Wildfire at Larch Creek

by M. L. Buchman

When he tried to pull it on, the old denim barely fit.

  Last time he’d worn it was his rookie summer as a hotshot eight years ago. Despite having a long, lean frame, like every other person who worked wildfire he’d bulked up over the season. And the last two years with MHA he’d fought the Australian season as well. His good polar fleece was still down at the MHA camp in Oregon.

  He struggled with his favorite jacket a moment longer then hung it back on the door and opted for a sweater he’d left in the old dresser because it was too warm for the Lower Forty-eight. It was too heavy, but Ms. Maypole had knit it just for him so the sleeves were right on his long arms without the body having the bulk of a triple-XL. It would do until he could hit a store in Fairbanks.

  His room was unchanged. A pile of plastic trophies for basketball and track-and-field. Posters that proved his teenage taste in music had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with how hot the solo female vocalist was. Most of them weren’t even on his playlist anymore.

  It had started with Madonna, despite her being older than his mother—a comparison he wasn’t liking at the moment. Even though he still listened to her sometimes, he pulled the thumbtacks and rolled her up. Then Britney followed her. Gaga, Aguilera, Swift when she was about fourteen. Whitney and Mariah came down as well. Tina Turner was a classic, but older than his grandmother; what had he been thinking? Soon they were all down and his walls looked strangely barren.

  All that was left was the “picture window” as he’d always called it—a big corkboard his dad had helped him mount years ago. It was covered with photos. Mostly his family…and Stephen Tyler. It was rare to have a photo of him without Stephen.

  And even rarer to have a photo of the two of them without Mace Tyler stuck in the background somewhere. The picnic up on Sushana River where they’d all nearly died of blood loss to the mosquitoes, at least it had felt that way and the three of them had certainly looked it—bright red with bites despite gallons of bug spray. There she was, front seat on the school bleachers during a basketball game when the Snow Angels had trounced the Fairbanks Nanooks. He and Stephen dressed for the prom, and the gawky eighth-grader Mace sandwiched between them for the pre-event photo.

  He’d figure out what to put up on the rest of the walls later, if anything.

  Tim tapped Mace’s nose in the prom photo, because it used to drive her stone cold nuts when he did it in real life. He wondered if it still did? He should try it and find out. Actually, her vengeance had always been lethal, so maybe not.

  The upstairs of the house was quiet as he snuck down. Q2 the cat—who he’d named for the Star Trek character, Q the First was buried out under a blueberry bush—was curled up in a corner of the living room so close to the wood stove that it was always a surprise he didn’t spontaneously combust.

  “Getting lazy there, boy,” Tim gave him a scritch that Q2 barely bothered to wake up for. Even as a kitten the little beast had known better than to let something as trivial as attention interfere with a good nap. Lazy was the cat’s middle name, only the sound of kibble striking his cat bowl broke through that nonplussed attitude.

  Dad was still out cold or there would be coffee on the stove. He could hear Mom already typing away in her office. It could be hours, or even days before she surfaced, depending on where she was in the next book; and interrupting her when she was on a roll ranked as an unacceptable safety risk.

  Tim eased out into the morning sunshine of central Alaska. Again, the air was so different here. Even though the MHA camp was high on the face of Mount Hood and claimed some of the freshest air in the state as it rolled down off the high glaciers, Central Alaska was different. It was so fresh that it felt as if it had been just created.

  Not quite sure why, Tim crunched himself into the SUV and drove down into Larch Creek rather than walking. Carl opened French Pete’s when he woke up. If you got there before he was up and about, he didn’t mind someone else going in and starting the coffee.

  Four in the morning, the sun already a handspan above the valley walls, the town was awake. No one was doing any of the noisy work; that was just plain rude before six, but folks were out and about. They’d squint at his strange car, stark in its rental whiteness, and then wave cheerily when they spotted his face practically mashed up against the windshield. He needed to go by Mark’s and see if the mechanic could fix the seat for him, but the garage would still be locked up.

