Authors: Nora Roberts
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Women fire fighters, #Suspense, #General
Chasing Fire (4 page)
Dobie hefted a chain saw. “Let’s cut her into bite-sized pieces.”
They worked rhythmically. Gull had figured Dobie for a washout, but the native Kentuckian was stronger, and sturdier, than he looked. He liked Dobie well enough—despite the man’s distinctly red neck—and was working on reaching a level of trust.
If Dobie made it through, odds were they’d be sawing and digging together again. Not on a bright, clear spring afternoon, but in the center of fire where trust and teamwork were as essential as a sharp Pulaski, the two-headed tool with ax and grub hoe.
“Wouldn’t mind tapping that before she folds.”
Gull glanced over at one of the female recruits. “What makes you think she’ll fold?”
“Women ain’t built for this work, son.”
Gull drew the blade of the saw through the pine. “Just for babymaking, are they?”
Dobie grinned through his beard. “I didn’t design the model. I just like riding ’em.”
“You’re an asshole, Dobie.”
“Some say,” Dobie agreed in the same good-natured tone.
Gull studied the woman again. Perky blond, maybe an inch or two shy of Dobie’s height. And from his point of view, she’d held up as well as any of them. Ski instructor out of Colorado, he recalled. Libby. He’d seen her retaping her blisters that morning.
“I got twenty says she makes it all the way.”
Dobie chuckled as another log rolled. “I’ll take your twenty, son.”
When they finished their assignment, Gull retaped some of his own blisters. Then, as the instructors were busy, taped Dobie’s fresh ones.
They moved through the camp to their waiting packs. Three miles to go, Gull thought, then he’d end this fine day with that shave, shower and cold beer.
He sat, strapped on the pack, then pulled out a pack of gum. He offered a stick to Dobie.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Together they rolled over to their hands and knees, then pushed to standing.
“Just imagine you’re carrying a pretty little woman,” Dobie advised, with a wiggle of eyebrows in Libby’s direction.
“A buck-ten’s pretty scrawny for my taste.”
“She’ll feel like more by the time we’re done.”
No question about it, Gull mused, and the instructor didn’t set what you’d call a meandering pace along the rocky, quad-burning trail.
They pushed one another, that’s how it was done. Ragged one another, encouraged one another, insulted one another, to get the group another step, another yard. The spurring fact was, in a few weeks it would be real. And on the fire line everyone’s life depended on the other.
“What do you do back in Kentucky?” Gull asked Dobie while a hawk screamed overhead and the smell of group sweat competed with pine.
“Some of this, some of that. Last three seasons I doused fires in the national forest. One night after we beat one down, I got a little drunk, took a bet how I’d be a smoke jumper. So I got an application, and here I am.”
“You’re doing this on a bet?” The idea just appealed to his sense of the ridiculous.
“Hundred dollars on the line, son. And my pride that’s worth more. You ever jump out of a plane?”
“Yeah.”
“Takes the crazy.”
“Some might say.” Gull passed Dobie’s earlier words back to him.
“What’s it feel like? When you’re falling?”
“Like hot, screaming sex with a beautiful woman.”
“I was hoping.” Dobie shifted his pack, winced. “Because this fucking training better be worth it.”
“Libby’s holding up.”
“Who?”
Gull lifted his chin. “Your most recent bet.”
Dobie gritted his teeth as they started up yet another incline. “Day’s not over.”
By the time it was, Gull got his shower, his shave, and managed to grab a brew before falling facedown on his bunk.
MICHAEL LITTLE BEAR
snagged Rowan on her way into the gym. “I need you to take rookie training this morning. Cards was on it, but he’s puking up his guts in the john.”
snagged Rowan on her way into the gym. “I need you to take rookie training this morning. Cards was on it, but he’s puking up his guts in the john.”
“Hangover?”
“No. Stomach flu or something. I need you to run them on the playground. Okay?”
“Sure. I’m already on with Yangtree, on the slam-ulator. I can make a day eating rooks. How many do we have?”
“Twenty-five left, and they look pretty damn good. One beat the base record on the mile-and-a-half course. Nailed it in six-thirty-nine.”
“Fast feet. We’ll see how the rest of him does today.”
She knocked thirty minutes off her planned ninety in the gym. Taking the recruits over the obstacle course would make up for it, and meant she’d just skated out of a stint sewing personal gear bags in the manufacturing room.
Damn good deal, Rowan thought as she put on her boots.
She grabbed the paperwork, a clipboard, a water bottle and, fixing a blue ball cap on her head, headed outside.
Clouds had rolled in overnight and tucked the warm in nicely. Activity swarmed the base—runners on the track or the road, trucks off-loaded supplies, men and women crossed from building to building. A plane taxied out taking a group up for a preseason practice jump.
Long before the fire siren screamed, work demanded attention. Sewing, stuffing, disassembling equipment, training, packing chutes.
She started toward the training field, pausing when she crossed paths with Matt.
“What’re you on?” he asked her.
“Rook detail. Cards is down with some stomach deal. You?”
“I’m up this afternoon.” He glanced skyward as the jump plane rose into the air. “I’m in the loadmaster’s room this morning.” He smiled. “Want to trade?”
“Hmm, stuck inside loading supplies or out here torturing rookies? No deal.”
“Figured.”
She continued on, noting the trainees were starting to gather on the field. They’d come in from a week of camping and line work, and if they had any brains would’ve focused on getting a good night’s sleep.
Those who had would probably feel pretty fresh this morning.
She’d soon take care of that.
A few of them wandered the obstacle course, trying to get a gauge. Smart, she judged. Know your enemy. Voices and laughter carried on the air. Pumping themselves up—and that was smart, too.
