Summer of the Burning Sky

by Susan May Warren

  “Hey, Skye,” Tucker said.

  He leaned up against the woman marshal, and if Skye wasn’t dreaming it, it looked like he’d been holding her hand.

  Interesting. But she crouched in front of him and dove right in. “I was thinking… I just sat up on that hill all day. I’m not tired at all. Not like you guys. I’ll stand watch tonight, let you get some sleep.”

  She could have predicted the way he sat up, his eyes sparking. “Skye—”

  “Tucker, listen. I want to do my part here. And if you don’t want me on the line, then let me at least keep watch.” She smiled. “Firefighting rule number five, right?”

  She had him because he sighed. “Post lookouts when there is possible danger. Fine.”

  Perfect. Because the last thing she wanted to do was sleep.

  Not when her conversation with Rio only stirred up the regrets.

  The what-ifs.

  “I’m going to hike up to the ridge, get a view of the fire, and I’ll radio you should anything change.” She stood up and glanced again at the woman.

  She wanted to do something territorial, like tell her to not get him into any more fights. But really, it wasn’t any of her business. Instead, she offered a smile that suggested she knew exactly what might be going on in this corner of the forest.

  Then she turned and hiked up the hill into the golden spray of the Alaskan midnight, where hopefully the memories wouldn’t chase her.

  Because she knew bad boys too well. Knew her weakness for them, the lure to hunt for the good inside.

  The pull to believe she could find it and fix them.

  Most of all, she knew that if she let it, Rio Parker’s haunted expression could call her back, despite his warning.

  And then she’d really be in over her head.

  4

  Rio’s entire body had turned to fire. And yes, it might be due to the backbreaking hours of digging, of folding earth over onto itself, choking back ash and smoke and working so hard his muscles turned molten.

  Or, it could be the simple touch of kindness. The way Skye Doyle had let her fingertips brush his, a human touch not given in violence or control or even malice.

  A fleeting second, but one that had nearly undone him, set his body to a warm hum.

  He leaned his head against the tree, staring out into the shadows that hovered over the blackened meadow. The cutout of black mountains against a burnt crimson sky. The Alaskan midnight.

  And Skye was out there, watching it, also. She had hiked up the ridge and disappeared down the other side and now sat in lonely vigil as the sun settled into coals on the mountainside.

  Rio, meanwhile had turned sentry over the professor, suspected murderer Clancy Smythe-slash-Eugene March, who was probably feigning sleep ten feet away, curled into a ball under his camp blanket. Why the US marshal hadn’t cuffed him while she waited for tomorrow’s transport confounded him—he could only imagine she harbored the same thought everyone else did…where would he run out here?

  Perhaps she also believed that she might be able to stop him. Because every time Rio glanced her direction, she too had her eyes glued to March.

  Although, the redolence of the pseudo campfire smoke mixed with the dusty shadows conspired against his best intentions. His eyes drifted shut, at least twice.

  Rio woke with a start, glanced at March.

  Still there, unmoving. Another glance at the US marshal. She had her arms folded, staring into the night. Tucker slouched against her, dead to the world.

  That’s all it took for Rio’s mind to return to Skye. He closed his eyes, just to let her sit there a moment. He had wanted to reach out and touch her braid, run his fingers over the thick grooves of it. His name on her lips whispered through his memory, ignited a trail of heat. Nice to meet you, Rio. Beautiful aqua-gray eyes—he could stare at them all day, following the variegated lines of deep blue and silver. And the way she wrinkled her nose when she smiled or was embarrassed…

  He hadn’t meant to embarrass her, but he hadn’t exactly known what to say to her question about how he ended up in Alaska. It’s a long story, with a sad beginning and…well, a not great ending.

  All truth, really, but not the one she suspected. His started with a normal family, a kid brother, a beautiful baby sister. Two parents who loved them all.

  Then, the unthinkable had happened. Sometimes he was right back in the past, the cold whistling through the door as the police stood on the porch, his mother’s screams echoing into the night. Then the sirens, the rank odors of Cook County Hospital.

