by Nora Roberts
The room boasted an ancient refrigerator she imagined held manly drinks, a worktable for loading shot into shells, a utility shelf that held boxes of clay pigeons, shooting vests, hunting caps—and, oddly, she thought, several framed family photos, including a large one of a pretty baby girl with one of those elasticized pink bows circling her bald head.
A football lamp, a computer and piles of paperwork sat on a gray metal desk shoved in a corner. Above it hung a picture of Leo and several other men beside what she thought was a 747 aircraft, reminding her he worked at the airport as a mechanic.
And against the side wall stood a big, orange-doored gun safe.
Pumping off waves of heat and resentment, Leo marched to the safe, spun the dial for the combination, wrenched it open.
DiCicco had no problems with guns; in fact she believed in them. But the small arsenal inside the safe had her eyes widening. Rifles, shotguns, handguns—bolt action, semiauto, revolvers, under and overs, scopes. All showing the gloss of the well-cleaned, well-oiled, well-tended weapon.
But her scan didn’t turn up the weapon in question, and her hand edged toward her own as Leo Brakeman’s breathing went short and quick.
“You have an excellent collection of firearms, Mr. Brakeman, but you seem to be missing a Remington 700.”
“Somebody stole it.”
Her hand closed over the butt of her weapon when he whirled around, his face red, his fists clenched.
“Somebody broke in here and stole it.”
“There’s no record of you reporting a break-in.” Quinniock stepped up.
“Because I didn’t know. Somebody’s doing this to us. You have to find out who’s doing this to us.”
“Mr. Brakeman, you’re going to have to come with us now.” She didn’t want to draw on the man, hoped she wouldn’t have to, but DiCicco readied to do so.
“You’re not taking me out of my home.”
“Leo.” Quinniock spoke calmly. “Don’t make it worse now. You come quietly, and we’ll go in and talk about this. Or I’m going to have to cuff you and take you in forcibly.”
“Leo.” Irene simply collapsed onto a step. “My God, Leo.”
“I didn’t do anything. Irene, as God is my witness. I’ve never lied to you in my life, Reenie. I didn’t do anything.”
“Then let’s go in and talk this out.” Quinniock moved a step closer, laid a hand on Leo’s quivering shoulder. “Let’s try to get to the bottom of it.”
“Somebody’s doing this to us. I never shot at anybody out at the base, or anywhere else.” He jerked away from Quinniock’s hand. “I’ll walk out on my own.”
“All right, Leo. That would be best.”
Stiff-legged, he walked toward the steps. He stopped, reached for his wife’s hands. “Irene, on my life, I didn’t shoot at anybody. I need you to believe me.”
“I believe you.” But she dropped her gaze when she said it.
“You need to lock up now. You be sure to lock up the house. I’ll be home as soon as we straighten this out.”
ROWAN GOT THE WORD when she slipped into the cookhouse kitchen the next morning.
Lynn set down the hot bin of pancakes she carried, then wrapped Rowan in a hug. “I’m glad you’re all right. I’m glad everybody’s all right.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say.” Shaking her head, she picked up the bin again. “I have to get these on the buffet.”
At the stove, Marg scooped bacon from the grill, set it aside to drain before shifting over to pour a glass of juice. She held it out to Rowan. “Drink what’s good for you,” she ordered, then turned back to pull a batch of fresh biscuits from the oven. “They picked up Leo Brakeman last night.”
Rowan drank the juice. “Do you know what he’s saying?”
“I don’t know a lot, but I know they talked to him for a long time last night, and they’re holding him. I know he’s saying he didn’t do it. I’m feeling like Lynn. I don’t know what to think.”
“I think it was stupid to leave the rifle. Then again, the cops would do their CSI thing since they found at least one of the bullets. Then again, with his skill, at that range, he could’ve put all three of them into me.”
“Don’t say that.”
At the crack of Marg’s voice, Rowan walked over, rubbed a hand down Marg’s back. “He didn’t, so I can come in here and drink a juice combo of carrots, apples, pears and parsnips.”
