Нора Робертс - Chasing Fire

“Busy,” she said shortly.

He tipped the Coke from side to side. “You know you’re jonesing by now.”

“Very busy.” Using tweezers, she removed some pine needles lodged in the cloth.

“Fine, I’ll drink it.” He popped the top. “L.B. wants you in Ops if we catch a fire.”

She jerked around. “He’s not grounding me.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re third load, so unless we catch a holocaust, you’re probably not going to jump on the first call. You’re a qualified assistant Ops manager, aren’t you?”

She grabbed the Coke from him, gulped some down. “Yeah.” She shoved it back at him, returned to her inspection. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. About this situation.”

“I don’t want or need to be reassured, protected, advised or—”

“Jesus, shut up.” He shook his head at the ceiling towering above, took another drink.

“ You shut up.”

He had to grin. “I’m rubber; you’re glue. You really want to sink that low? I don’t think Brakeman’s your problem.”

“I’m not worried about him. I can take care of myself, and I’m not stupid. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, here, in manufacturing, in the gym when I’m not out on a fire.”

Meticulously she removed a twig, marked a small, one-inch tear for repair before she lowered the apex to examine higher areas.

“Last night, Brakeman eluded two cops by pushing his full-size pickup across his backyard, cutting a fence, pushing it across another yard until he reached the road. He loaded up everything he’d need to live in the wild. That tells me he’s not stupid, either.”

“So he’s not stupid. Points for him.”

“But he leaves weapons, twice , so they’re easily found. A handgun properly registered to him, a rifle that has his name on it. That’s pretty damn stupid.”

“You’re back to thinking he didn’t do any of this.”

“I’m back to that. I’d rather not be, because this way, we’ve got nothing. We don’t know who or why. Not really. On the other hand, I’m also thinking it’s unlikely anyone’s going to be using you or the base for target practice. Unlikely isn’t enough, but it’s comforting.”

“Because it would be stupid for somebody else to shoot at me, when Brakeman’s on the run and the cops know what weapons he’s got with him.”

No, she wasn’t stupid, she reminded herself, but she’d been too angry to think clearly. Gull, it seemed, didn’t have the same problem.

“But if it’s not him, Gull, why is somebody working so hard to make it look like him?”

“Because he’s an asshole? Because he’s plausible? Because they want to see him go down? Maybe all three. But the point is, you’ve got to be smart—and you are—but I don’t think you have to sweat this.”

She nodded, inspected the apex bridle cords, then the vent hoods.

“I wasn’t sweating it. I’m pissed off.”

“Your subconscious sweats it, then.”

“All right, all right.” She inspected the top of each slot, then the anti-inversion net. There she marked a line of broken stitching.

Gull waited her out until she’d attached the inspection tag to the riser.

“I guess I have to call my father. Word travels, and he’ll get worried.”

“I talked to him before I came up. We went over it.”

“He came by? Why didn’t he—”

“I called him.”

She faced him with one quick pivot. “You did what? What do you mean calling my father about all this before I—”

“It’s called male bonding. You’ll never get it. I believe women are as capable as men, deserve equal pay—and that one day, should be sooner than later, in my opinion, the right woman can and should be leader of the free world. But you can’t understand the male bonding rituals any more than men can understand why the vast majority of women are obsessed with shoes and other footwear.”

“I’m not obsessed with shoes, so don’t try to make this something cultural or—or gender-based.”

“You have three pairs of jump boots. Two is enough. You have four pairs of running shoes. Again, two’s plenty.”

“I’m breaking in a third pair of jump boots before the first pair gets tossed so I don’t get boot-bit. And I have four pairs of running shoes because... you’re trying to distract me from the point.”

“Yes, but I’m not done. You also have hiking boots—two pairs—three pairs of sandals and three of really sexy heels. And this is just on base. God knows what you’ve got in your closet at home.”

“You’ve been counting my shoes? Talk about obsessed.”

“I’m just observant. Lucas wants you to call him when you get a chance. Leave him a text or voice message if he’s in the air, and he’ll come by to see you tonight. He likes knowing I’ve got your back. You’d have mine, wouldn’t you?” he asked before she could snap at him.

So she sighed. “Yes. You defeat me with your reason and your diatribe over shoes. Over which I am not obsessed.”

“You also have a good dozen pairs of earrings, none of which you wear routinely. But we can discuss that another time.”

“Oh, go away. Go study something.”

“You could give me a rigging lesson. I want to work on getting certified.”

“Maybe. Come back in an hour, and we’ll—”

When the siren sounded she stepped back. “I guess not. I’m switching to Ops.”

“I’ll walk you over. Here.”

He handed her her cap and sunglasses, then put on his own while she frowned at them.

“What is this?”

“A disguise.” He grinned at her. “Dobie wants you to wear them. Let’s give him a break, or he might order fake mustaches and clown noses off the Internet.”

She rolled her eyes, but put them on. “And what, this makes us look like twins? Where are your tits?”

“You’re wearing them, and may I say they look spectacular on you.”

“I can’t disagree with that. Still, everybody should stop worrying about Rowan and do their jobs.”

By four P.M., she was jumping fire, doing hers.

July burned. Hot and dry, the wild ignited, inflamed by lightning strikes, negligence, an errant spark bellowed by a gust of wind.

For eighteen straight days and nights Zulies jumped and fought fire. In Montana, in Idaho, Colorado, California, the Dakotas, New Mexico. Bodies shed weight, lived with pain, exhaustion, injury, battling in canyons, on ridges, in forests.

The constant war left little time to think about what lived outside the fire. The manhunt for Leo Brakeman heading into its third week hardly mattered when the enemy shot firebrands the size of cannonballs or swept on turbulent winds over barriers so effortfully created.

Along with her crew, Rowan rushed up the side of Mount Blackmore, like a battalion charging into hell. Beside her another tree torched off, spewing embers like flaming confetti. They felled burning trees on the charge, sawed and cut the low-hanging branches the fire could climb like snakes.

Can’t let her climb, Rowan thought as they hacked and dug. Can’t let her crown.

Can’t let her win.

So they fought their way up the burning mountain, sweat running in salty rivers in the scorched air.

When Gull climbed up the line to her position, she pulled down her bandanna to pour water down her aching throat.

“The line’s holding.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “A couple of spots jumped it, but we pissed them out. Gibbons is going to leave a couple down there to scout for more, and send the rest up to you.”

“Good deal.” She took another drink, scanning and counting yellow shirts and helmets through the smoke. On the left the world glowed, eerie orange with an occasional spurt of flame that picked out a hardened, weary face, tossed it into sharp relief.