  For a moment Rio had very much wished he could tell Skye the truth.

  See how she’d look at him if she knew he wasn’t a criminal.

  Although, even to his own eyes, the line between right and wrong, criminal and hero seemed thinly drawn.

  Rio took a breath and opened his eyes. Stared out at the glimmering sun starting to rise in the northeast, the folds of gold that pressed against a dark fiery mantle, the jagged white-capped peaks glinting in splendor.

  His last day of pseudo freedom.

  He glanced over at March and stilled.

  What—?

  Gone.

  The grasses matted, but the space he’d occupied was empty.

  Rio bounced to his feet, looked around, and just barely glimpsed a figure darting through the scant forest, disappearing into the eastern shadows.

  He glanced at the marshal—the woman’s eyes were closed, her head drooped. But if he woke her, March would be long gone, because all bets were off that that woman would let Rio dash off after him.

  Hello, prison escape.

  Yes, if he woke the marshal, Rio could very easily end up with a bullet in his back.

  Rio took off, a full-out run, his footfalls soft on the piney loam as he tore through the dusky forest, his focus on where he’d seen March vanish.

  Rio wasn’t in terrible shape. And sure, his body hurt, but the adrenaline burned through him, lit him on fire, and March came into view, the man not quite as quick and agile.

  Rio ran him down, letting branches clip him, his feet landing hard on downed logs, tearing through brush. He leaped on March, grabbing his collar and yanking him back. March let out a grunt as he hit the ground.

  Rio landed, his knee on the man’s sternum and it was enough to whuff the breath out of the guy. “Not so fast, Clancy,” Rio said. “Or should I say—Eugene March?”

  A flicker of realization flashed in March’s eyes. He swung at Rio, but Rio batted his hand away, grabbed March’s wrist, and pinned it to the ground. “Thought you could run, huh, buddy?”

  “Get off me!” March writhed in the dirt, bringing his feet up, but Rio had landed on his other arm, pinning him.

  “Not a chance. You’re going back to camp and back to prison, dude.”

  “I don’t think so.” The voice came from behind Rio, and he jerked. Soft spoken, but with enough edge that Rio stiffened. Braced himself. Darryl?

  He tried not to jerk when he heard a hammer click into place.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Yep, Darryl stood there, breathing hard, sweat tracking through the dirt of his pudgy, now-whiskered face.

  “Darryl, what are you doing?” Rio hissed. And where had he gotten a gun?

  The weapon shook just a little. “Seeing my wife. She’s having a baby—get off him.”

  Rio held his hands up, eased off March. “C’mon, Darryl. Don’t do this. It’s not worth it—”

  “It is worth it. If I’m going away for years, I want to see my son.” His jaw clamped tight, his hand shaking.

  Beside him, March hit his feet. He walked over to Rio, grabbed his shirt, and slapped him.

  Rio recoiled, more shocked than hurt, but before he could respond, March had pushed him away, walked over to Darryl, and grabbed the gun from his hand.

  Pointed it at Rio, walking right over to press it against his head.

  Ho-kay. Rio kept his hands up. “Listen, March. Let’s not—I was just trying t
o keep you from making a mistake.”

  “I saw you mix it up with Boneyard a couple days ago. I don’t know who made you the new warden, but I’m not going back there. So, if I need to drop you right here—”

  “And wake up that marshal back there?” The voice emerged soft from the shadows, and Rio had nothing when Archer Mills jogged up. He bent over, gripping his knees. “You guys run too fast for an old man.”

  Rio stared at him. What—?

  Maybe Archer had heard his unspoken question—or better yet, read their expressions because, “I heard you two last night and thought I’d better come along and keep you out of trouble.” Archer indicated Darryl and March and how had Rio missed that conversation?

  “We don’t need you, old man,” March snapped.

  Archer straightened. “You might. Because I used to live around here. I know these forests. And which way to go to find the road.”

  “We’re not going to the road. I have a campsite south of here about seven miles. A truck, supplies, everything I need to get lost.”

