The fire had started out small. Didn’t they all? And until this morning they’d foolishly believed it would be quickly contained.
They were wrong.
By midmorning, what had been a gentle breeze progressed into a strong wind. That was when all hell started to break loose. The cold front, however, would make the wind look like a sneeze in comparison.
The firefighters, over a hundred in all counting three Hotshots squads, Smokejumpers, one Navajo crew and one inmate crew, had been ordered to take a stand. A different location, one less susceptible, would have been preferred. Time and the weather denied them the luxury of choosing.
They either stopped the fire at this steep, rocky slope or the flames would roar right over them, pushed by the relentless wind. The first privately owned land the fire would reach belonged to Gage’s family. The town of Blue Ridge lay eight miles beyond that.
He hoped to hell his father and Hannah had moved the herds to the west pasture. The cows would move themselves when confronted with a fire and likely scatter. They could get stuck in a gully or run into a fence. Either situation spelled the end to both their lives and the Raintree finances.
Had Aubrey left for Tucson yet? Gage wondered. Was it even today she was supposed to leave? He’d lost track of the date, measuring the passage of time by the Hotshots’ progress, not hours or minutes.
God, he was tired
“Call the crew together.” Marty’s order shattered Gage’s momentary lapse of concentration.
The Blue Ridge Hotshots took a short reprieve from their labors to discuss strategy and determine the fastest escape route to their safety zone. Should there be a blowup, a very real possibility with the wind acting like the inside of a blender on high speed, Gage wanted every one of them to make it out in one piece.
Their weariness forgotten, the crew returned to work with renewed gusto. Arms resembling the pistons of a finely tuned machine, axes, shovels, and Pulaskis hit the ground in rapid fire succession. Foot by foot, they cut a line, trying their damnedest to reach the Navajo crew on the lower end of the slope and close the gap before the fire crossed the ravine.
Sweat dripped from every pore, soaking their grimeencrusted clothing. What were, in reality, forty-pound equipment packs felt as if they weighed a hundred and forty. Smoke, thick and foul, breeched their protective equipment, seeping into their lungs. Breathing became sheer agony.
Still, the Hotshots kept digging. Nothing would stop them, not when the enemy continued to advance.
So much was at risk—so much depended on them—and the Hotshots took the responsibility personally. Gage more than the others. This wasn’t just any town, any people. Blue Ridge was his home, the lives in jeopardy those of his friends and family.
All at once, the Navajo crew members were practically beside them. Positioned at the end of the Blue Ridge line, Gage signaled with a raised hand. The Navajo crew member nearest to him pointed. Gage looked up, and his superheated blood instantly froze.
The fire had vaulted across the narrow ravine, propelled by the strong, oxygen-rich wind. Before his eyes, the fire caught and grew to an amazing size. Like a giant emerging from the entrance to hell, it funneled up the hill toward them. In its wake lay a wide path of burning trees and brush.
Gage hollered a warning to his crew, who simultaneously raised their heads. Until that moment, they’d had their noses to the grindstone, focused exclusively on digging the line. Several of the men shielded their faces with their forearms and stepped back. One crossed himself.
Suddenly, the fire exploded into a tower of flames a hundred feet tall. Bits of fiery debris rained down, igniting small fires every place they landed. If the Hotshots didn’t get the hell out of there, they’d be dead.
“Run!” Gage shouted. He didn’t have to give the order twice.
Breaking formation, his crew dropped their tools and scrambled up the slope toward the safety zone on top. The Navajo crew had the same idea and were one step ahead of the Blue Ridge Hotshots.
Gage knew he should follow. There was nothing in his training or his past experiences that didn’t scream at him to run for his life. But ten feet of ground remained open. It could be insignificant—it could also be the gate through which the fire passed.
Remote as that possibility was, he couldn’t take the chance.
His Pulaski slammed into the ground again and again until his chest ached and his arms trembled. He didn’t realize for some seconds he had company. Marty worked beside him.
“You’re an idiot,” Gage screamed at him.
