Flaming Desire - Part 2 (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (6 page)

BOOK: Flaming Desire - Part 2 (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)
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“You have one more ride along today with Matt, and then you can sign him off. We'll see whether he'll fit best in the emergency department or in the ICU. Has he made any indications of preferences to you?”

I shook my head.

“Well, you guys have a good shift.”

I nodded, making my way toward her door.

“Try not to run into any more burning buildings, okay?”

I glanced over my shoulder at Diane, saw her smiling at me. I smiled at her in return and nodded. “Not if I can help it.”

I left Diane’s office and walked down the short hallway toward the break room. Inside, the television was turned to a news station, the volume low. A couple of nurses I didn't recognize sat at one of the break tables, eating salads and occasionally glancing at the screen. I had a few minutes before Matt was to arrive, so I thought to get myself a soda. As I stood in front of the soda machine, making a decision between diet and regular, an image from the television caught my attention.

My heart gave a little leap of excitement, but not the kind that made you feel like something good was about to happen. Fire. A big one.

“What's happening?” I asked the nurses, pointing to the television screen.

“There's a big fire burning up in Montana, near the Idaho border.”

Alarmed, I turned toward the screen. “How many acres?”

One of the nurses looked at me as if I had grown two heads.

“No idea,” one commented, and then turned back to eating her salad.

Wait, how could there be a wildfire burning in Montana and I didn't know about it? Then again, I
had
been rather distracted lately. I hadn’t watched the news at home in a couple of days. I quickly accessed my iPhone, pulled up a news article about the fire and saw that it had started yesterday morning. It had quickly grew out of control due to hot, dry winds blowing down from the north and along the eastern slopes of the Bitterroot National Forest along Highway 93, south of Missoula.

As a wildland enthusiast and firefighter, I was relatively familiar with most of the National Parks and forests in the western United States as well as mountain ranges. I knew that the Bitterroot Range encompassed nearly twenty-five thousand square miles and was considered a sub range of the northern Rocky Mountain range. The mountain range extended along most of the western border of Montana and the eastern border of Idaho.

I had been up there once, just before I started employment down here in New Mexico. It was one of the most beautiful mountain ranges I'd ever seen and that went for the Grand Tetons. The Bitterroot Range had several of the most well-known climbing peaks in the western United States, rivaling the ‘fourteeners’—a nickname given to mountains that topped fourteen thousand feet, like Pikes Peak in Colorado. Actually, Colorado had nearly sixty mountain peaks that measured over fourteen thousand feet and I had hiked and climbed a few of them, including Mt. Sneffels in the San Juans, Pikes Peak and Mt. Evans along the Front Range. I wondered if that was something that Matt liked to do as well. Something to ask him the next time I thought of it.

My thoughts returned to the Bitterroot Range; some portions of the Bitterroot were, for all intents and purposes, nearly impenetrable, most especially the Selway-Bitterroot wilderness, encompassing over a million acres. I hiked around the Castle Rock, area enjoying the Nez Pierce Trail, a simple dirt road that separated the Selway-Bitterroot region from the Frank Church River of No Return. The wilderness areas spanned both sides of the range of mountains that jutted up like a huge, exposed spine along the Montana and Idaho borders.

I had also explored the one-hundred mile MacGruder Corridor road that wound its way through the undeveloped region, mainly found in northeastern Idaho. I had yet to find anything quite so beautiful, and relatively unscathed by modern inhabitants, or even by avid hikers like me. The region was still much in its natural state, much like the Nez Pierce Indians must've experienced it back in the 1800s.

If there was a fire burning up there in the Bitterroots, the flames would certainly have ample fuel, especially now in midsummer. The area was rich in stands of Engleman spruce and subalpine fir growing together in huge, nearly impenetrable wilderness areas. The area was also rich in Douglas and Spruce fir, Lodgepole pine, White Bark and Ponderosa pine as well as Larch trees.

Ironically, the National Interagency Fire Center was located in Boise, Idaho, coordinating a number of Hotshot crews nationally. I had them on my phone's contact list. I was in the process of looking up that number when I heard Matt’s voice behind me.

“My crew called me this morning. I'm going up there,” he said, gesturing toward the television screen.

I turned and stared at him, amazed. I hadn’t heard a thing. I suppose he saw the look on my face, my surprise, and perhaps some disappointment as well, because he gestured for me to follow him out of the break room. I did. He walked the short distance down the hall toward Diane's office where no one could hear us.

