Mountains of Grace

by Kelly Irvin

  Dedication

  To my husband, Tim. The best copilot ever.

  Epigraph

  What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off?

  Matthew 18:12

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Featured Families

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  Deutsch Vocabulary*

  About the Author

  Acclaim for Kelly Irvin

  Other Books by Kelly Irvin

  Copyright

  Featured Families

  1

  U.S. Forest Service Base

  Missoula, Montana

  Waddle, waddle, waddle. Grinning behind his face mask’s metal mesh, Spencer McDonald hoisted himself into the Shorts C-23 Sherpa aircraft and squeezed into a seat on the bench next to his buddy Dan Martinez. People laboring under the illusion that smoke jumping was a glamorous job should spend some time crammed into these tan Kevlar jumpsuits donned over a uniform made of fire-resistant Nomex, helmets, parachute pack on the back, another reserve parachute strapped to the front, and a personal gear bag with first-aid kit and fire shelter on the hip. They would understand what it felt like to be a guy in an oversized snowsuit in the middle of a sizzling-hot August day. Or an ear of corn wrapped in foil on a gas grill. Pop, pop, pop.

  “What are you grinning about?” The suit took the bulk of Dan’s elbow jabbing his ribs. “It’s not funny. So much for taking the kiddos camping for Labor Day weekend,” Dan yelled over the plane’s noisy engine. “Sheila hates to camp without me.”

  “She can’t be surprised.” The wildfire season ran May through September. Which meant smoke jumpers rarely spent the Memorial Day, July Fourth, or Labor Day holidays with their families. It didn’t matter to Spencer. In fact, he preferred working the holidays. “You’ll make it up to them when you walk them to school in October.”

  Dan offered a thumbs-up. By now ten smoke jumpers and two spotters in green jumpsuits crowded the bench. The plane taxied and took off, increasing the noise, wind, and heat factors by 500 percent.

  The plane headed northwest from the Missoula Fire Base to the Kootenai National Forest near Eureka.

  Eureka. Spencer’s hometown. He shook off the thought with such force it spun out of the plane and into outer space.

  The incident commander rolled out the map. The full-volume chatter ended. The fire, sparked by lightning on August 9, hadn’t been spotted by a U.S. Forest Service observation plane until three days later. Efforts by local crews on the ground to contain the fire had been unsuccessful. A U.S. Forest Service Type 2 Incident Command Team would take over containment efforts next.

  “The weather conditions are extreme.” The commander’s deep bass was perfect for briefing in these noisy conditions. “No rain in thirty days, high temperatures, and gusty winds. No rain in the forecast. The fire has shifted to the southeast. Populations in an area called West Kootenai are under pre-evacuation orders.”

  West Kootenai. Spencer hadn’t thought of the folks in that backwater town in years. Amish families mixed in with English families who enjoyed living in one of the few pockets of earth almost untouched by civilization. Hardworking people who also enjoyed the spectacular vistas, hunting, fishing, and boating in the beautiful Purcell, Cabinet, and Salish Mountains.

  Now threatened by an adversary that consumed everything in its indiscriminate path.

  The spotter talked on his headset. He and his cohort conversed. Radio frequencies, flight restrictions, water sources, safe zones—everything got covered, preparing the way for a safe, effective, efficient jump just outside a raging wildfire that often couldn’t be second-guessed.

  The plane’s engine throttled back to drop speed. The pilot began to circle the drop spot.

  “We’re getting close.” The spotter picked up weighted crepe streamers that would be used to check the wind and the speed of the drop at the proposed jump spot. “Get ready.”

  They were ready. Intensive PT that included running 1.5 miles in under eleven minutes—Spencer ran it in under eight without breaking a sweat—gave them the physical endurance needed to dig out ground cover down to the mineral level and remove fire fuel in strips a football field wide. Mentally, their heads were in the game the second the horn sounded at the base, giving them ten minutes to suit up, safety check, and sprint to the plane.

  Spencer checked out the terrain below through the open door on the side of the plane. Black smoke and fierce red flames billowed along the end of a small meadow. Deer and elk bounded through open spaces. Towering pines in the fire zone ringed the opening. Beyond it a skinny ribbon of hunter’s path would serve as egress when they had to pack out all their equipment on their backs.

  The streamers fluttered in the wind and sank to the ground.

  Forty fire jumps and many more practice jumps under his belt, Spencer still didn’t take any of this for granted. Too many variables were beyond his control. Things looked different from the sky than on the ground. Hidden obstacles, rocks, stumps, logs. Gusts of wind. It didn’t matter. He lived for this. It had taken three tries to get accepted to the Missoula Smoke Jumper’s School after three seasons as a helicopter rappeller in Idaho.

  Rappelling into a fire zone produced an exhilarating adrenaline high that lasted for hours. Jumping into that zone was even more fun, but riskier.

