Firestorm (11 page)

She tiptoed to the bathroom, wishing she’d pulled on socks to protect her cold feet, and peeked out the window. Sure enough, Logan was out in the side yard, picking up small rounds of pine and splitting them with long, powerful strokes. Reyne smiled as she watched him work. It had been a long time since a man had done something like that for her.

Working fast, she hurried to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and then dashed back to the bathroom. She hopped in the shower, washing in record time. Then she toweled off, combed out her hair, and threw on some clothes. Ten minutes later she nonchalantly walked out to the porch with two cups of coffee.

“You always go chopping wood at other people’s houses?” she asked, lifting a cup toward Logan.

He stood and wiped his brow, having worked up a bit of a sweat despite the cool morning. There was dew on everything, and it sparkled under the early morning sunshine. “I do when I want something from that person.”

“Oh? And what do you want from me?” She took a sip of coffee to hide her smile.

“I want you to play hooky with me and go check out the salvage yard.”

She nodded, pretending to consider his suggestion. “That’ll cost you more than splitting,” she said. “You’ll have to stack that wood.”

“Done.”

“Well, get to it, Mr. McCabe. I can’t play hooky all day.”

An hour later they were in the Evergreen salvage yard, walking past row after row of junked cars. The junkyard owner had directed them to the far corner, seeming to remember a couple of vintage trucks in that area.

“How ’bout this one?” Reyne asked, pointing to a Ford F-100. “It’s probably about a ’54.”

“Fifty-six,” Logan said with authority. “Sorry. Got my heart set on that Chevy.”

Half an hour later she heard him call excitedly from the next row, “Reyne! Come here!”

She moved toward the sound of his voice, noting how the sun had dried the dew and it was actually getting pretty warm out. She pulled off her cardigan and tied it around her waist. When she turned the corner, she gasped. “That’s it! Logan, it’s beautiful!”

“Check her out!” he said. “The wood bed looks like it’s an original.”

“It’s in better shape than mine was, but it’ll still need refinishing,” she said.

“Split rear window,” he said, running his hand along the side. “Let’s see if she still has her engine.” Logan found the hood latch and opened it up. He nodded happily, smiling up at Reyne after a moment. “I think it’s the original. Just as you described it. Clean and spare.”

She leaned in with him. “Just your basic, honest engine. None of
that catalytic converter or fuel-injection stuff. Looks so easy, we could take it apart and put it back together again.”

“Or at least change the oil,” he quipped. “Come on,” he said with a sparkle in his eye. “Let’s check her out underneath.”

They moved to shimmy under opposite sides of the truck and in their excitement ignored the dirt. “How’s the rust over there?” Logan asked.

“Not too bad. Not beyond restoration, anyway,” she said. “Any Bondo? Bondo means trouble.”

“I’ll say. No, I don’t see any. Oh man, Reyne, I think we found her!” In his excitement he rammed his head trying to look at Reyne and fell back on the ground, moaning.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, holding his head. “I’m visualizing something to get my mind off the pain.”

“What?”

“You and me in the back of this rebuilt beauty—I think I’ll paint her red—out on some back road, just enjoying life together. We could bring some old quilts for comfort, a thermos of something warm, snuggle down, and watch the moon rise. We’d watch until the moon sank on the opposite side of the valley and then count a million stars, talking all the while.”

“Just talking, huh?” she asked with a smile.

“In between a few kisses,” he said, maintaining firm control of this daydream. “We’d have Patsy Cline on the radio …” He raised his head suddenly, nearly ramming it again. “The original radio’s still there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I saw it.”

“Good. As I was saying, Patsy Cline on the radio. Hey, how’d it
work out that you’re still single? How come I’m the lucky guy who gets to listen to Patsy someday in the back of a flatbed truck with you?”

“Didn’t meet the right man, I guess. How come I get to rebuild a truck with you?”

“Didn’t meet the right woman, I guess.”

They lay there for a minute, mulling it over.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“We have a lot of work to do on this truck before we can ever listen to Patsy Cline on that country road. Unless we drag it out there behind a tow truck.”

“That’s okay,” he said with a smile, rubbing his head. “With your help, it will be worth every minute.”

E
ven several weeks later Reyne was still wrestling with giving Logan all of her heart. The nightmares still plagued her, memories of them coming to her suddenly in the middle of the day.
Besides
, she told herself,
he hasn’t said he loved me either. Maybe it’s all in my head
. But her heart knew.