“My regular Hotshot crew is short a firefighter,” he said quietly. “Got married a few months ago and his new bride isn't too keen on him going, so he's decided to opt out of this one.”

I chewed my lip, considering the backhanded invitation. Because we were both independent, we could log into any of the interagency firefighting services including the National Park Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and the United States Forest Service and pretty much had the freedom to choose where we went and how often we joined wildfire crews. I knew, due to the location of this fire, that it would be incredibly difficult to control. Chances were that numerous federal agencies including the National Park Service would have no issues accepting all the help they could get.

Most Hotshot crews consisted of between twenty and twenty-two members that included a superintendent, two captains, squad leaders, and senior firefighters. The remainder were classified by numerous designations, such as GS-3 temporary firefighters, like Matt and myself. Some crews provided specialized roles, such as the roles that I often encompassed as a wildfire fighter and a medic.

Other members of Hotshot crews included the saw team; using chainsaws to cut brush and wood from the fire's edge. A swamper was responsible for taking that material and disposing of it on the non-fireside of a fire line. There was also a follower, or a chainsaw operator who was highly skilled and specialized in falling damage, burning trees as well as clearing snags. Then there was the helicopter crew, responsible for transporting equipment and crew as well as crude supplies. Dozens of specialties. Lots of need.

“Want to join my crew?” he asked. I realized I’d been waiting for him to say the words. “I've already cleared it with my captain.”

Since I had been in New Mexico, I had operated independently, never being assigned repeatedly to one crew or another, but not for lack of trying. As one of the few women in the field, I sometimes found myself having to prove myself over and over again. Matt's trust and confidence in me was touching. “Are you kidding?” I said, my voice rising in excitement.

He nodded, flashing his set of white teeth.

“Now there's a proposition that I can't turn down!”

He gestured toward Diane's office. “Then I think we better go see the DON, don't you?”

I nodded, making my way back to Diane's door.

“You don't think they're going to have a problem with both of us going, do you? That puts the ER department short two nurses.”

I shook my head. “She said she’d clear it with administration. I've never had a problem, because there’s usually at least one nurse willing to pick up the extra shifts. Let's go see.”

Once again I knocked on Diane's door and after a moment heard her reply to enter. I did, this time followed by Matt. She stared up at him, glanced at me, and then spoke.

“I already took care of it, Jessica,” she commented, her eyes glancing quickly toward the trash can at the side of her desk.

“We're not here about that,” I informed her. “There's a wildfire burning out of control in the Bitterroot Range, up in Montana,” I explained. “Matt's been called up, and his crew is short a member. I'd like to go.”

Diane nodded, not surprised. “I was watching that on the news earlier. I had a feeling that you two would be coming into my office.” She glanced at Matt. “I've already cleared you with administration,” she said. “Jessica as well.”

“Thanks, Diane—”

She lifted her hand. “But I want you to know, Matt, that because you've just transferred here, there is a chance that a position won't be open for you when you get back. I have to fill your shift. I don't typically have trouble filling Jessica's shift because her friends usually pick up the slack. But now we’re going to be down two nurses in the ER, and you know how it goes.”

I glanced up at Matt, concerned. I didn't want him to lose his opportunity to work at Santa Fe General. Then again, I knew how it worked. While I had already been out on several calls since I arrived at the hospital, I knew that I also ran the risk of losing my job, especially if I was gone for more than a couple of weeks. The usual stint for two week tours of duty was typical, though sometimes went longer. I had never been out longer than nine days. Still, I was willing to risk it. Nursing was in my blood, but so was firefighting. I got the distinct impression that Matt felt the same.

“You know what to do, Jessica,” she said, shoving several papers across her desk in my direction. I knew what they were. My agreement to temporarily suspend my pay for the length of term I would be gone. Matt understood what they were as well, and in a matter of moments, we had both signed the papers and handed them back to Diane.

She looked at both of us for a moment, then smiled. “Well, go put out your fire, but be safe and come back in one piece, okay?”

I smiled at Diane. “Will do. I'll keep you updated.”

“You do that,” she said, and then gestured us out of the office.

Matt and I emerged from Diane's office, my mind spinning with everything I had to do and the short amount of time I would have to accomplish it all. I was already jittery with anticipation. “What time do I meet you, and where?”