“You missed the beets.”
“So that’s what that was. They’re better in juice than on a plate.”
Marg moved aside to take a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. “Go on in and eat your breakfast. I’ve got hungry mouths to feed.”
“I wanted to ask you. I wanted to ask both of you,” she said when Lynn came back with another empty tub. “Was Dolly seeing someone? Did she say anything about being involved?”
“She knew better than to start that business up around me,” Marg began, “when she kept saying how she was next thing to a grieving widow, and finding her comfort in God and her baby. But I doubt she stepped outside on a break to giggle on her cell phone because she’d called Dial-A-Joke.”
“She didn’t tell me anything, not directly,” Lynn put in. “But she said, a couple of times, how lucky I was to have a daddy for my kids, and how she knew her baby needed one, too. She said she spent a lot of time praying on it, and had faith God would provide.”
Lynn shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “I don’t like talking about her this way, but the thing is, she was a little sly when she said it, you know? And I thought, well, she’s already got her eye on a candidate. It wasn’t very nice of me, but it’s what I thought.”
“Did you tell the cops?”
“They just asked if she had a boyfriend, and like that. I told them I didn’t know of anybody. I wouldn’t have felt right telling them I thought she was looking for one. Do you think I should have?”
“You told them what you knew. I think I’m going to go get in my run, work up an appetite.” She saw Lynn bite her lip. “The cops have the rifle, and they have Brakeman. I can’t spend my life indoors. I’ll be back with an appetite.”
She walked outside. The shudder that went through her as she glanced toward the trees only stiffened her spine. She couldn’t live her life worried she had a target on her back. She put on the sunglasses—the ones Cards found where Gull had tackled her—and started the walk toward the track.
She could run on the road, she considered, but she was on the jump list, first load. The clouds over the mountains confirmed the forecast from the morning briefing. Cumulus overtimus, she thought, knowing the buildup could hurl lightning. She’d likely jump fire today, and get plenty of that overtime.
Better to stay on base in case.
“Hey.” Gull caught up with her at a light jog. “We running?”
“I thought you had things to do.”
“I said I wanted coffee, maybe some calories. And that was mostly to give you time to talk to Marg and Lynn. A straight three miles?”
“I . . .” Behind him, she saw Matt, Cards and Trigger come out of the cookhouse and head in her direction. Her eyes narrowed. “Did Lynn go in and tell the dining hall I was heading to the track?”
“What do you think?”
Now Dobie, Stovic and Gibbons herded out.
“Did she call up the Marines while she was at it? I don’t need a bunch of bodyguards.”
“What you’ve got is people who care about you. Are you really going to carp about that?”
“No, but I don’t see why . . .” Yangtree, Libby and Janis headed out from the direction of the gym. “For Christ’s sake, in another minute the whole unit’s going to be out here.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Half of you aren’t even in running gear,” she called out.
Trigger, in jeans and boots, reached her first. “We don’t wear running gear on a fire.”
; She considered him. “Nice save.”
“When you run, we all run,” Cards told her. “At least everybody who’s not on duty with something else. We voted on it.”
“I didn’t get a vote.” She jabbed a finger at Gull. “Did you get a vote?”
“I got to add mine to the unanimous results this morning, so your vote is moot.”
“Fine. Dandy. We run.”
She took off for the track, then geared up to a sprint the minute she hit its surface. Just to see who’d keep up, besides Gull, who matched her stride for stride. She heard the scramble and pounding of feet behind her, then the hoots and catcalls as Libby zipped up to pass.
“Have a heart, Ro,” she shouted. “We’ve got old men like Yangtree out here.”
“Who’re you calling old!” He kicked it up a notch, edged out of the pack on the turn.
“Gimps like Cards hobbling back there in his boots.”
Amused, Ro glanced over her shoulder to see Cards shoot up his middle finger. And Dobie begin to run backward to taunt him.
