Radclyffe - Firestorm

Like you. The words hung in the air unspoken.

Jac set her fork down and lifted her coffee cup, buying a few seconds. She’d expected the question but didn’t know how she wanted to answer. If she told Mallory James why her father had leveraged his political clout to get her a job in another state, a job he knew she wanted and would have a hard time turning down, she’d have to reveal a whole lot more about herself than she ever did to anyone. The silence lengthened and she met Mallory’s gaze. Mallory’s eyes were a darker green than they had appeared earlier, with flecks of gold glinting in the bright sunlight that had burst in the sky. Deep, intense, unflinching eyes that almost made her want to tell it all. Almost. “Maybe the same thing you are.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

Trying to prove I’m worth something to someone on my own. She opted for a safer answer. “Trying to make a difference.”

“You don’t know why I’m here, and you didn’t answer my question. But it won’t really matter if you don’t make it to the end of the month.” Pushing back from the table, Mallory stood. “Now you’ve got ten minutes.”

Jac watched her walk away. Cold. Remote. Beautiful. Like the mountains. And probably just as unforgiving. But she’d never been afraid of a challenge, and Mallory “Ice” James was all that and more.

Chapter Three

“Hey.” A guy about Jac’s age with linebacker shoulders and hair as red as his T-shirt flashed a wide-open grin and straddled a chair next to her. “You another one of the new guys? I didn’t see you at the briefing yesterday afternoon.”

“Just got here,” Jac said, holding out her hand. “Jac Russo.”

“Ray Kingston,” the redhead said.

A thin African American with round wire-framed glasses and thoughtful eyes joined them, and a half minute later a husky middle-aged man with a thick mustache and a neck as wide as his head pulled up a chair. Anderson and Hooker, they supplied. Jac shook their hands.

“So where you from?” the redhead, Ray, asked.

“Idaho. You?”

“Texas. What’s your usual gig?”

“Been in the Guard,” Jac said, not offering anything else. The guys all nodded solemnly. “You?”

“I work on the oil rigs in the Gulf off Galveston the rest of the year,” Ray said.

Jac laughed. “That’s a big switch.”

“You ever been in Texas in the summer?”

“Luckily, no.”

Hooker was an out-of-work timberman. Anderson was a high school guidance counselor from Vermont with ten years’ search and rescue experience.

“I’ve been trying to get a spot on one of these crews for a couple years,” Anderson said, polishing his spotless lenses. “This is a real sweet post.”

“Yep.” When Nora Fleming, her father’s campaign manager, had informed her of her father’s request that Jac be less visible during his push to clinch the presidential nomination and told Jac about this opening, she’d jumped at it. It was what she’d wanted to do, and since her father wanted her to disappear for the “good of the family,” meaning his campaign, she’d said yes. The next morning she’d been on her way to Montana. She was coming in the back door and she knew it. More to prove, another secret to live down.

“One of the busiest crews in these parts,” Hooker said, smoothing his moustache. “I see you were getting acquainted with the training manager.”

“Just met her,” Jac said carefully. The guys all seemed friendly enough, but she was always cautious with personal information. And Hooker wasn’t just fishing about her, he was talking about Mallory. Her stomach tightened with an unfamiliar sensation she finally recognized as protectiveness.

“The regular guys say she’s really good,” Ray said.

“That’s what I hear too,” Anderson commented.

“Guy I met who worked with her a couple of years ago says she’s a ballbuster,” Hooker said flatly, his gaze fixed on Jac.

A test to see where her allegiance lay—with her fellow rookies or with the only other female on the team? Jac raised her brows and eyed his crotch. “Well then, I guess you’ll have to be careful, Hooker. Since I assume you have a pair.”

Ray burst out laughing and the other guys joined in. “Man, you’re right. Maybe you’ll be luckier, Jac.”

“Maybe, but I think she’s probably an equal opportunity buster.” Jac glanced at her watch. “And in about four minutes, we’re going to find out.”

Standing, she gripped her tray and Ray said, “Good luck today.”

“You too,” Jac said, but she didn’t think luck was what she was going to need. The only thing likely to impress Ice James was a high score. Not just passing, not even good. The best. Just another thing she had to prove. What else was new?

*

Mallory stood in the shadows inside the open door of the hangar, watching the rookies mill about, talking in low voices, jostling one another, sorting themselves out. She searched for signs of tension, rivalry, competition. Wildland firefighters were naturally independent free-thinkers, and inherently competitive. Those traits were important when faced with an emergency and quick action could be lifesaving, but teamwork was just as important. She watched them all, but her gaze kept returning to Jac. Even in the sweatshirt and cargo pants that tended to neutralize gender, Jac stood out. Her features were so bold as to be arresting, and she moved with confident, natural grace. She interacted easily with the men, responding when spoken to, but remaining just a little bit apart, watchful and appraising. Like she had appraised Mallory earlier. Obviously, Jac was a woman who sized up the playing field, studied the ground, assessed circumstances. Confident, aware. All quality traits for a smokejumper. But it took a lot more than confidence to be a smokejumper.

“All right everybody, line up.” Mallory stepped out of the shadows into the early morning sunlight. The rookies instantly faced her, shoulder to shoulder. “I’m Mallory James, and I’m the ops manager for Yellowrock Station. I’m also the training manager. For the next month, we will start at oh six hundred every day. We’ll stop when the day’s exercises are over. If we’re not finished, we’ll sleep in the field. When we work a fire, we have to move fast. Sometimes to get out ahead of the fire front, sometimes just to get out. You’ll be wearing your jump suits and humping your gear out there. Today you get a break—no packs, no equipment. Today will be the easiest run you’ll ever experience as a smokejumper.” As she talked, she walked up and down the line, watching the rookies watch her. They were similarly dressed—jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts, work boots. “The designated course is three miles long and laid out with yellow markers. Secondary trails—the blue and the red—cross the main course. They’re shorter but steeper, and the terrain is tougher. Stay off them.” She smiled. “You’ll need to complete your run in under thirty minutes to qualify. A helitack spotter will be stationed above the route. If you run into trouble and have to drop out, just settle down by the side of the trail and signal the spotter. One of us will be by to assist. Any questions?”

“No ma’am,” a number of voices responded.

“There’s no need to be formal,” Mallory said. “Cap is fine.” She pulled her stopwatch from her pants pocket, said, “Have a good run,” and clicked the start button. She met the dark eyes that had followed her every step. “Russo. Lead out.”

*

Jac broke from the line and loped toward the trail marked by a yellow disk tacked to a pine tree on the far side of the yard. She wasn’t worried about qualifying. Running came easily to her—she’d run track in high school and still ran for exercise and pleasure every day. Even in boots and heavy clothes, she covered the ground easily, jumping over fallen branches, dodging rocks, leaping over streams of snow runoff. After a few minutes she started to sweat, shrugged out of her sweatshirt, and tied it around her waist. Her lungs burned as the cold air flowed in and out, her skin flushed and dampened, and her heart pounded. Ten minutes in she heard footsteps behind her but didn’t slow. Rhythmic breathing synchronized with her own, and after another few minutes as she raced up a rocky slope, she smelled honeysuckle. Mountain honeysuckle. The sweet fragrance made her smile—too early to be flowering, and she remembered when she’d smelled the scent earlier. In the locker room, wafting from Mallory James’s damp, shower-flushed skin. Her heart rate kicked up, and it wasn’t from the rigorous course.