“We'll take a commercial plane from Santa Fe Municipal Airport to the Bert Mooney Airport in Butte at five o'clock. The Missoula Airport has been temporarily shut down due to smoke and ash. The National Park Service will have a helicopter waiting at the airport, where we’ll join others heading to the staging area and base camp downslope.”

I couldn't help the excitement burgeoning within me. I found nothing so invigorating, not even nursing in the emergency room department, as fighting wildfires. Oh, I knew the dangers, but I was careful. I couldn't wait. In addition to the job I did in the ER, this was what gave my life a great sense of purpose. To be needed, appreciated, and have the ability to help in such a way made my life feel more complete.

I looked up at him. “Are you packing all your gear?”

“As much as I can get into my duffel. You do the same, and I'll meet you at the airport between four o’clock and four-thirty. Can you make it?”

Not much time, only leaving me about an hour to go home, quickly pay any bills that would be due while I was away, figuring I'd be gone a least a week. Then change and pack my backpack with some clothes and toiletries, but that was it really. All my gear was already stowed in the back of my Jeep, and I could quickly pack it into my own duffel when I got to the airport.

“I can make it,” I said, walking quickly down the hallway, Matt beside me. We emerged from the hospital doors and both made our way quickly toward our own vehicles. I gave him a wave and then climbed in behind the wheel. Before I started the car, I sent text messages to both Melody and Serena, letting them know where I was going… and with whom.

Chapter 4

The next hour or so passed in a blur. I quickly rushed home and tossed my keys onto the counter that separated my kitchen from the living room. I opened the laptop I kept on the small card table beneath the counter that served as my kitchen table, turned it on and then rushed into the bedroom to grab the backpack I kept under my bed.

It was pretty much packed already with a couple pairs of jeans, T-shirts, six pairs of socks, underwear, bras and an extra pair of hiking boots. I quickly hurried to the bathroom, gathered a few toiletries, and then stuffed them into the backpack as well.

Stepping in front of the closet, I peeled off my scrubs and reached for another pair of camel brown cargo pants with two leg pockets on each side hanging from a hangar. I repeated the process with a dark blue T-shirt with a Hotshot logo from the last crew I worked with emblazoned on the back.

Toward the back of my closet, I reached for another pair of hiking boots. I sat down on the bed as I pulled them on and laced them up, pulling my pant leg down over them. My heart raced with excitement. It wasn't that I was excited about the fire per se, because that was a horrible thing to think. No, it was more about
fighting
the fire. Killing it. Forcing it back. Fighting wildfires was challenging, exhilarating, and often dangerous, but it wasn't like I had a death wish or anything, far from it.

No one seemed to understand why I had such a passion for firefighting; not Melody or Serena, not Diane, nor any of their friends or distant relatives that I had left behind back home. In fact, most of my distant relatives, specifically my aunt and uncle, and my grandparents, who had raised me after the tragedy, frowned upon it. They thought I had a problem, one that I needed to see a psychologist about. They just couldn't understand why I felt drawn to the same type of tragedy that had taken my family from me.

Sometimes I didn't even understand it myself. Still, someone had to fight those fires, didn't they? There were hundreds, thousands of wildfire firefighters scattered throughout the US and I was proud to be numbered among their group. There were still thousands of others who volunteered. The last fire that I had been on had involved over fifteen-hundred firefighters, several retardant dropping airplanes, helicopters, and even military transport planes from a nearby army base that helped with evacuations.

It was a team effort, and maybe that's what drew me to it. The same applied to nursing. It wasn't one person alone who made a difference, but a group of people, a team working together toward a specific end. I had no idea how long I'd be gone, but I didn't really care. When I was fighting a fire, fighting that fire was the only thing that consumed my thoughts. When I was nursing, I felt similar, but sometimes, just sometimes in my quiet, reflective moments, I wondered if someday I would have to choose.

Sometimes I did feel torn. I know that with my choice of career, I needed to dedicate every ounce of my being into being the best ER nurse I could be. But then, the moment I heard of a fire, that I would be helping to fight it, it was as if another part of me was reborn, a part that not only responded to the adrenaline, but to a part of something inside me, buried deep in my past—deep in that tragedy that had changed my life forever.

