Radclyffe - Firestorm

Out on the line, her mind cleared and her body took over. She didn’t think of anything as she chopped and cleared except the position of the fire and the location of the rest of the team. The day wore on, and she opened her jacket, letting the chill air dry the sweat soaked into her fire-retardant Nomex shirt. Smoke and embers drifted in the air, and she wiped her face with the bandanna she’d tied loosely around her neck. One of the times she stopped to drink water from her canteen, she pulled a protein bar from her PG pack and bit into it. As she chewed the mostly flavorless bar, she remembered the bran muffin and the soft caress of Jac’s fingers on her mouth. Jac. How had Jac managed to get so close so fast?

Mallory shoved the wrapper in her pocket, grabbed her pulaski, and went back to digging. Thank God Sarah had shown up early. Sarah could take charge of Jac’s training, and Mallory could get some distance. And some damn perspective.

Chapter Thirteen

Jac lay awake, listening to a light rain dance on the hangar’s metal roof. The loft felt dark and close, growing colder every night that Mallory was gone. Almost a week that seemed like a month—endless hours stretching interminably from sundown until dawn. The shadows weighed more heavily on her chest, the empty cot across from her echoing the emptiness that hollowed out her bones. Tonight she’d never fallen asleep at all, lying on her back staring into the gloom, remembering all the nights she’d lain awake listening to the scratch of sand shifting against the sides of a canvas tent, surrounded by humanity and aching with loneliness. She ached tonight, but not in some vague existential way. Tonight she just missed Mallory.

Sighing, she punched her pillow and rolled onto her side. Mallory’s neatly rolled sleeping bag mocked her. She’d straightened Mallory’s bed the first night Mallory was gone. When she’d rested her hand for a few seconds on the spot where she had sat with Mallory’s feet tucked against her leg, she’d registered that the bag was cool, but she’d imagined the heat of Mallory’s body tucked inside it. She’d imagined herself spooned against Mallory’s back, her arm around Mallory’s waist and her chin tucked in the curve of Mallory’s shoulder, her mouth close to Mallory’s ear. Murmuring to her. Kissing her softly. The fantasy was exquisitely bittersweet, and when she crawled into her own cold sleeping bag, the pulse of desire hammering between her thighs haunted rather than tempted her. She feared an orgasm would taste only of ashes, reminding her of all the hopes that had vanished long before the desert winds had ground them to dust.

Each night, sleep became more elusive while her body strummed with anxious tension, but she didn’t want the quick release and hazy aftermath of a solitary orgasm. While it made no sense, she didn’t want to come fantasizing about Mallory when Mallory was fighting a fire on a mountainside somewhere. She had no doubt Mallory was sleepless, and it seemed the least she could do was to tolerate her own restless nights. At least she was warm and dry, and Mallory’s team most certainly wasn’t. Weather had blown in within hours of Benny’s return from dropping the team at the fire front—an icy rain mixed with snow, nature’s reminder that spring had not yet driven out the last breath of winter.

Jac had checked the satellite images of the burn area every few hours throughout each day, following the storm’s path as it lingered over the mountains. She’d traced the topography of Bitterroot with her fingertip, climbing mountain peaks and descending into valleys, trying to place Mallory in that vast wilderness. Wishing they had radio contact. Wishing she was digging line and chopping trees by Mallory’s side.

Sarah had opted to use the time Mallory was away to cover the mandatory didactic sessions, and most of the last few days had been spent sitting at a table with the other rookies in a cinderblock-walled room. While listening to Sarah talk about fire protocols and Sully discuss principles of fire management, her mind kept drifting to the realities of the job. She hadn’t worked a full season, but she’d spent enough time on the line to know how easily the job could turn treacherous. Even when the fire wasn’t bearing down, there were dozens of other potential hazards. Snakes, bugs, and terrified animals incited to violence were as dangerous as burning branches, falling trees, and blowups. And so many other ways to encounter injury—heat exhaustion, sun exposure, and always, always the fire.

Every firefighter recognized the dangers, guarded against them, trained to avoid them, and still, still, every year firefighters were lost. Everyone accepted the risks, no one dwelled on them. Jac tried not to. She’d spent enough time at the front—first when deployed, then on the fire line—to learn not to torture herself with what-ifs. She knew Mallory would be back, she just wished she knew when.

She’d skipped dinner earlier and opted for an extra-long workout, hoping to wear off her nagging disquiet. After too many nights with too little sleep, she’d turned in early, physically fatigued and mentally exhausted. If she’d been able to sleep propped up against sandbags in the middle of a godless desert, she ought to be able to sleep here. So she’d thought.

Now it was well into the deep hours of the night, and she was still wide-awake. With a sigh, she shoved aside the top flap of the sleeping bag and got up. Dressing hastily, she pulled on sweats and a navy blue sweatshirt, stepped into her unlaced work boots, and headed for the canteen. She expected the place to be empty, and she was nearly right. Sarah sat alone at a table with a steaming mug of coffee and a piece of pie in front of her.

“Tell me where you got that, and I’ll be your slave forever,” Jac said.

Sarah pushed a half-finished crossword puzzle aside and smiled up at her. “Really? And I could have your services for anything I desired?”

Jac felt a blush rise in her face, which was damn surprising. Ordinarily she’d pursue a harmless flirtation, just because bantering with a woman was pleasant. Instead, a vague sense of unease tripped her up, and she immediately thought of Mallory. Sarah was attractive, but she didn’t want to flirt with her. Innocent or not. Quickly, she amended, “ Almost anything.”

“Well, I’m not so sure, then.”

“Please,” Jac groaned. “I’m in need.”

Sarah laughed and pointed toward the double-wide swinging doors to the kitchen. “Charlie is still here. Ask him nicely, and I think you’ll score a piece.”

“Thank you,” Jac said reverently and went in search of pie. Charlie was scraping down the grill when she found him. “If there’s something you need done back here, I’d be happy to help out.”

“Nice of you,” Charlie said conversationally, his attention on the grill.

Jac laughed. “Not really. Sarah said there might be pie.”

Charlie spared her a glance, his coal-black eyes studying her intently. Then he went back to methodically scraping the last of the oil from the gleaming surface of his grill with a flat spatula. “Not much left to do here. Go keep Sarah company, and I’ll deliver that pie in a few minutes.”

“You don’t have to do that. I could get—”

“Go on now, out of my kitchen.” His voice held no heat.

“Okay, thanks.” Jac got halfway to the door and then turned around. “By the way, you make the best chow of any line cook I’ve ever run into.”

He stopped scraping and straightened, his expression curious. “You know many?”

“I’ve done a few tours with the Guard. I’ve eaten lots of meals in lots of mess halls. Yours beats them all.”

He smiled. “I did some Army cooking myself, back in Southeast Asia in the seventies.”