  “The Troublesome campground, right?” Archer said, almost a sigh to his voice.

  An affirmative slid across March’s face. “How’d you know?”

  “I told you—I lived around here. You sure you know how to get there? Lots of forest between here and there.”

  What was Archer’s game? Because either Rio was a lousy judge of character or Archer had something up his sleeve. Of all of them, Archer was the one guy who might help Rio apprehend March.

  And then, just when Rio thought it couldn’t get worse, the three stooges arrived—the drunk and disorderlies. They looked like brothers, all with the same dark hair, lanky build.

  Right behind them strode the quiet, stealthy form of the prisoner named Thorne.

  Something like dismay flickered in Archer’s eyes as they ran up. “Don’t leave without us,” said one of the men.

  Thorne looked like he’d rather join a pack of hungry wolves, his eyes wary. Rio could care less if the man bolted—his worry was Darryl.

  “Did you wake up everyone in camp?” March snarled at Darryl.

  “This isn’t my fault. I didn’t invite them. Or him—” Archer. “Or—him.” He pointed at Rio.

  “We should all go back to camp before someone gets hurt,” Rio said. “Because you know they’ll send marshals after us. And we’ll be fugitives, so guess what—they’ll shoot us.”

  “Maybe I should shoot you first,” March snapped.

  “Hey!” Rio snapped back. “I’m just trying to keep you from getting killed.”

  “Maybe I just go back to camp and kill everybody there. Then no one will know we’re missing.”

  And that shut down the group. Rio’s pulse jacked to high, and he swallowed back the image of a group of dead smokejumpers. Ho-kay, maybe letting March run was the best option. Get him away from the unarmed, unsuspecting firefighters, let him wear himself out on the run, and then…then Rio would figure out a way to apprehend him.

  Maybe even get Archer on his side.

  “Okay, we already have a head start. Let’s just go.” Rio glanced at Archer. “You know how to get to the road, or this campground, right?”

  Archer met his eyes, nodded. “Yep.”

  “Nope,” March said in a quiet, lethal tone. “Not with you. Get on your knees.”

  Rio swallowed. “C’mon, man—”

  “Did you see the way he took down Boneyard? We might need him, man.” This from one of the D & Ds who clearly didn’t see the look in March’s eyes.

  Yeah, Rio would bet that every one of those rape and murder charges were true, and then some.

  “One crazy move, and you’re dead.” March uncocked the hammer and stuck the gun in his belt. He turned to Archer. “Which way?”

  “We gotta go west.” Archer pointed back the way they came. “We can go up around the ridge, cut around, and head south. That way we avoid the camp.”

  March’s gaze hung on Rio a long heartbeat before, “Let’s go.”

  They took off in a silent run through the far edge of the forest, up along a rocky ridge, and tracing the back side of the fire. Smoke hung in the woods like a phantom, the fire an eerie, distant crackle as the group doglegged down along the opposite flank of the fire. Rio got a good glimpse of the ridge where he’d saved Tucker’s life, the black and white moonscape of forest, the line they’d dug that stopped the fire cold.

  That had been a cool bit of strategy—fighting fire with fire.

  Rio had worked up a sweat by the time they clambered down the ridge, cutting away from the fire line toward the western horizon.

  He was head down, looking at his footing when he heard the shout.

  “Hey!”

  Rio looked up and froze. Oh, no…no—

  Skye was running over to them. He didn’t want to ask where she’d come from—probably some lookout perch—but she was grinning, her face innocent, curious. She’d taken off her helmet and left her pack behind, and the sunlight turned her long braid to gold. “Are we starting to mop up?”

  It only took her a second, but ten feet away from them, her expression changed. And it wasn’t hard to see why. They’d all turned, and Rio knew even he wore a sort of horrified expression.

  Then March raised his gun. “Stop.”

  She gasped, halted, and put her hands up. “Please—!”

  March advanced on her, five determined steps, and set the gun against her head.

  “Stop—stop!” Rio’s brain shut down, and sheer reflexes propelled him across the rocks. “March—don’t!”