I was grateful that Matt had invited me to join his crew. I look forward to working beside him. Hotshot crews were made up of teams that belonged to the National Interagency Hotshot Crews funded under national shared resources. Crews were defined by geographic region, such as the northwest, northern or southern California, Alaska, the Northern Rocky Mountains, to which we were headed, as well as the Great Basin, the Rocky Mountains, and the Southwest. Other Hotshot crews were divided into geographic regions to the east as well, including the eastern and southern region.

Some of the Hotshot crews—including the Northern Rockies crew that Matt belonged to—operated under either the Forest Service or the Bureau of Land Management, the National Park Service, or the Bureau of Indian Affairs, depending on the region. Sometimes everyone was thrown into the mix.

Unless we were out in the field, away from base operations, in which case I knew I’d be sleeping in a sleeping bag, I knew that I would be sharing quarters in bunkhouse type facilities. Most of the guys didn't mind, and as the years have passed, more women had joined these crews. Most of the guys, especially the younger ones, didn't even think twice about it. As long as women could pull their weight, and the men as well, they were more than welcome.

In less than an hour, I rushed out of my apartment, my backpack over my shoulder, glancing at my watch as I quickly headed for my Jeep. I was doing okay in regard to time, but nevertheless I was anxious about missing the flight. If the fire got much worse, the authorities might even close more airports or divert flights and we would miss the link up that would take us as close to the base operations of the fire as possible without untold delays.

Thank goodness the Santa Fe Airport was small and I was familiar with the layout. I pulled up into an empty space near the front of the airport terminal and immediately recognized Matt’s truck. His tailgate was down and he was, at that very moment, lifting his duffel bag out of the back. His bicep muscles bulged under his T-shirt sleeve. I felt a surge of heat race through me, niggling at my nipples. I tried to pull my mind from the sex and concentrated on his actions.

Like me, he had slung a backpack over his shoulder. He wore a pair of camouflage style military trousers and a dark blue T-shirt with a gold Hotshot crew emblem emblazoned on the back. It was different than mine, but other than that, we pretty much wore the same type of clothing. Durable. Utilitarian.

I honked my horn and pulled into the parking space, then quickly turned off the engine and climbed out of my Jeep. Matt headed over to my vehicle, put his duffel bag down on the asphalt and reached for the back door as I clicked my remote.

“How are we doing on time?” I asked, slamming my car door and stepping to the back of my car. My heart was racing now, and I could tell I was near to shaking from the adrenaline of heading out. I quickly reached for the duffel bag that I kept folded up and tucked between some of my gear and the side of the Jeep.

“We're doing okay,” he said. “A couple of guys drove up from Albuquerque and they already went inside to check-in. I told them we'd be in shortly.”

I began to pack as much gear as I could cram into my duffel, keeping in mind that I had to carry it. I was forced to leave some of it behind. Matt didn't have any room left in his duffel, and I wasn't about to ask him to stow some of my gear in his anyway. What I didn't bring with me, I was sure would be supplied.

In a matter of minutes, I had stuffed everything I could into my duffel and then closed and locked my Jeep. I slipped the keys into a side pocket of my backpack. Matt bent down to grab his duffel and then reached for mine as well.

“I've got it Matt, thank you,” I said. While I appreciated the gesture, I had to carry my own gear. Nothing would raise eyebrows faster than me walking into the airport, or anywhere for that matter, as a Hotshot crew member having someone else carry my gear. I knew my duffel would be heavy, but bending my legs and taking a deep breath, I wrapped the straps around my forearm, tucked my arm upward, tightened my butt cheeks and then exhaling, stood upright. I situated my balance between the backpack slung over one shoulder and the duffel bag over the other. Between the two of them, I figured everything weighed just over fifty pounds.

It had been a while since I'd been called out on a wildfire, but at this moment, I was glad that I had kept up with my workouts, my running on the treadmill, and my strength training. If there was one thing that a Hotshot crew demanded of its firefighters, it was stamina, strength, and endurance. I had no intention of letting anyone down, especially Matt or other members of the crew.

We quickly entered the airport, identified ourselves, and were quickly guided through check-in after declaring the type of equipment in our bags. The airport had been alerted to our presence, and because stories of the wildfire had made national news, the TSA and staff at the airport were well aware of our presence. Matt and I still had to go through the personal x-ray machine thing, but I didn't mind. Everyone at the airport, including passengers, were courteous, allowed us to go ahead of them, and we were whisked through security as quickly as possible and then directed to the gate number where the plane waited.

