Melinda Curtis - Expectant Father

He’d have to do the right thing, whatever that was. Only the right thing looked pretty damn unpleasant at the moment. He could just see coming to Becca’s house to pick up the kid on a Sunday. She’d be cold, looking down that finely chiseled nose of hers as if he weren’t good enough for her or their kid. And the kid would look at him as if he were a stranger.

Double damn.

The one time he’d trusted a woman with birth control—an older woman who should have known better—he’d fathered a child. If his dad was any indication, he’d make a horrible father.

History had a sick way of repeating itself.

“THAT WENT WELL,” Becca mumbled to herself as she sank onto her cot. At least Aiden hadn’t demanded parental rights. He was too busy recovering from the double whammy discovery that he wasn’t an adulterer and that he might be responsible for Becca’s pregnancy.

“What went well?” Julia lifted her head out of her sleeping bag and opened puffy eyes.

“The day. Don’t you think?” Becca covered quickly, inwardly ruing the fact that she had to share a small tent on this assignment. At this stage of her pregnancy, she was uncomfortable all night long, tossing and turning. With Julia in the cot next to her, Becca’s burps, stomach gurgles and worse had to be controlled or embarrassingly revealed.

After her confrontation with Aiden, Becca’s stomach had twisted into knots. Add the baby bouncing on top of that and she wasn’t going to be the quietest roommate in camp tonight.

“Do you really think the fire’s going to jump the highway?” Julia asked in a voice less sleepy than her eyes indicated.

It was comments like this that gave away Julia’s love of their work, that gave Becca hope for Julia’s goals and her own.

“If the winds shift the way they usually do this time of year and we don’t get more help, yes.” There’d be no stopping the fire’s rampage down the mountainside and through a narrow valley a few miles east of their camp.

“I think you’re wrong,” Julia said, then added, “But you’re never wrong.” There was a trace of bitterness in Julia’s voice that nearly smothered Becca’s hope for the Boise job completely.

So, her assistant disagreed with Becca’s assessment. Julia had rarely hiked these woods, rarely got her hands dirty in the field, touching the dry earth, snapping the spruce and pine needles, filling her nose with the parched air, seeing in her mind’s eye how ready it was to burn or fight for life.

If Becca’s assistant spent half as much time studying the maps of the area, local history and weather updates as she did on her makeup, she’d do fine. She had the credentials for the work. She had the interest. She just lacked the drive. And for that, Becca would push Julia until she reached her potential.

The fire business was tough. You either knuckled down or stepped down. People’s lives were at stake. The firefighters and people who lived in the area were all at risk. There was little room for error.

At the memory of her parents standing at her brother’s grave, familiar frustration churned in Becca’s belly. Her mother had never been the same after Jason had died while fighting a wildland fire. Becca hadn’t even decided on an area of study in college until he’d been killed. His death had inspired her to try and save others.

“I’d rather be wrong and prevent someone’s death, than ignore the signs. A man can’t outrun a ninety-mile-an-hour, eighty-foot wall of flame on a flat course, much less a seventy-five-percent grade.” The frustration of the Boise job being just out of reach combined with the shattering revelation of Aiden recognizing her pushed Becca over the edge. “Or maybe you like to gamble your ego against the life of someone you know,” she snapped, immediately regretting her harsh words, but reluctant to take them back.

Without a word, Julia rolled over, leaving Becca with the sour feeling of her assistant’s resentment.

Well, Becca couldn’t please everyone. Least of all Aiden. But she wouldn’t give up—not on this fire, not on Julia, and not on her plans for a safe, independent future.

Aiden had been angry over the idea that she’d made him into something he wasn’t. Becca hated to admit it was a bit of a relief to know he was a choosy womanizer.

She’d left him at the edge of the forest without giving him a chance to say that he wanted nothing to do with her baby. From what she knew of him, he wouldn’t relish his role as a father. He was young, far younger than she was. Not just in years, because he had to be about thirty, but in the way he behaved.

Running down the mountain in his boxers. Becca scoffed. High-school hijinx, that’s what it was.

Aiden Rodas a father?

No, Becca comforted herself as she struggled to unlace her boots, leaning around her belly. Aiden wasn’t ready to be a father. He was a typical, carefree bachelor, predictable in his desire to remain responsibility free. He’d accept her wish to raise the baby on her own, and she’d continue with her plans.

At least, she hoped that’s how it all happened.

“HEY, SON.” ROADHOUSE FELL into step with Aiden at the edge of camp, dodging a man carrying two chainsaws. Darkness didn’t bring much calm to base camp. There were still people everywhere.

“Don’t call me that.” Aiden scowled, almost making Roadhouse regret that he’d even attempted to talk to his son.

“Won’t,” Roadhouse mumbled, but he kept his legs moving in step with Aiden’s, ignoring the ache in his knees.

“If it’s money you want, I don’t have anything larger than a ten on me.” Aiden walked faster.

Roadhouse wished he could turn back the clock, wished that he’d never asked Aiden for money years ago.

“I don’t need any money. I was just wondering…” What happened to you today? But Roadhouse couldn’t ask that. Aiden would bite his head off if he tried to get too personal. Instead, he said, “Heard you saw a bit of action today.”

“Too much,” Aiden replied almost under his breath, making Roadhouse wonder what was wrong. Hot Shots lived to fight fires. They never complained about seeing too much action. No. Something wasn’t right.

The crew Roadhouse served on had been lucky enough to battle the fire up close these past few shifts. If more Hot Shot crews were assigned to the Flathead fire, the non-DoF crews were going to be assigned mop-up work—cold trailing burned-over areas to make sure it didn’t flare to life again.

A fire could dance through the treetops and leave the forest floor relatively unscathed, or race along the ground, singeing the lower tree branches. In either case, a tree root or trunk could smolder for days before deciding to give the fire a second chance at life. Mop up was tedious, boring, necessary work, but seemed to be in Roadhouse’s future.

It took Roadhouse about twenty paces to work up enough saliva to ask, “Something bothering you?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if there was. You gave up that right a long time ago, starting with my first birthday.” Aiden didn’t look at Roadhouse. In fact, he looked away, to the orange glow of the fire on the horizon. “Haven’t seen you at a birthday since.”

“Suppose I did give somethin’ up,” Roadhouse admitted, half under his breath. When Maria had left, her mother had taken over the daily duty of raising Aiden and had been adamant that Roadhouse not undermine her authority or spoil his son on his sporadic visits. He’d never gotten along with his mother-in-law to begin with. After Maria had left, things had become unbearable, until Roadhouse had stopped visiting Aiden altogether. Yet, he never stopped thinking about his firstborn.

If asked, he’d admit he didn’t know how to be a good dad. But he’d always thought fondly of his kids—even wrote them letters.