The obstacle course was a bitch of the first order, and it was only the start of a long, brutal day. She checked her watch as she moved through the wooden platforms, took her place on the field.
She took a swig from her water bottle, then set it aside. And let out a long, shrill whistle. “Line up,” she called out. “I’m Rowan Tripp, your instructor on this morning’s cakewalk. Each of you will be required to complete this course before moving on to the next exercise. The campfire songs and roasted marshmallows of the last week are over. It’s time to get serious.”
She got a few moans, a few chuckles, some nervous glances as she sized up the group. Twenty-one men, four women, different sizes, shapes, colors, ages. Her job was to give them one purpose.
Work through the pain.
She consulted her clipboard, did roll call, checked off the names of those who’d made it this far. “I hear one of you rooks beat the base record on the mile-and-a-half. Who’s the flash?”
“Go, Gull!” somebody shouted, and she watched the little guy elbow bump the man next to him.
About six-two, she judged, dark hair clean and shaggy, cocky smile, easy stance. “Gull Curry,” he said. “I like to run.”
“Good for you. Speed won’t get you through the playground. Stretch out, recruits. I don’t want anybody crying about pulled muscles.”
They’d already formed a unit, she determined, and the smaller connections within it. Friendships, rivalries—both could be useful.
“Fifty push-ups,” she ordered, noting them down as they were completed.
“I’m going to lead you over this course, starting here.” She gestured at the low platform of horizontal squares, moved on to the steep steel walls they’d need to hurdle, the ropes they’d climb, hand over hand, the trampoline flips, the ramps.
“Every one of these obstacles simulates something you will face during a fire. Get one done, hit the next. Drop out? You’re done. Finish it, you might just be good enough to jump fire.”
“Not exactly Saint Crispin’s Day.”
“Who?” Dobie asked at Gull’s mutter.
He only shrugged, and figured by the sidelong glance the bombshell blonde sent him, she’d heard the remark.
“You, Fast Feet, take the lead. The rest of you, fall in behind him. Single file. If you fall, get your ass out of the way, pick up the rear for a second shot.”
She pulled a stopwatch out of her pocket. “Are you ready?”
The group shouted back, and Rowan hit the timer. “Go!”
Okay, Rowan thought, fast feet and nimble feet.
“Pick up those knees!” she shouted. “Let’s see some energy. For Christ’s sake, you look like a bunch of girls strolling in the park.”
“I am a girl!” a steely-eyed blonde shouted back, and made Rowan grin.
“Then pick up those knees. Pretend you’re giving one of these assholes a shot in the balls.”
She kept pace with Gull, jogging back as he raced for, charged up, then hurdled the first ramp.
Then the little guy surprised her by all but launching over it like a cannon.
They climbed, hurdled, crawled, clawed. L.B. was right, she decided. They were a damn good group.
She watched Gull execute the required flips and rolls on the tramp, heard the little guy—she needed to check his name—let out a wild yeehaw as he did the same.
Fast feet, she thought again, still in the lead, and damned if he didn’t go up the rope like a monkey on a vine.
The blonde had made up ground, but when she hit the rope, she not only stalled, but started to slip.
“Don’t you slide!” Rowan shouted it out, put a whiplash into it. “Don’t you slide, Barbie, goddamn it, and embarrass me. Do you want to start this mother over?”
“No. God, no.”
“Do you want to jump fire or go back home and shop for shoes?”
“Both!”
“Climb it.” Rowan saw the blood on the rope. A slide ripped the skin right off the palms, and the pain was huge. “Climb!”
She climbed, forty torturous feet.
“Get down, move on. Go! Go!”
She climbed down, and when she hurdled the next wall, left a bloodstain on the ramp.
But she did it. They all did, Rowan thought, and gave them a moment to wheeze, to moan, to rub out sore muscles.
“Not bad. Next time you have to climb a rope or scale a wall it might be because the wind shifted and fire just washed over your safe zone. You’ll want to do better than not bad. What’s your name—I’m a Girl Barbie?”
“Libby.” The blonde rested her bloody hands on her knees, palms up. “Libby Rydor.”
“Anybody who can climb up a rope when her hands are bleeding did better than not bad.” Rowan opened the first-aid kit. “Let’s fix them up. If anybody else got any boo-boos, tend to them, then head in, get your gear. Full gear,” she added, “for practice landings. You got thirty.”
Gull watched her apply salve to Libby’s palms, competently bandage them. She said something that made Libby—and those hands had to hurt—laugh.
She’d pushed the group through the course, hitting the right combination of callous insult and nagging. And she’d zeroed in on a few as they’d had trouble, found the right thing to say at the right time.
That was an impressive skill, one he admired.
He could add it to his admiration of the rest of her.
That blonde was built, all maybe five feet ten inches of her. His uncle would have dubbed her statuesque, Gull mused. Himself? He just had to say that body was a killer. Add big, heavy-lidded blue eyes and a face that made a man want to look twice, then maybe linger a little longer for a third time, and you had a hell of a package.
A package with attitude. And God, he had a hard time resisting attitude. So he stalled until she crossed the field, then fell into step beside her.
“How are Libby’s hands?”
“She’ll be okay. Everybody loses a little skin on the playground.”
“Did you?”
“If you don’t bleed, how do they know you’ve been there?” She angled her head, studied him with eyes that made him think of stunning arctic ice. “Where are you out of, Shakespeare? I’ve read
Henry the Fifth.
”
Henry the Fifth.
”
“Monterey, mostly.”
“They’ve got a fine smoke-jumper unit in Northern California.”
“They do. I know most of them. I worked Redding IHC, five years.”
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