“Takes one to know one.”
Another minute flew by. They closed the gap to five feet. Two. Then it happened. An invisible wave of heat blasted them, throwing them backward. Gage glanced up and stared into a mammoth wall of fire—what some called the mouth of the dragon.
“Shit!”
His knees buckled, his insides clenched. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d been scared plenty during his career as a firefighter. All those times rolled into one didn’t match the terror gripping him now.
Twisting sideways, he shoved Marty. Hard. “Move!”
They sprinted up the slope, the fire chasing them. Flames blistered their backsides, licked their clothing. Whether they dropped their equipment packs or the fire burned through the straps, Gage wasn’t sure. The lack of extra weight proved a blessing.
“Go, go, go!”
Fingers clawing at any available handhold, feet grappling for traction, they half ran, half crawled. And still, the fire kept coming. Fast. So fast. Through watery eyes, Gage saw the top of the slope where his crew waited. He and Marty were almost there. Incredibly, they’d gained a few yards on the fire.
Then, without warning, the earth beneath them collapsed. Marty stumbled and bowled into Gage, knocking his legs out from under him. Gage pitched forward and landed on his face. He began to slide. Whatever air his lungs held whooshed out. Dirt filled his mouth. His vision blurred. Dimmed. Pain seized his limbs, immobilizing them.
He lay there, unable to do more than breathe the dragon’s poisonous fumes, absorb its searing heat.
Aubrey’s face appeared before him, first in a younger incarnation, then as she looked today.
Gage grunted. He wasn’t ready to die, not by a long shot. But unlike the movies, the revelation didn’t miraculously empower him with the strength to rise and stagger that last little bit to safety.
It did, however, fill him with the determination to hang on, something someone was yelling at him to do if his cotton-plugged ears were hearing right.
Yeah, hang on. If only to see Aubrey again and apologize for their stupid fight. Afterward, he’d drop to his knees and tell her he loved her. Tell her he didn’t give a rat’s ass about her father or his father or his job or anything else getting between them and a lifetime of happiness together. He’d move with her to Tucson. Hell, he’d move with her to the dark side of the moon if that’s where she wanted to live.
For twenty-four years, since the day he met her in Sunday school, she’d been the only one for him. The love of his life. A ten-year separation hadn’t lessened his feelings for her. Nothing would. Certainly not this fire.
A hand clamped around his right wrist and pulled. Another hand grabbed his left wrist. Still another hand grabbed him by his shirt collar. Gage was dragged over dirt and rocks and small sticks poking up from the ground. He thought his stomach and the side of his face might be permanently scraped off, though he didn’t complain. Had he been able to speak, he would have thanked his buddies for coming to his rescue.
God willing, they had Marty, too. He figured they did. Any firefighter worth their salt would cut off their arm before leaving one of their crew behind.
Gage tried to move but someone placed a restraining hand on him.
“Christ, Raintree. You and Paxton scared the crap out of us.”
The voice belonged to Freddy Gomez, a rookie Gage thought showed real promise. If the kid returned next summer after surviving
this fire, they’d know for sure he was crazy like the rest of them.
“Get ’em some water,” someone hollered.
In the next instant, a canteen was placed to Gage’s mouth. He tried to drink. Most of the water spilled down his chin and neck and into his shirt, which, considering how hot he was, didn’t feel half bad. Hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and breathing became a little easier. Fingers pushed a tablet into his mouth and the taste of salt exploded on his tongue. His headgear was removed, and a cold pack was placed on his forehead. Gage wanted to whimper with gratitude.
“Let’s go.”
Go where? Gage vaguely wondered. Thinking coherently had become a real nuisance, so he stop trying.
There was a rush of movement and he was suddenly suspended in midair. For an instant he panicked until he realized his men were carrying him. He tried to open his eyes but they were sealed shut. Swollen, he hoped, not burned. Had he lost his goggles? He couldn’t recall. His ears appeared to function well enough, though what was being said sounded garbled.
“Radio in for a helicopter.”