  Once he hit the ground Spencer had no qualms. He worked with some of the most experienced firefighters in the country. After four years on the job, he was still considered one of the new guys. Only rookie Chase Wilson had less experience. Chase was about to jump for the first time with a chute he’d rigged himself. Twenty-one was the magic number that made him certified to pack the chutes.

  Chase’s left foot, clad in a heavy-duty steel-toed boot, tapped wildly. His entire leg jiggled. Spencer leaned over Dan and tapped the guy’s knee with a gloved hand. “You ready to make those Spam tacos down there?”

  Chase’s leg quieted. “I’ve been working on a recipe for Spam sushi I think you’re gonna like.”

  Spam was gourmet food at its finest on the fire line.

  “What does your wife think of your cooking?”

  “She’d rather I stick to barbecuing hamburgers.” Grinning, Chase relaxed against the bench. “She’s very picky about smells these days.”

  The young newlyweds were expecting their first baby—a boy already named Chase Junior. “When this is over, take her home some ice cream.” Not that Spencer knew much about pregnant women. Only what he’d heard long distance from his sister. “My sis says it has medicinal effects.”

  “Got it.” Chase twisted the silver band on his ring finger. “She’s into Rocky Road.”

  “Good luck out there, bud
dy.”

  Chase shrugged. “Right back at ’cha.”

  The noise of the engine ratcheted back. The plane began its orbit around the jump spot.

  “Get ready.” The spotter gave the thumbs-up to Spencer. “No catching a catnap on the way down.”

  No chance of that.

  “Leg straps tight?”

  Affirmative.

  “Hook up.”

  Spencer hooked up. He put one hand on the doorframe and the other one on his reserve chute.

  The plane turned.

  “Static line is clear.”

  The spotter smacked his back. Spencer grabbed the outside of the frame with both hands, stepped out, and embraced the free fall. His static line would open his parachute automatically. If it didn’t he had the backup on his chest. Eighty-five seconds and counting.

  The chute opened. The noise ceased. The sky became the most peaceful place on earth.

  A time to feast on the majesty of God’s earth. A person couldn’t miss the Creator’s handiwork, not in this business. Spencer did good with nature, not so much with people. Rays of sunlight sparkled around him. Tree canopies looked disarmingly like green pillows.

  Thirty seconds. He surveyed the meadow. A nice, soft landing spot in the tall grass would be perfect.

  A fierce gust of wind picked him up and hurled him across the narrow opening.

  No, no, no. He struggled against a force far greater than any he’d experienced before. He was a toothpick in a tornado.

  Nothing to do now but brace for impact.

  The Douglas firs that stood guard on the meadow’s edge bowed and swayed at his approach.

  Twenty, nineteen, eighteen . . . The branches, sharp and unyielding, came at him with the swift, merciless intent of drawn swords.

  No stopping now.

  Brace for the inevitable.

  Love you, Pretty Patty.

  Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen . . .

  His body rammed a fir with a sickening thud.

  The collision rattled his teeth. His brain banged against his skull. It scrambled like half a dozen eggs.

  Pain unfurled from head to toe.

  A bright, white-hot day turned dark and cold.

  2

  West Kootenai, Montana

  Acrid smoke hung in the air like a visitor who’d overstayed his welcome. Mercy Yoder heaved a breath and immediately regretted it. Her lungs burned. Her parched throat ached. No sunlight shone through the three long windows on the schoolhouse’s east wall, making the room seem dreary. It was only Wednesday, halfway through the week. Usually she reveled in the long days. Not today. She glanced at the red fluorescent numbers on the battery-operated clock on her desk. Recess time. Should she send her scholars out to play in smoke that seemed to become more entrenched by the minute? They’d been under pre-evacuation orders since the previous day.

  The order to evacuate could come at any moment.

  Her father had said to pack a bag as if they were going on vacation. Just enough for two weeks. Her father, the optimist. The sheriff’s deputy going door-to-door said to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

  The fire was a giant flame-breathing dragon consuming everything in its path—fourteen thousand acres of Kootenai National Forest north of Lake Koocanusa—in twenty-four hours.

  Her childhood home, the homes of her friends and family, stood in that dragon’s path. Everything she’d ever known and loved faced almost certain annihilation.

  Yet here she stood teaching ABCs and multiplication and division to a room of antsy, distracted children whose heads were filled with the same worries.

  “Leave it to God. He has plans for you, plans to prosper, not harm you.” Father had said those words this morning at the breakfast table before he’d sent them to their rooms to pack.

  He believed that. So must she. So, Gott, where does this forest-gobbling, fire-spewing monster fit into those plans?

  God would strike her dead with the same lightning that started the fire for questioning His plans. For worrying. Worrying was a sin.

  Mercy heaved another steadying breath. Focus on the here and now. This minute. This second. Leave everything else to God.

  Hers was not to question, but to teach twenty-seven young scholars English, writing, arithmetic, and a smattering of history and science. Along with hymns, prayer, memory verses, and obedience, humility, and civility.

  For as long as she could remember, it had been her job to take care of children. That’s what Plain women did.

  They did it and they liked it.

  She stifled a sigh.

