Melinda Curtis - Expectant Father

“Excuse me.”

Becca’s shoulders tensed. There was still plenty to do and by now the rest of Incident Command would have heard of her accident, so she had to prove that the pregnant Fire Behavior Analyst was as tough as any man. A bump on her noggin? Wouldn’t slow Becca down. But the interruption came from someone she couldn’t easily ignore.

Becca turned around to see what the female Hot Shot wanted.

“What you did back there in Medical was…great. You made taking control look so simple.” The Hot Shot shifted her feet and jiggled her fire helmet with one hand as if she were nervous. “My name is Victoria… The Queen.” Self-consciously, she touched her red hair. “Would you like to have some dinner? I could use the company.”

There was an informal sisterhood in the fire community. Women helped each other with moral support, advice and a safe place to vent. But the Hot Shot’s timing was off. Becca’s job was calling, her credibility at stake. If she wanted that promotion in Boise, she had to perform above excellent, above what a man could do.

Becca opened her mouth to refuse, to suggest they catch a cup of coffee in the morning, but then she caught Aiden’s disapproving stare as he came out of the Medical tent. His attention seemed to be aimed at both Becca and the Hot Shot with her, which pushed Becca’s nurturing instincts into over-drive. He clearly disapproved of Victoria, who might have approached Becca to talk about how to deal with Aiden.

Becca sighed. Her conscience wouldn’t let her leave this until later. Besides, her stomach growled again; the baby needed to be fed.

“Can we make it quick? I still have plenty to do before the IC team meets to set up their plan of attack.”

“I appreciate it. I need to stand in line for the shower anyway.” The Hot Shot ran a hand over her hair. At some point, it had been in an intricate French braid. Now red hair hung in limp strands around her dirt-streaked face.

The last glimpse Becca had of Aiden was of his frowning countenance as they made their way to the chow line.

The sight made her smile.

“YOU COMING TO EAT, Roadhouse?” Bart asked as he wiped his face with a worn blue bandana and made to follow the rest of the Montana #5 ground crew into the chow line.

“In a minute.” Roadhouse wanted to make sure his son, Aiden, was okay. He’d heard about the Silver Bend crew’s close call on the mountain. He’d even heard there were no severe injuries. But that didn’t stop him from worrying, or ignoring his empty belly and walking on stiff knees through camp looking for his son.

Roadhouse was on a private fire crew—second-class citizens to the likes of Aiden on their Department of Forestry firefighting teams, even though the pay was better in private crews and the work often farther from the front line. DoF Hot Shot crews got the prime jobs on wildland fires, except in situations like this one, where bodies were scarce.

Non-fire civilians might say Roadhouse was lucky to be away from the action most of the time, but when fire ran in your veins, you wanted to be at the front line, with adrenaline and the dragon roaring in your ears. Why suit up otherwise?

Before he’d rounded camp once, he saw Aiden step out of the Medical tent. His heart nearly stopped. Other Silver Bend members were filing out as well. What had happened to his boy?

“Roadhouse,” a deep, familiar voice called out behind him.

Roadhouse glanced around, knowing he had to give Socrates, one of NIFC’s most respected Incident Commanders, his full attention, but unwilling to take his eyes off his kid.

“How was it out there?” Socrates didn’t call him “Old Timer” like some of the kids on the crews, because he’d been fighting fires longer than Roadhouse. He had the gray hair and scars to prove it.

“It’s a sleeper, sir,” Roadhouse stated bluntly. Wouldn’t do to hold back with Socrates. “The fire seems tame, but it’ll surprise us all at the end. You can sense it up on the line.” He could have griped about the gasoline, but Roadhouse wouldn’t complain about having to hike five additional miles to base camp. Back in the early days, firefighting in the mountains was more of a survivalist challenge. A bit of hiking was nothing in comparison.

Socrates stared long and hard at Roadhouse before admitting, “Someone finally agrees with the Fire Behavior Analyst.” Socrates scanned the camp. From the rise where they stood, they could see most of the mess area, tables filled with grubby, hungry firefighters, the Medical tent, the staging area where trucks unloaded men and equipment, and the command tents.

Aiden started up the hill toward them with the Silver Bend superintendent, Golden. Roadhouse turned around, pretending to look up the mountain, hoping his son wouldn’t recognize him with all the grime and his long hair tucked beneath his helmet. Desperate for Aiden’s company, Roadhouse had resorted to dropping into Aiden’s path when he least expected it—only because Aiden would vanish if he saw Roadhouse first. When that happened, it nearly broke Roadhouse’s heart all over again.

“Golden,” Socrates nodded to his stepson when he stopped a few feet away.

Still in his prime and liked by many, Golden was fast becoming a legend. People would tell stories about Golden around fire camps long after he was gone.

No one would remember Roadhouse when he was six feet under, fondly or otherwise, least of all his son.

Hearing a second set of footsteps, Roadhouse turned around with a sinking heart, meeting Aiden’s curious gaze, watching it harden with recognition.

When would his son learn to forgive?

WHAT A LOVELY little family reunion. Spider pulled his helmet off and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Wasn’t he just a luck magnet today?

“You know Roadhouse, don’t you, Spider?” Socrates asked with an arched brow. To an outsider, it might appear that Socrates was being polite, making sure they all knew each other. But every one of the men standing on the knoll knew that Roadhouse was Spider’s dad. Just like every one of them knew that Spider and Roadhouse had a shaky past, if you could call neglect and abandonment shaky.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” Spider answered coolly, wishing he’d recognized his father as he’d walked up. He would have walked on, and let Golden talk to their commander alone. “We’ve come to check in.” This last part came out a little belligerently. It wasn’t every day that a man watched a woman get burned, ran down a mountain in his boxers and startled a pregnant woman, then had to face his father. Spider was dirty, tired and not in the mood for pleasantries.

“Come to gripe a bit?” Socrates raised a white eyebrow. He’d been the Silver Bend superintendent before Golden and had trained many of the Hot Shots in the Idaho region, including Spider. He cut right through the bullshit and didn’t let anyone give him undeserved grief.

“No, sir.” Golden shook his head, ever the politician, spinning his wedding band, a movement that reminded Spider how much his friend loved his wife.

“Hey, I’ll gripe if you’ll let me. But I’d rather hear about the latest on the fire,” Spider said, giving Socrates a halfhearted grin, waiting to see if they were sparring or playing nice.

“I’m sure you could have been briefed by Becca Thomas when you ran her over on the hill today.” Socrates shook his head. “Spider, when are you going to grow up and learn to think about the consequences of your actions?”

So, they were sparring.

“I was just telling him—” Golden began.

Socrates cut his stepson off with a wave of his hand and a disapproving glance. “There are women in NIFC and the fire crews now. Did you happen to think that running down the mountain half-naked might be considered harassment by one of them? Perhaps by the woman in your own crew? Either one of you?”