  Despite his need for coffee Tim drove past French Pete’s, “Just seeing the old town again” he told himself. He was most of the way to the Tyler’s house, just to sort of see if Mace was awake yet or—

  Stephen’s truck was parked at the old Mason place. It was the same blue as most other trucks in town, but he remembered the night they’d put that big dent in the side panel.

  It jolted him to a stop with a loud skid on the coarse gravel.

  He could only stare at it.

  Not possible—

  Then he spotted the bumper sticker which declared: My Other Car Is A Bell LongRanger! And the other: Auntie Em, There’s No Craft Like Rotorcraft!

  Mace must have taken Stephen’s truck after he died.

  The cottage, which had been a run down piece of crap that Mason had never kept up for one moment in the forty years he’d been there, was so transformed he barely recognized it. Now it was a neat little cottage with a copper-toned metal roof and a garden busy with flowers.

  Sitting out on the front porch, eyeing him like he was a total lunatic, was Mace Tyler and a knee-high-sized dog that looked part lab and part husky.

  Tim left the SUV where it was, Buck Street didn’t have anything fancy like a curb to pull up to. He clambered out and waved.

  Mace didn’t wave back.

  Crap! Tim hadn’t expected her to be that mad at him.

  # # #

  Macy tried to wave back, she really did. But one hand held her mug and the other was convulsively clenched deep in Baxter’s fur.

  Tim stuffed his hands in his pockets and moseyed up the walkway.

  Baxter let out a low growl. It was just his “I don’t know you” noise, but it was enough to stop Tim a half dozen paces away. The man was absolutely not supposed to look so good, and so familiar. He’d been her first memory, sitting on the floor beside her, teaching her how to stack building blocks. She’d had a crush on him since…she was born—for all the good it had done her. Well, she could at least be civilized.

  “Hey, Tim.”

  “Hey yourself. That still hot chocolate or do you drink grown up drinks now?”

  She looked down at the mug and felt like she was twelve, “Hot chocolate.”

  “With or without?” he grinned down at her.

  “With, of course,” and she tried not to feel like she was six. “Who in their right mind would drink hot chocolate without the little marshmallows?” Other than Tim Harada. She tried to make it sound fierce but the sentence didn’t really lend itself to that very well.

  He moved up to the start of the porch steps and squatted down until he was almost eye to eye with Baxter then held out his knuckles.

  “Watch it, he’s fierce.”

  Baxter sniffed his hand and then licked it.

  “Yep,” Tim agreed far too casually. “As fierce as Old Jake,” the prior family mutt who had also turned into a total mush whenever Tim came around.

  Baxter had so hated Billy that she’d come close to finding him a new home before the wedding. That hadn’t happened. Big clue there.

  Oh, please don’t let Tim have heard about that.

  “Looks nice,” Tim nodded to the house. “You do the work yourself?”

  “Yes. Why?” she hadn’t meant to snap at him, but this sentence picked up the heat she’d been missing earlier.

  “Looks well done, Mace. That’s why. When did you acquire the patience to do decent trim work and painting?”
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br />   “You’ve been gone a while, Tim.”

  And his face shifted as if she’d just hauled off and punched him in the gut. It lost color and the easy full-of-himself smile was gone as if it had never been.

  “What?”

  Tim was staying focused on scratching Baxter’s head. The dog was stretching out his neck for more of it, the traitor. He dragged her hand, which was still anchored in the dog’s ruff, right under Tim’s.

  He didn’t jerk back like she wanted to.

  Instead he rested his hand over hers deep in Baxter’s fur and looked up at her with those forest dark eyes of his.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been…” he stalled, looked up at the sky as if hunting for what he’d meant to say, “…around more. You know. Since…Stephen.” Then he squeezed her hand a final time and withdrew it.

  Baxter whined when Tim rose back to his feet. The couple steps up the porch were not enough to make up for Tim’s height and he was once again looking down at her.

  “If you…need anything. Just let me know.”