  “Teacher, aren’t we having recess?” Billy Borntrager wiggled in his seat. The six-year-old was Mercy’s youngest scholar. Truth be told, recess was her favorite time of day too. That fact must remain her secret.

  Mercy mustered a smile that included all her students, from the oldest, thirteen-year-old Samuel, to her littlest wiggle worm. “Billy’s right, I did say that. But I’m concerned about the smoke. It’s hard on your lungs. Running around will make it worse. Martha, you have a cold, and Job, with your asthma, it’s best you sit this one out.”

  Her little brother crossed his arms and glowered. “No fair. I have my inhaler.”

  Teaching her own siblings had its challenges. “It’s better to err on the side of—”

  Caleb Hostetler pushed through the door and strode into the room.

  The words disappeared. Mercy’s vocabulary shrank to nothing.

  Fortunately Caleb ignored her. He smiled at the children—that lopsided, half-shy grin that never ceased to send goose bumps scurrying up Mercy’s arms. “Guder mariye, scholars.”

  “Guder mariye, Caleb.” Looking tickled with the interruption, their gazes bounced from Caleb to Mercy and back. They obviously expected her to say something.

  She didn’t because not a single word came to mind that could be spoken in front of them.

  Caleb filled the gap. “I need a word with Teacher.”

  They had no idea what a surprise those words were to the teacher. Caleb hadn’t spoken to her since their last ride along Wilderness Trail almost two months earlier.

  Still whispering, her students returned to their work. Which didn’t mean some weren’t peeking to see what was going on. Nosy little minds.

  Mercy instructed her feet to move. Finally, they obeyed. She trotted to the back of the room. “What do you want?”

  Besides to be her husband and call her wife?

  A pained expression flitted across his face with its high cheekbones and noble nose. “It’s time to evacuate. The deputies are going house to house.”

  His words sank in and squeezed the breath from Mercy’s lungs. Light-headed, she managed a nod. The desire to lean into his solid, six-foot-three frame overwhelmed her. She’d lost that right when she said no to his proposal.

  He cleared his throat and turned to the students. “I’ve come to tell you that it’s time to evacuate. You need to gather your things and go back to your homes.”

  A startled murmur ran through the children. It immediately rose until it became a crescendo of high-pitched chatter that filled the classroom.

  Amelia jumped from her seat. Her history book and composition notebooks fell to the floor. Samuel grabbed his little brother Carl’s arm and started toward the door. Nelly began to sob.

  “No need to panic, kinner.” Mercy took her cue from Caleb and worked to stay calm. “We planned for this.”

  “Your parents will be expecting you.” Even though Mercy was tall for a woman, Caleb towered over her. His loose-fitting clothes were covered with a fine layer of sawdust. His gaze caught hers and offered the same assurance he’d given the children. “No need to panic, but it is necessary to move now.”

  “Kinner, leave everything. Move quickly to the door, row by row, starting at the front.” Mercy nodded and clapped her hands. The children slipped from their desks and flowed past her youngest to oldest. “Bruders and schweschders, stay together on your bicycles. Go dir
ectly home, no loitering, no kickball. Your parents will be looking for you. We’ve talked about this. You know what to do.”

  Hannah Plank, a carrot-topped fourth grader, hugged Mercy’s skirt. “I love you, Teacher. You go home too.”

  “I will.” A sudden knot lodged in Mercy’s throat. This might be the last time they met in this school she’d come to love in three years of keeping the fire going in the wood-burning stove, washing down the chalkboards, and pulling on the rope that made the bell clang, signaling the start of another school day. Mostly, she’d come to love her scholars.

  She returned the hug. The little girl smelled like the sweet cinnamon and oatmeal her apron indicated she’d eaten for breakfast. “God be with you, kind. See you in Eureka.”

  Those who had family in Rexford would travel to that small village to RVs or vacation cabins owned by English friends. Mercy’s family would head to Eureka, only seven miles farther down the road.

  But first they had to traverse the eighteen miles of West Kootenai Road, across the longest, highest span bridge in the state, and north on Highway 37 to Rexford. Suddenly, a drive she’d made hundreds of times in her twenty-two years seemed fraught with peril.

  “I could give some of them rides if needed.” Caleb jerked off his straw hat and ran his big calloused hands through thick wheat-colored hair soaked with sweat. “It would be faster.”

  “They have their bikes. They need to take those home with them. They know what to do.”

  “Right. I’m just trying to help.”

  Despite everything they’d been through, Caleb had come for her and for the children. She had no right to expect help from him. Yet he’d set aside his pride and walked through that door. He was a better person than she would ever be. She’d always known that. “Danki.”

  “Are you coming?” Her sister Hope, a precocious ten-year-old who was by far the best reader in the school, grabbed her hand. “You’ll come with me and Job, won’t you?”

  “You go ahead.” She gently disengaged her hand from Hope’s. “I need to close up here. I’ll be right behind you. Stay with Job and make sure he doesn’t get distracted by a raccoon or a squirrel.”