess with anyone, either.

  The story was he’d killed a man with his bare hands, but everybody had a story.

  Jaden’s story probably included some petty theft, drug running, maybe even a domestic abuse charge. He wore a few scars on his face, and now lifted his chin, a tough guy even as he drew his shoulders up.

  Boneyard—bald, beefy, tattooed with a swastika on the back of his neck—leaned into Maguire, said something in his ear. Two of his cohorts—a long-haired drug dealer named Ike, and a skinhead with tribal tattoos on his face—stood a few feet away, grinning.

  Maguire jerked away from him, but Boneyard grabbed his jaw.

  And then he did something that had Rio bouncing to his feet, the adrenaline hot and churning through him.

  Boneyard licked the kid. Starting at his jaw, all the way up to his temple. A slimy, spit-filled trail that turned Rio’s gut and left an expression of raw terror on Maguire’s face.

  Rio had seen that expression far too often to let the assault happen in front of his eyes. Male or female—it didn’t matter.

  Which was why he found his feet moving, the chair scratching along the floor as it slid back. The hum in the room dimmed as Rio came around the table and walked right up to Boneyard.

  And somewhere in the back of his head, he heard the voice, the one that had sent him here. Stay cool, lay low. Stay out of trouble and do your job.

  Yeah, well, trouble seemed to find him, and frankly, this was his job.

  Protecting the helpless. Justice for the victims.

  Even if the guy he was supposed to be protecting was sitting in the corner finishing up his fish sticks.

  But maybe this was why Rio was here, too. Because sometimes justice needed a little nudge.

  “Let him alone, Boneyard.”

  The man kept hold of the kid’s face, his fingers white as they gripped his jaw, and turned to face Rio. “Stay out of this.”

  Rio lifted a shoulder. “Can’t.”

  “What did this kid ever do for you?” Boneyard raised an eyebrow.

  And oh, Rio wanted to hit him. Just slam his fist into Boneyard’s face, maybe chip another tooth off. But he kept his hands open, easy. Nothing for Boneyard’s radar.

  “He’s the cellie with my buddy Darryl over there. And he doesn’t snore.”

  Which was, actually, all true. Rio didn’t glance at Darryl, however, because the last thing Darryl needed was another target on his back. But he knew Darryl was watching.

  Maybe if Rio could get Jaden out of this mess, Darryl might start trusting Rio. Believe him when he said he could keep him safe. Alive.

 
; So Rio didn’t move when Boneyard let go of Jaden and turned toward him. The man possessed the breath of a dumpster, a few missing teeth evidence of a life lived outside regular dental checkups. Burled arms from hours in some institutional weight room, a scar that dissected his blond eyebrow, a piercing—now empty—in his ear.

  His voice was meant to intimidate, low, like a razor under the skin. “Sit down. You haven’t been here long enough to realize how it works in here.”

  “Yes, actually I have.” Two long weeks—and he was counting—but it had taken him all of two hours to figure out who ran the lockup. Less than one hundred short-term inmates, mostly pretrial or transfer holds, but a few nickel sentences in a minimum security setting. Despite Boneyard’s menace and his attempt at a decent rap sheet, he was in for petty theft and carjacking.

  The guy wouldn’t last a day in a maximum security joint like Spring Creek.

  Fact was, Rio had barely survived. Had the scars to prove it.

  No, a guy like Boneyard didn’t scare him. But Rio didn’t want a fight.

  It would be hard to protect Darryl from solitary confinement.

  So Rio took a breath, met Boneyard’s gaze. “This doesn’t have to be anything. Just walk away from the kid, leave him alone. We’ll all finish our lunch.”

  A smile lifted one corner of Boneyard’s face. “I don’t think so, tough guy.”

  Aw, shoot. Because now Jaden was looking at the floor, and—was the kid crying? Rio didn’t dare take his gaze off Boneyard, but in his periphery, he saw the kid tremble, heard washboard breaths.

  Still… “You’re the tough guy here, B-yard, and we all know it. I think you’ve scared the kid enough.” Rio gave the guy a little nod. “No one is going to mess with you.” Let his ego be assuaged, let him walk away.

  Boneyard stared at him, as if not sure what to do with Rio’s words.

  Rio listened for movement behind him—any of Boneyard’s thugs creeping up to punch him in the kidneys, turn this into an unfair fight. Boneyard’s chest rose and fell.

  Just walk away, man. And probably the words rising inside were for him, but he put them into his expression.