Firelights of Christmas

by M. L. Buchman

  The other thing that Patsy could see was that she wasn’t going to be back in time for dinner, perhaps not for days.

  She pulled out her cell phone, probably no reception once they hit the ground out here in the National Park, and certainly no time. She caught two bars off a tower somewhere and dialed Sam’s number.

  Patsy had never had anyone to call before, when going to a fire. She’d simply go, for a day, a week, a month; it didn’t matter. Once a week she tried to let Mom and Dad know she was alive, but they understood if she didn’t check in during a busy fire season. They’d taught her to be safe around fire by the time she entered kindergarten. And how to fight it while still in middle school.

  She got Sam’s answering machine.

  “Hey, this is Patsy. I’m off on a fire. Will let you know when I’m back.” She didn’t know what else to say. Nothing appropriate except how much she’d enjoyed having sex in his kitchen this morning. And meeting him in the evenings. And eating his delicious creations. “Uh, thanks,” was the best, lame-ass thing she came up with.

  Patsy hung up the phone and tucked it away as the helicopter circled down on their chosen position.

  She’d be the first one down, so she clipped her rappelling harness onto the line tied off to the loop outside the cargo bay door.

  Candace was back beside her and double-checked Patsy’s gear.

  “He’s a baker,” Patsy told her. Which explained absolutely nothing about him.

  The helicopter was sliding to a halt just above the treetops. Patsy tossed the coiled line out the cargo bay door and watched as it snaked down and disappeared through a narrow gap in the trees.

  Candace’s bland look told her that wasn’t nearly enough explanation.

  “He’s really good with his hands.”

  At that Candace smiled and nodded enthusiastically, “Don’t you just love men with good hands?”

  Patsy leaned forward out of the cargo bay, then she slid down beneath the battering wind of the rotor, the fire’s radiant heat powerful on her face even at this distance.

  Heat. A man who worked with heat and generated it as well with those nice hands of his.

  Love? She wasn’t there yet, but for the first time in her life she could imagine getting there. Much the same way she could imagine beating this fire, though they hadn’t even begun.

  She hit the ground and disengaged from the line, but her feet were still floating somewhere up in the sky.

  11

  Six days.

  Sam was amazed at how many emotions had churned up within him in six days.

  First, disappointment that Patsy was gone and he didn’t have an immediate opportunity to test if what had been between them that morning was real…or even repeatable.

  This near stranger, naked and unabashed in his kitchen, had been a revelation. His first time with her had been better than any time with Christie—and throughout their marriage they’d both always remarked on how good they were together physically. Until she was also good, and unrepentant, with her married boss.

  Patsy had been incredible, responding in ways he’d never imagined. And where Christie had been delicate, cultivating it into a fine, fragile art form, Patsy was powerful. She definitely gave back as good as she got, and she was impossibly, fantastically real. He’d also had no idea how amazing the body of a “female of the species” could form up until he’d had a chance to appreciate Patsy Jurgen’s immense degree of fitness.

  Besides, she wasn’t a stranger. In their evenings together, he’d found it easy to spill out tales of his past. At first he avoided his marriage, divorce, and abandoning his job. But that too eventually came out in the comfortable world they’d created between them.

  “I always wanted to own my own bakery instead of cooking in someone else’s. That was about the only good thing I got out of the whole mess.”

  It was only after he’d said the words that he thought of how they might have sounded to this woman he was now seeing. They certainly wouldn’t have met if not for his moving across the whole country to get away from Christie.

  But Patsy hadn’t taken some unintended offense. Instead, she’d remarked that if his business sense was as good as his food sense, he was set for life. It was good, but he’d signed up for an on-line business course that night to make sure of it.

  She was more reticent than he was, but once she started a tale, she told it without any attempt to evade or be embarrassed by it. She told the good with the bad as if the past was of no consequence at all.

  He worried less about the past the more time they spent together.

  What he hadn’t expected was to, once more, start looking forward to the future. That was a skill Christie had taken in the divorce that he was only now rediscovering.

  He went through disappointment that he didn’t hear from Patsy. Then anger. Surely the woman could find the damned time to text the man she’d just had sex with. Maybe that’s all she’d wanted, one good screw, and was now done with him. He knew that was wrong about her, but it didn’t stop it from swirling through his mind like folding a meringue time and again until it was totally flat and useless—an immensely frustrating twenty-four hours.

  When he still didn’t hear from her, he shifted over to fear that she’d been injured or killed and no one would know to tell him.

  After two nights in a row of lost sleep, he went down to the Leavenworth fire station for lack of any better idea.

  Captain Carl Cantrell was in his office.

  Patsy had talked a lot, for her, about Candace Cantrell—the fire chief’s daughter and head of the Cascade Hotshots. Practically worshipped the ground the woman walked on.