“Screw the copter. Not enough time. There’s an engine on top. Let’s load ’em in that. Road 128 is clear.”
“Where’s the closest medic station?”
“I’ll find out.”
Gage relaxed. Marty was alive, too, or the guys wouldn’t be in such a rush to transport the two of them to help.
His peace of mind didn’t last. Constant jostling took a toll on him in the form of nausea and a throbbing headache. He fought the urge to vomit by biting down on the insides of his cheeks. When he felt himself being loaded into the back of the engine, the nausea eased but not the dizziness. The engine roared to life and in the next minute, he was riding the world’s fastest merry-go-round with no pole on which to cling.
Someone laid a damp cloth over his face to block the sun. Gage sighed and let go, drifting into a state halfway between consciousness and unconsciousness. His last lucid thought was of the line they’d dug and whether or not it would hold.
Chapter 15
Onlookers stared as the bright yellow Forest Service engine barreled down the gravel road, kicking up a miniwhirlwind of dust and pebbles. Aubrey clamped her teeth together and grimaced when the driver took the last curve at a speed far exceeding what any sane person would deem safe.
“Here they come,” her father said. Picking up one of the lightweight stretchers, he began walking.
Aubrey grabbed the second stretcher and hurried after him. They knew only that two injured firefighters were being brought in, victims of a blowup.
Injured, she reminded herself. Not dead. Not yet.
And not if she could help it.
Keep it together, Aubrey. Don’t freeze.
Since receiving the radio alert advising them of the injured firefighters, she’d been battling anxiety, acutely aware of her father’s presence. Embarrassment at freezing up was a minor concern. Failing a patient was an altogether different matter.
She was an E.R. nurse, good at what she did. Better than good. At least that much was true until the night her Uncle Jesse and Aunt Maureen died. The past two months had been a cakewalk for Aubrey. Working in the clinic, helping at the community center, hadn’t exactly put her competency in a crisis to the test.
Not like today.
Her nerves stretched tighter with each step she took as visions of charred flesh filled her mind. She willed the grisly images away.
Should the firefighters be suffering from third degree burns, they’d need every ounce of her skill. This was not the time to fall to pieces.
You can do it, Aubrey.
Amid a cacophony of grinding gears and squealing brakes, the engine skidded to a stop beside two other vehicles. Men piled out from inside the cab, scrambled down from on top and leapt off from the sides where they’d been hanging.
“Medic!” one of them shouted.
Aubrey and her father broke into awkward trots, hampered by the portable stretchers.
Two men remained on top while the rest gathered at the back of the engine. They were sweaty and filthy, barely discernable as human. One of the guys on the ground turned sideways, then another.
Aubrey’s steps faltered. So did her heart.
“You all right?” Her father spared her a quick glance over his shoulder.
“Fine.”
But she wasn’t fine. She recognized the name printed on the men’s helmets. Her eyes went straight to their face. She recognized them, too. In the three weeks she and Gage dated, she’d met most of the Blue Ridge Hotshots.
More familiar faces appeared as equipment and protective clothing were discarded.
Where was Gage?
Trotting faster, Aubrey scanned the group, her concern escalating to fear as she studied and dismissed each firefighter in turn.
No Gage.
Where the hell was he?
Don’t jump to conclusions, she cautioned herself and promptly refused to heed her own advice.
Her father reached the engine ahead of her. A firefighter offered to take the stretcher from her and she let him, reminding herself that the injured men would have been flown to the nearest hospital if their condition was critical.
Relax. Keep moving.
Why wasn’t Gage with his crew?
The firefighters crowded in around Aubrey and her father. Voices merged, and she had trouble deciphering them. An icy sensation formed in her middle and radiated outward, pooling in her fingers and toes. Her movements slowed, became sluggish, hampered by her lead-weighted limbs.
It was the night her Uncle Jesse and Aunt Maureen died all over again.
Not now. Please!
“Give us some room,” her father shouted.
He was instantly obeyed, and a hole opened. Four firefighters stood ready with the stretchers.