  He scuffed a boot on her gravel walkway.

  “Well, I should be going,” he nodded to her, brushed his fingertips over Baxter’s nose, and turned to head back to his truck.

  She gaped at him. Men weren’t clueless; they were incomprehensible.

  He was trying to fold himself back into his rental when she finally shook off the paralysis. She jerked to her feet, splashing hot cocoa on her hand which made her curse, and released her hold on Baxter.

  He jumped off the steps and bounded down to Tim. When Tim turned to pet him again, Baxter moved right in to sniff, jamming that big snout of his right up between Tim’s legs. Baxter was barely tall enough, but he connected.

  With a whoosh and a pinching together of his legs, Tim stumbled back against the SUV and clipped the back of his head on the door frame.

  Baxter thought that was very entertaining and jumped up to place two husky-sized paws on Tim’s thighs, pinning him half in—half out of the vehicle.

  Macy set her hot cocoa down on the porch, wiped her hand on her jeans, and moved up behind Baxter, but made no effort to call him off. She wanted to lay into Timothy Harada. Shout what an idiot he was. Tell him...things she’d never told anyone. She needed a different tack.

  “You know, these seats are adjustable,” it was in the full forward position and even she wouldn’t be able to fit her five-ten frame into the tiny space.

  Tim was making a poor attempt to rub the back of his head with one hand and fend off Baxter trying to crawl up and lick his face with the other.

  It was odd, Baxter didn’t generally like strangers.

  “Not this one,” he managed to shove Baxter down. If Tim had thought to say “Sit,” Baxter would have obeyed immediately. But like most of the writers, the Haradas were cat people. “It’s broken, but this was the last decent car on the rental lot.”

  She snapped her fingers and Baxter immediately dropped to his butt. She shoved Tim aside and looked under the seat. She worked the release lever a few times and spotted the problem. She pulled her multi-tool out of her back pocket.

  # # #

  This was not the Mace Tyler that Tim had always known. Sure, she was still far too sure that she was right—which she usually was. There’d never been any question where the brains of the family had landed. Of both their families.

  But she lived in a picture postcard house, which didn’t sound like her at all, and was presently leaning down into his truck with her butt facing him. Her jeans were worn almost to holes and were so soft that they traced every curve. The outline of where the multi-tool lived was a white imprint on the worn denim. Her position emphasized things that Stephen would beat the crap out of him for noticing if he were still around.

  Mace the girl from childhood had been replaced by Macy Tyler the stunning woman. Mace, no—Macy had changed. Not that he’d ever say her proper name out loud or she’d know for sure something strange was going on between his “tall ears” where, she never failed to remark “he occasionally resorted to vain attempts at creating a cognitive process.”

  Tim tried to look somewhere else, but ended up facing the dog who was clearly wondering what his problem was. When he turned, Baxter went for the nose ram again and Tim was barely fast enough to get a blocking hand up. Knowing Macy, she’d probably trained the dog to do just that.

  With an abrupt ratcheting sound, the seat slid back and thunked against the last stop. There was the sharp clunk as it locked into place.

  “Oh my god! You’re a savior, Tyler.”

  She stood up with that smarmy grin on her face.

  He wrapped her in a quick hug.

  She went stiff as a spruce tree.

  He backed off and mumbled a soft, “Sorry.”

  Her face was unreadable in the moment before she brushed him aside to escape from where he’d inadvertently trapped her between the SUV and the open door.

  “I owe you, Mace.”

  “You don’t owe me squat,” she sounded pissed as a balked wildfire as she tromped back to the porch and picked up her hot cocoa. She stood with her back to him. Not that he was enjoying the view or anything.

  “Okay, fine,” he needed something light to defuse whatever was going on. “My legs owe you though. They were on the verge of staging a rebellion and quitting the service after three plane flights and then that front seat.”

  “Great! If I ever need your legs, I’ll give them a call. Now go back wherever you came from.”

  Tim leaned back against the truck, kept half an eye on Baxter, and the other one-and-a-half on Macy Tyler.