  “She’ll run back to camp and warn them,” March said.

  Skye’s breath shuddered out, her hands quivering. “No—no, I won’t—”

  “Shut up!”

  Rio wasn’t taking any chances. He walked right up to Skye and without pause simply put his arms around her. Turned her in one quick motion.

  And March’s gun barrel was now shoved against his spine.

  “Shh,” he said, his mouth against Skye’s ear. And he had to give her credit for not moving, not screaming.

  “You shoot, and everyone in the camp will wake up,” Rio said, glancing over his shoulder. “She’ll come with us. We need a hostage if things go south.”

  The moment he landed on the word hostage, Skye jerked. But he tightened his arms around her.

  One second. Two.

  Rio’s eyes fell on Thorne, whose gaze hung on March, as if sizing him up.

  As if he might have Rio’s back.

  “Fine,” March said. “But the minute she doesn’t keep up, she’s dead. And so are you.”

  March stalked away, and Rio’s breath released. He looked down at Skye. Her eyes were wide in his, and she swallowed hard.

  And oh, he wanted to tell her—well, everything. But they had no time, and if she knew who he was, who was to say that she’d be able to keep the secret?

  Knowing Rio was FBI would definitely get them killed.

  So he grabbed her hand and because he couldn’t stop himself, let out a low, guttural, “Trust me.”

  Then he took off after March.

  The minute she doesn’t keep up, she’s dead.

  Those words kept Skye’s legs moving. Skye glanced at Rio’s hand in hers, tight enough to pull her along, not so tight that he hurt her.

  She could hardly wrap her brain around the fact that a fugitive, a prisoner, a man who looked like he could kill her with his bare hands, just saved her life.

  Except for Rio’s word. Hostage.

  And, clearly, he meant it because he hadn’t let go of her hand for the last hour as they’d jogged down the ridge, working their way through rutted mountain trails toward a valley that stretched out like no-man’s-land, a golden wasteland as the sun took full repossession of the sky.

  But Rio hadn’t hurt her. In fact, he kept looking at her with something confusingly like concern in his amber eyes, and that only dragged up into her thumping heart his softly spoken, Trust me.
/>   Maybe.

  Oh, she should have just stayed put. Because she’d watched them climb down the ridge from the back side of the fire, and her overactive imagination assumed that Tucker had left her out—again. That he’d taken the team around the fire to assess the mop-up and hadn’t bothered to tell her, trying to keep her safe, and a fury had erupted inside her.

  She’d jumped to her feet, scrambled down the rocks, and was halfway across the ridge to them when she realized…

  The prisoners. Not Tucker. Not Seth. Not Riley or Romeo or even the Zulies.

  But by then she’d opened her big mouth, and March—she heard Rio call him that—rounded on her so fast her heart simply stopped.

  She froze.

  Oh, she could have done something. Run, maybe. Scream.

  Anything but stand there and let March push a gun to her head, the cold barrel digging into her skull.

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and then—well, Rio’s movements happened so fast, one minute her bones were turning to liquid, the next, he had his arms around her, pulling her tight to his chest.

  Taking the aim of the gun against his body.

  She’d stood with her ear pressed against his chest, listening to the wild thunder of his heart, her own heart clinging to the gentle, Shh.

  As in, Everything’s going to be okay.

  She’d closed her eyes. Somehow Rio had talked March out of blowing a hole through him—them, really—but now…

  Now she was on the lam with a bunch of prisoners.

  The gang had dwindled by three, however, because she’d looked behind her not long after March took off, and the three younger men had vanished.

  Probably off on their own escape trajectory.

  The older man and the pudgy redhead were in front of her, but the other man—the taller one with the quiet demeanor and dark eyes—hung to the back, and she half expected him to duck behind a boulder and fade into the wilderness next.

  She’d said nothing about the disappearing entourage, but Rio had definitely noticed, his gaze casting back, his mouth a tight line.

  And that’s when March had stopped, also glancing behind him. Swore.

  Then he leveled the gun at Skye.