“Stand by.” Her father climbed on the back of the engine and motioned with his hand. “Lower them down.”
Aubrey held her breath and stared as the first casualty was gingerly placed on a waiting stretcher and strapped in.
Marty! She recognized him immediately. And he was all right! Talking, in fact.
Fists balled at her sides and feet rooted to the ground, she watched them load the second man onto the remaining stretcher. A cloth covered his face, preventing her from identifying him. Her father hopped off the engine and bent over the man, removing the cloth.
The entire right side of his face was scraped and bleeding. So were his hands, she noticed. Sweat had matted his hair to his head, and his eyes were swollen shut. Beneath numerous layers of dirt, his exposed skin shone bright red.
He didn’t move, not even when one of the firefighters accidentally bumped the stretcher. Not even when her father spoke into his ear.
Aubrey, however, did move. Like lightning.
“Let me through!”
Plowing into the small crowd, she pushed and shoved her way to his side.
“Is he alive?”
Dear Lord, she never dreamed there’d be a day when she’d have to ask that question about Gage.
“Yeah, he’s alive,” a young man Aubrey thought was called Freddy answered. He carried the front end of Gage’s stretcher. “Just got the shit banged out of him. Marty, too.”
She could see that for herself.
Picking up one of Gage’s battered hands, she clasped it in hers. His flesh was warm. Gloriously, wonderfully warm.
Then again, maybe too warm. He must be burning up inside.
Her father offered a more detailed medical assessment than Freddy’s as they walked the stretchers toward the tent. Aubrey let her gaze wander over Gage, mentally concurring.
“What happened?”
She suppressed a shudder as the tale of the unexpected blowup was recounted along with Gage and Marty’s valiant efforts to close the line. They were damn lucky to get out of there, damn lucky to have a crew willing to risk their lives to rescue them.
“Put them on the cots,” h
er father ordered once they entered the tent. “And easy does it. Aubrey, I’ll get the IVs started. You prep the patients.”
Hydrating Gage and Marty and lowering their body temperatures were the number-one priorities. Lacking a pole, Aubrey’s father handed the IV bags to the two closest firefighters, one being Freddy.
“Keep these well above their heads at all times.”
Using a pair of scissors, Aubrey cut off Marty’s shirt and then Gage’s, leaving them both bare to the waist.
Given the events immediately preceding the blowup, they were probably suffering from smoke inhalation and heat exhaustion. Possibly heatstroke. Their exact prognosis wouldn’t be fully determined until she and her father had finished conducting thorough examinations.
Marty was awake and alert, correctly answering the questions put to him. She wished Gage would rouse. He’d mumbled incoherently when she hooked him up to the portable oxygen supply, but not since. She thought she heard him mutter her name, then admonished herself for grasping at straws.
“What medical steps were taken in the field?” her father asked, inserting IV needles into the backs of each man’s hand.
Freddy told them.
Slamming two Insta-Cold packs on top of a cooler to activate them, Aubrey laid one on Gage’s forehead and the other on Marty’s, who kept refusing to lie still.
She passed him some water and instructed, “Sips only. I mean it.” Using a sports bottle with a spout, she dribbled water into Gage’s mouth.
He licked his lips and croaked a raspy, “Thank you.”
Though she knew he was hardly out of the woods, her hopes nonetheless flared.
While her father saw to Marty, Aubrey took Gage’s temperature, which was elevated, and tended to his many abrasions. Later, when he was more responsive, she’d check his eyes and flush them with saline solution if necessary. For now, she gently sponged them with cool water.
He talked in broken sentences, mostly about the fire. He made more sense than earlier but far from perfect sense. Bit by bit his body temperature decreased, and bit by bit his mind cleared.
When she was done, she sponged his chest with a washcloth and mild cleanser. Beginning at his neck, she made small circles, frequently rewetting the washcloth in a basin of water and squeezing on a fresh dab of cleanser.
Just Kate: His Only Wife (Bestselling Author Collection) Page 34