  “Patsy?” Cantrell had offered him an easy smile. “She’s still off on the Silver King Fire. Just heard from my girl last night on the radio. She thinks they’ll have it contained in another day, two max. Once they can hand it off to a Type 2 mop-up crew, they’ll be back, unless there’s another blow-up.”

  On the radio. Not somewhere she could call, which could explain why Patsy hadn’t called. No phone service.

  Type 2? Not a clue.

  At least he knew what “mop-up” looked like, columns of fire erupting from ground that pretended to be black and dead.

  Blow-up he definitely didn’t like the sound of.

  “You the one put that smile on her face?”

  Sam was tempted to avoid answering, but could feel the smile of relief on his own, knowing she was fine, just out doing her job.

  “I hope that’s because of me.”

  Cantrell just kept grinning, “Keep it up, son. That smile looks good on her. She takes it all far too seriously.”

  “Well, she fights fires for a living,” he felt himself getting deeply protective of her.

  The man held up his hands in a placating motion. “Do some of that myself.”

  Right, this is the Fire Chief, you dolt.

  “She’s a good one and I’ve seen enough to know. Maybe as good as my Candace, though if you say in front of my daughter I’ll deny it. Just needs someone to lighten her up a bit.”

  Deeply comforted by the news and the Captain’s words, Sam headed back into town to wait. He wanted to get her something. Something to tell her that he thought she was incredible.

  As he passed the Christmas shop, he knew just what to get.

  12

  Back in town Patsy crawled out of The Box and into the shower. Eight days on the first fire of the season. She’d slept…hmm, she was sure she’d slept at some point. They’d coyoted for much of the fire, lying down in their gear right where they finished a shift—usually twenty-four to thirty-six hours long—and slept until the fire made an aggressive move and you were on your feet again—usually way too soon.

  She plunged into her first shower in all that time and let the stink wash down the drain with the char. Clothes in t
he wash.

  She came to, standing upright and staring down at her bunk. Yes, she should just do a faceplant and hope nothing burned in the next twenty-four hours. But she didn’t want to.

  Instead, she was halfway to town before she knew what she wanted. Her brain was definitely moving slower than her body.

  Eight days.

  All Sam Parker had gotten from her in eight days was silence. Would he still want to see her? She thought so. She hoped so.

  It was amazing how much he’d been in her head through all that time.

  Instead of just living the moment of the fire, she wanted to tell him about it. The little victories, the staggering defeats, and the return to battle until it was won. There was no option, winning is what hotshots did, engaging the fire until it was down and done.

  She didn’t think that Sam would need a bribe in order to want her back. But she wanted to take him something to let him know she’d been thinking of him.

  13

  Sam had decided to hang out late in the bakery that day even though his assistants had it covered. Late morning he’d gotten a call from the Fire Chief.

  “They’re home. Doesn’t look like they’ve slept much, probably shower and sack time, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  He left the back door open as he worked in the kitchen. It was after lunch when a shadow cut the light pouring into the kitchen, even as he made some notes to try next time on the banana muffins.

  He turned to see her, for he had no doubt it would be Patsy. Something inside him just knew.

  She stood there, framed in the sunlit doorway. Instead of her fire gear, she wore shorts and sneakers that revealed those powerful legs that had been clamped so tight around his waist that one morning.

  Her t-shirt was bright red with a jagged yellow line like mountain peaks, but also like fire. Block letters spelled out, “Silver King Fire” and the year. It hugged her curves in ways that just begged for him to explore them.

  Her golden hair caught the sunlight like a halo of fire.

  “I got you something,” she held up a small bag that he recognized.

  Sam reached under the counter and pulled out a similar bag, “I know it’s only June, but it just seemed right.”

  He actually felt awkward as they exchanged bags; it was a surprisingly intimate moment. They began to open them together on the steel prep table.

  He pulled out a string of lights and couldn’t help smiling. It was a totally ridiculous string of tiny baked goods: cakes, éclairs, and cookies.

  Sam waited while she finished unwrapping her own set of “Fiery Twinkle Lights.” He snagged the plug and put it into the outlet under the lip of the counter, then he plugged in his string to hers. Together they all flashed on and hers began to flicker like fire.

  “They look good together,” her voice was soft, on the verge of that rare laugh he’d so come to enjoy.

  “They do,” he agreed. Then he looked up at her, “You look incredible.”

  “So do you,” she took a step closer and nodded toward the steel prep table, the reflection doubling the lights. “It looks like between us we have a good start on a Christmas tree.”

  “A very good beginning,” Sam moved in a step, could feel the warmth of Patsy Junger’s heat spreading through him as that lopsided smile of hers broke free.

  “I bet that between us, we could make an incredible tree by December.” She slid into his arms and wrapped her own arms around his back. She rested her head against his shoulder.

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  And she was.

  There had never been a gift so perfect as this woman in his arms.

  About the Author

  M. L. Buchman has over 30 novels in print. His military romantic suspense books have been named Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the year” and Booklist “Top 10 of the Year.” In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.