  She snapped her fingers and Baxter raced to her side. She gathered up her hot chocolate mug and they went inside with a slam of the screen door.

  Tim knew what he would do…if it was anyone other than Macy. Go up and knock. Say something sweet and smooth and funny like, “I have another problem that needs fixing. There’s this kid sister of my best friend who hates me for reasons unknown…” Well, not the best ploy, but he could always come up with something; he did best when it was on the fly.

  Except this was Macy.

  He’d obviously hurt her and hurt her badly by not being around since Stephen enlisted and didn’t come back.

  Storming the fortress wasn’t going to work.

  He climbed back into the rental and headed down to French Pete’s for breakfast. It would take some thinking, but he had to find a way to make it up to her.

  # # #

  Macy did her best not to scream as she listened to Tim drive off. And she hadn’t watched from the window because she sure wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Plus, it was too lame for words.

  She shoved her mug in the microwave, but didn’t bother turning it on. Instead she crossed her arms to glare at it. For one thing, the marshmallows would get all weird. And the handle too hot. Microwaves never reheated hot chocolate properly.

  Couldn’t she do anything right?

  “I know how to hug a man, don’t I?”

  Baxter sat on the floor and looked longingly from her to the dog biscuit drawer and then back to her.

  “I hugged Brett normal as could be just last night, didn’t I? He didn’t even try to cop a feel.”

  Was it because he was decent or Macy was a psycho woman with…

  “No! Not finishing that sentence.”

  Baxter gave up and sighed as he lay on the wood of the old floor.

  But how was she supposed to hug Tim Harada normally?

  On one hand, he was family. She’d been in his arms a thousand times, everything from tackle football to practicing for a school dance to shoving him when he least expected if a large mud puddle presented itself as too tempting a target. He was quick and half the time she’d go in with him, but it was always worth it; sometimes it was even better that way.


  So why had she gotten all weird this time?

  She pulled down cereal for her breakfast, but could smell that the milk had turned the moment she uncapped the bottle. Pancakes…required milk. Eggs…she was out of. Oatmeal with soymilk wasn’t quite as awful as it sounded, but it was close. She’d shed her Pop Tart addiction two years ago and there wasn’t a one in the cupboards.

  “Fine! Breakfast out, Baxter.”

  He knew those words and raced to the door to wait. Carl always had a bowl of meat scraps in the fridge.

  Normally they’d walk, but she had a mail flight in another hour, so she took the truck. She rolled down the driver’s window despite the chill morning air and drove off, calling for Baxter to run close behind and get a couple of the kinks out with a six-block run as she drove over.

  She was climbing out of the truck, when she heard a shout of, “Heads up!”

  Macy turned barely in time to see Baxter leap in front of her and grab a Frisbee just moments before it whacked her in the nose.

  The dog bounded up the steps and dropped it at Tim’s feet. He was part way down the cluttered porch, but Baxter reached him and then bounded back into view, ready to race after the next throw.

  Tim leaned out, off balance over the porch rail, and heaved the disk with an underhand throw that sent it soaring down the middle of the Parisian Way, skipping off the top of Herb Maxwell’s truck and floating most of the way to the hardware store.

  Baxter snagged it inches from the ground at the cost of doing a full somersault. But he came up with it in his teeth and was already trotting it back to Tim.

  She flashed a signal and Baxter turned at the last moment and delivered it to her. With a sharp overhand she sent it whipping at Tim’s face. Hard.

  He trapped it with a solid thunk against his palms, grinned, and winged it further the other way up the street toward the church.

  Baxter raced, leapt for the catch, and returned. He stopped halfway between them and eyed them both with the Frisbee still clamped in his teeth.

  Tim waved for Baxter to give it to Macy, and he obeyed. He’d never obeyed anyone but her.

  “It’s Stephen’s,” he called down from the porch. “Or maybe it was mine, but it’s the one we kept underneath the butter churn in case we were in town and wanted to play.”