She cut her pace back a bit because he was hobbling just a little, then laughed herself nearly breathless when Gibbons jogged by with Janis riding on his shoulders pumping her arms in the air.
“Bunch of lunatics,” Rowan decided.
“Yeah. The best bunch of lunatics I know.” Gull’s grin widened as Southern puffed by with Dobie on board. “Want a ride?”
“I’ll spare you the buck and a half on your back. Show them how it’s done, Fast Feet. You know you wanna.”
He gave her a pat on the ass and took off like a bullet to a chorus of cheers, insults and whistles.
By the time she made her three, Gull was sprawled on the grass, braced on his elbows to watch the show. Highly entertained, she stood, hands on hips, doing the same. Until she saw her father drive up.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t get here sooner,” she commented, “or he’d have been out on the track, too.”
“I’m betting he can hold his own.”
“Yeah, he can.” She started toward him, trying for an easy smile. But the expression on his face told her easy wouldn’t work.
He grabbed her, pulled her hard against him.
“I’m okay. I told you I was A-OK.”
“I didn’t come to see for myself last night because you asked me not to, because you said you had to talk to the cops, and needed to get some sleep afterward.” He drew her back, took a long study of her face. “But I needed to see for myself.”
“Then you can stop worrying. The cops have Brakeman. I texted you they found his gun and were going to get him. And they got him.”
“I want to see him. I want to look him in the eye when I ask him if he thinks hurting my daughter will bring his back. I want to ask him that before I bloody him.”
“I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But he didn’t hurt me, and he’s not going to hurt me. Look at that bunch.” She gestured toward the track. “I came out here for my run, and every one of them came out of their various holes.”
“All for one,” he murmured. “I need to talk to your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my . . . Dad, I’m not sixteen.”
“Boyfriend’s the easiest term for me. Have you had breakfast?”
“Not yet.”
“Go on in, and I’ll sweet-talk Marg into feeding me with you—when I’m done talking to your boyfriend.”
“Just use his name. That should be easy.”
Lucas merely smiled, kissed her forehead. “I’ll be in in a minute.”
He crossed over to Gull, slapped hands with Gibbons, gave Yangtree a pat on the back as the man bent over to catch his breath.
“I want to talk to you a minute,” he said to Gull.
“Sure.” Gull pushed to his feet. His eyebrows lifted when Lucas walked away from the group, but he followed.
“I heard what you did for Rowan. You took care of her.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say that to her.”
“I know better, but I’m saying it to you. I’m saying I’m grateful. She’s the world to me. She’s the goddamn universe to me. If you ever need anything—”
“Mr. Tripp—”
“Lucas.”
“Lucas, first, I figure mostly anyone would’ve done what I did, which wasn’t that big a deal. If Rowan’s instincts had kicked in first, she’d have knocked me down, and I’d’ve been under her. And second, I didn’t do it so you’d owe me a favor.”
“You scraped a lot of bark off those arms.”
“They’ll heal up, and they’re not keeping me off the jump list. So. No big.”
Lucas nodded, looked off toward the trees. “Am I supposed to ask what your intentions are regarding my daughter?”
“God, I hope not.”
“Because to my way of thinking, if you were just in it for the fun, me saying I owed you wouldn’t put your back up. So I’m going to give you that favor whether you want it or not. And here it is.” He looked back into Gull’s eyes. “If you’re serious about her, don’t let her push you back. You’ll have to hold on until she believes you. She’s a hard sell, but once she believes, she sticks.
“So.” Lucas held out a hand, shook Gull’s. “I’m going to go have breakfast with my girl. Are you coming?”
“Yeah. Shortly,” Gull decided.
He stood alone a moment, absorbing the fact that Iron Man Tripp had just given his blessing. And thinking over just what he wanted to do with it.
He mulled it over, taking his time walking toward the cookhouse. The siren sounded just before he reached it. Cursing the missed chance of breakfast, Gull turned on his heel and ran for the ready room.