When we got to the gate, I saw two other men standing slightly off to the side, wearing the same dark blue T-shirt as I was, although their Hotshot crew emblem, like Matt’s, was a little different. The two men recognized us by our own dark blue T-shirts and nodded. We joined them, exchanging names and shaking hands. They were from the Southwest Interagency Hotshot crew out of Flagstaff, overseen by the Forest Service.

I knew that just two years prior, their fellow Granite Mountain Hotshot crew had lost nineteen of its members, the greatest number of firefighters to die fighting wildfires in nearly eight decades. Only one member of that Hotshot crew had survived the huge Arizona fire when the winds shifted and engulfed his friends. In fact, the horrible tragedy had involved the greatest number of firefighter deaths since the FDNY lost over three hundred firefighters on 9/11.

We had just completed introductions when the flight announced boarding. One of the boarding personnel at the airport approached us and told us to board first. We weren't charged for any carry-on baggage, and she assured us that our duffel bags would be stored near the front of the baggage area of the plane so that they could be offloaded quickly after our arrival at the airport in Montana.

Matt gestured for me to go ahead, and I led the way as I walked through the gate and down the covered walkway toward the airplane, followed by three men who towered over me. Once again I felt a little self-conscious, but not unconfident. In fact, I was feeling quite comfortable. I wasn't a newbie at fighting wildfires and I carried myself with confidence and assurance that I would be able to tackle any job they gave me.

The first couple of years on the Hotshot crews hadn't been easy, but I had proven myself. While I wasn't as strong as many of the guys, I made up for it in determination. In fact, the last time I had been out, I found myself able to outperform several of the other crew members on the team. It didn't take long for any attitudes or doubts from any of the other crew members to recognize my abilities or vice versa. Every member of the Hotshot crews was dedicated to one thing, and one thing only—dealing with wildfires. There was very little “attitude” among the members of any crew and most of us got along well together.

Fighting wildfires didn't leave much time for conversation or getting to know people. In fact, the minute we landed, I was sure I’d be stepping into controlled chaos. We would be given assignments, and we would do the work, knowing that the person beside us would do his or her best to provide support. At the end of long days and nights, conversation with sparse. Shoveling a hot meal—if we were lucky—into our stomach and then getting some sleep were pretty much the only things that encompassed our thoughts when we did take a break.

I was prepared for the primitive living conditions. I knew that a soft bed, showers, and fresh cooked meals would be nonexistent. Daily work shift averaged sixteen long, hard, exhausting hours, but sometimes longer. It all depended on which side of the line I would be assigned, the tasks I would be given, and of course, the size, ferocity and determination of the fire to jump fire lines and surge unabated through the wilderness. Protecting property was a major goal when it came to fighting wildfires. Sometimes, they were allowed to burn, depending on location and situation, as well as what had caused the fire in the first place.

I didn’t know yet what had sparked this fire. A lightning strike, a carelessly thrown match or cigarette, or an unattended campfire. Right now, it didn’t really matter. The fire was being driven by wind, never a good thing. No rain forecast. Hot, dry weather… the bane of wildfire fighters around the world.

A stewardess waited for us at the door of the airplane. She smiled and then gestured for us to take the first four seats of the plane, two on one side of the aisle, the other two on the other. I felt bad for the first-class passengers who had given up their front row seats, but knew that they would be compensated, most likely with a free voucher to fly anywhere within the domestic United States within the next year. That's usually how it worked anyway.

We stowed our backpacks in the overhead bins, and then I glanced at Matt. “Do you mind if I take the window seat?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. The flight won't take long anyway. Maybe a couple of hours.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You can have the window seat on the way back.”

He nodded and we settled in. We watched as other passengers boarded, many of them nodding and smiling at us as they passed, while a couple stopped to briefly stop and thank us. One older gentleman shook Matt’s hand. It was nice, and I can't deny that I gained a sense of pride and gratitude for the recognition.

Eventually, everyone was loaded, the door closed, and the engines started up. I wasn't too thrilled with flying, but as it was the quickest way to get from point A to point B, I knew that it had to be done. Nevertheless, by the time the plane started taxying toward the runway, I automatically placed both my hands on the armrest, my fingers cupping the ends, nervous.

“Don't tell me you're afraid of flying?”

BOOK: Flaming Desire - Part 2 (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)
2.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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