  In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife. He is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing by subscribing to his newsletter at

  www.mlbuchman.com.

  Full Blaze a Firehawks romance

  Cal Jackson stared up at the wall of flame eating its way toward him through the forest. He was always tempting fate one step too far. Now he was way past the second step, as well as the third. He was standing in the foreign land of totally screwed. In his seven years of fighting wildfires and five more photographing them, he’d never been this far over the line. Not even close.

  He’d ridden the edge a lot since he was a testosterone-laden teen. It had earned him his fair share of cold slaps from ticked-off women, but maybe more than his share of warm and friendly nights. It had also led to numerous interesting opportunities to travel for both work and play, so he’d learned to take that risk without really thinking about it.

  He tried not to take that second step very often; it was his warning that he was pushing the limits. But dancing along the edge of that step was what had won him so many of his awards. Though the Pulitzer for photography and “best of” for World Press Photo still remained out of reach, he’d bagged a lot of awards including the cover on National Geographic. And Time, twice.

  Out here, way past the second step, the Grindstone Canyon Fire was in full-throated roar. The sound throbbed against his body with bass notes that actually shook his inner organs. He’d stood close beside the tracks when two-hundred-car freight trains had flown past at full speed. This was louder. Nor did it conveniently pass by and Doppler into the distance; this train of fire had him clear in its sights.

  The air was growing so hot that it hurt to breathe. His acute sense of smell for smoke, burning pitch, and carbon had long since been overwhelmed by the saturation of them in the air. He’d embedded tight with a crew of hotshot firefighters who were fast losing ground against the wildfire despite their best efforts. It happened that way. Fighting fire was a delicate back-and-forth dance between flame and attacker, almost like a hip-hop advance and retreat, attack and counterattack by both sides of the…hoedown.

  Hoedown? Where had he come up with that? Third foster father. Yuck!

  In one way the comparison was appropriate, as it was with the rakes, Pulaskis, and even hoes that a hotshot crew used to battle the flames. Not hoedown, but rather… His brain trying to work out what hip-hop dancers called that battle of dance, power, and sensuality had to be about the damn stupidest thought to have as his last on earth.

  The Grindstone in southern California was probably the last big fire of the year in the United States. The Pacific Northwest was already getting rain, and Colorado had snow, though that hadn’t slowed down the Fern Lake Fire back in 2012. He’d won two awards and gotten national headlines on that one for his piece on fighting wildfires when the supply tanks and rivers froze and the helicopters couldn’t get at the water to fight the flames.

  The Southeast had just been soaked by a really serious trio of hurricanes. So this year California was last in the hot seat, and the fires above Santa Barbara were doing their best to take back the hills for Mother Nature. It had started in the same area of Rattlesnake Canyon Park as the lethal Rattlesnake Fire of 1953 that killed fifteen firefighters. Though this time it was started by lightning rather than a psycho arsonist.

  You’d think he’d have grabbed a clue from the historical setting, though he’d been no better with history than most of the subjects in school, except fighting and photography. With maturity, he’d added “fire” as an adjective to both of them. He now knew fire history as well as any hotshot walking the hills, except for this time when it should
have warned him. There hadn’t been a bad burn here in more than sixty years, so it was due.

  The hotshot crew he’d been with had been in the heat for a week, driving ahead and then retreating—dancing that careful strategic dance against the fire. Less than two minutes ago the crew had taken off down a narrow track leading across a cliff face and onto a rolling slope that led down into the distant valley. Their escape route was clean. He’d hesitated an extra fifteen seconds to get a shot of a massive fig tree, over eighty feet tall, being ripped up by fire-generated winds and tossed aside like a matchstick. Fifteen lousy seconds.

  The problem was that the fire had cast the flaming tree down right across his escape route. The tree not only lay across the path, but was catching all of the surrounding material on fire as well. The crew looked at him helplessly across the gap.

  The notch canyon that separated them was too far for a rope cast, and the vertical walls that plunged down to either side of his position required a level of mountaineering skill that included hammers and pitons, neither of which he was carrying. He carefully eyed a ledge about ten feet below, but could think of no way to get down to it. Far too narrow a landing to risk a jump. Yet.

  He could see the crew boss on the radio, but with the fire’s roar, Cal couldn’t hear him even though his own radio handset was in its pouch right against his shoulder and the volume was turned up to full.

  The smoke blotted out the boss just as he was about to make a hand sign of some sort. A glance upward into the smoke canopy told him that no helicopters would be able to save his sorry behind. The mushroom cloud of smoke—looking like a nuclear blast it was so intense—rose ten thousand feet above the California landscape would block any line of approach.

  The ravine to the south was clogged with fire, and the one to the north was now fully lit by the thrown tree, its branches ablaze like a thousand-armed candelabra. The two ravines met to the west. The only way out was east—and there raged the beast.