19
After forty-eight hours battling a two-hundred-acre wildfire in the Beaverhead National Forest, getting shot at a few times added up to small change. Once she’d bolted down the last of a sandwich she’d ratted away, Rowan worked with her team, lighting fusees in a bitter attempt to kick the angry fire back before it rode west toward the national battlefield.
The head changed direction three times in two days, snarling at the rain of retardant and spitting it out.
The initial attack, a miserable failure, moved into a protracted, vicious extended one.
“Gull, Matt, Libby, you’re on spots. Cards, Dobie, we’re going to move west, take down any snags. Dig and cut and smother. We stop her here.”
Nobody spoke as they pushed, shoved, lashed the backfire east. The world was smoke and heat and noise with every inch forward a victory. About time, Rowan thought, about damn time their luck changed.
The snag she cut fell with a crack. She positioned to slice it into smaller, less appetizing logs. They’d shovel and drag limbs and coals away from the green, into the black, into a bone pile.
Starve her, Rowan thought. Just keep starving her.
She straightened a moment to stretch her back.
She saw it happen, so fast she couldn’t shout out much less leap forward. A knife-point of wood blew out of the cut Cards was carving and shot straight into his face.
She dropped her saw, rushing toward him even as he yelped in shock and pain and lost his footing.
“How bad? How bad?” she shouted, grabbing him as he staggered. She saw for herself the point embedded in his cheek, half an inch below his right eye. Blood spilled down to his jaw.
“For fuck’s sake,” he managed. “Get it out.”
“Hold on. Just hold on.”
Dobie trotted up. “What’re you two . . . Jesus, Cards, how the hell did you do that?”
“Hold his hands,” Rowan ordered as she dug into her pack.
“What?”
“Get behind him and hold his hands down. I think it’s going to hurt when I pull it out.” She set a boot on either side of Cards’s legs, pulled off her right glove. She clamped her fingers on the inch of jagged wood protruding from his cheek. “On three now. Get ready. One. Two—”
She yanked on two, watched the blood slop
out, watched his eyes go a little glassy. Quickly, she pressed the pad of gauze she’d taken out of her pack to the wound.
“You’ve got a hell of a hole in your face,” she told him.
“You said on three.”
“Yeah, well, I lost count. Dobie, hold the pad, keep the pressure on. I have to clean that out.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Cards objected. “Just tape it over. We’ll worry about it later.”
“Two minutes. Lean back against Dobie.”
She tossed the bloody pad aside, poured water over the wound, hoping to flush out tiny splinters. “And try not to scream like a girl,” she added, following up the water with a hefty dose of peroxide.
“Goddamn it, Ro! Goddamn, fucking shit!”
Ruthless, she waited while the peroxide bubbled out dirt and wood, then doused it with more water. She coated another pad with antibiotic cream, added another, then taped it over what she noted was a hole in his cheek the size of a marble.
“We can get you out to the west.”
“Screw that. I’m not packing out. It was just a damn splinter.”
“Yeah.” Dobie held up the three-inch spear of wood. “If you’re fifty feet tall. I saved it for you.”
“Holy shit, that’s a fucking missile. I got hit with a wood missile. In the face. My luck,” he said in disgust, “has been for shit all season.” He waved off Rowan’s extended hand. “I can stand on my own.”
He wobbled a moment, then steadied.
“Take some of the ibuprofen in your PG bag. If you’re sure you’re fit, I want you to go switch off to scout spots. You’re not running a saw, Cards. You know better. Switch off, or I’ll have to report the injury to Ops.”
“I’m not leaving this here until she’s dead.”
“Then switch off. If that hole in your ugly face bleeds through those pads, have one of your team change it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He touched his fingers to the pad. “You’d think I cut off a leg,” he muttered, but headed down the line. When he’d gone far enough, she pulled out her radio, contacted Gull. “Cards is headed to you. He had a minor injury. I want one of you to head up to me, and he’ll take your place down there.”