They were about to throw themselves out of the Sherpa, testing out equipment, when he finally said those words. Ken Oakley had just opened the doorway and given them the all-clear sign when Logan turned to her and yelled over the deafening wind, “I love you, Reyne Oldre!” then kissed her. With that he rolled out the doorway.

Stunned for a second, she looked over at Ken, who grinned and motioned for her to follow Logan. If she waited any longer, she’d find herself hiking a ways just to meet up with Logan. She took a deep breath and then rolled out the door herself. The air met her like a welcome friend even as her heart skipped crazily, as it always did when she was insane enough to jump out of a moving airplane at fifteen hundred feet.

As Reyne fell away from the airplane, she looked up to see Ken’s figure quickly becoming smaller inside the Sherpa. He saluted her and then shut the door. Thinking about Logan’s words, she whooped and then pulled her parachute cord. The chute stretched out above her, twisted, and, just when Reyne was getting worried, canopied, braking her to a swift halt.

Logan wasn’t far below her, having opened his chute a second before her. He waved at her and motioned toward their intended landing spot, wanting to make sure that she, too, would make it to the small clearing in the forest below. If she didn’t, she might end up using their experimental smokejumper’s pouch to free herself.

She blew him a kiss, smiling as she replayed his shouted words over and over.
He loves me! He
loves
me!
Reyne couldn’t wait to get on the ground and kiss him, to tell him that she loved him too. They landed with barely twenty feet and three seconds separating them. Logan watched as she hit the ground, rolled, and unhooked her parachute like a pro, never stopping as she rose and ran toward him.

He smiled as he kept trying to unhook his own chute while still watching her approach. Before he was completely free, she hopped into his arms, as he laughed in surprise, and wound her legs around his waist. She kissed him soundly. When he came up for air, he smiled. “You heard me then?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes, I did,” she said, staring straight into his eyes. “I love you too, Logan McCabe.”

His eyes grew bigger with delight, and he took a step backward. It was a fateful error, however, since he happened to step on a parachute cord attached to his right shoulder. Unbalanced, he fell backward, and both of them collapsed on the ground. They laughed and rolled and then settled on their backs, side by side, giggling hysterically.

When the laughter finally subsided, Logan spoke first. “So, did you make a lot of scholarly notations about our research project on the way down? Our meeting with the brass is tomorrow, my lovely partner.”

Reyne giggled again and then wiped her eyes. “I’m afraid the only research project I was concentrating on was you, my love,” she confessed.

“Oh, I like that,” he said. “I guess we’ll just have to cram for the exam tonight.” He stood, finally freed himself, and then helped Reyne to her feet.

“You’ll be my study partner then?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Unable to do anything else, he again took her in his arms.

She giggled a little and allowed some space between them. “It’s kinda like holding a plump snowman, huh?” she asked, gesturing down to the thick, padded gear they both wore.

“Yeah,” he said, giving her another squeeze. “Except a bit more romantic.”

They stood there, holding each other for a good five minutes, looking out toward the valley below before setting to work gathering up their gear.

They were on their final check of their research project, and everything had worked out fine aerodynamically. Now they joked that the only thing that would’ve made it better was landing in a tree and actually having the excuse to fire off their horizontal stabilizer to descend. They had tested it countless times, simulating every way possible for a jumper to be hung up. But this last dive had really been planned in celebration of their success and as an excuse to hike together. And they would certainly have the opportunity to hike. They were miles from civilization and were carrying full smokejumper gear.

In tandem they stripped down to their Nomex shirts, khaki slacks, and boots; crammed their padded outfits, helmets, personal gear, and chutes into heavy packs; and hoisted the packs onto their backs.

Reyne groaned. “Now I remember why I got out of jumping.
My wimpy fire-scientist bod has a hard time dealing with these sixty-five-pound packs anymore, and I’m not even carrying tools.”

“Hardly wimpy,” Logan appraised, looking her over.

“Logan! Get your mind back on work, will ya? How far are we from town?”

“It’s over that next ridge and eight miles down. About nineteen-point-three clicks total.”

“Twelve miles, eh?” Reyne asked, swallowing a groan. “Well, let’s get to it. I want to have time for a picnic lunch on the way down.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Lead the way, milady.”

They hiked a good distance before settling on the next small ridge for lunch. They made their way to the base of a large, flat boulder that ended abruptly, with nothing at its far edge but a thousand-foot drop. Logan climbed on top of it and spread his arms out. “I’m on top of the world!” he yelled.

“In more ways than one,” Reyne said, grinning up at him. He jumped down beside her and gave her a quick kiss. “Lunch?”

“You bet. I’d wager that our peanut butter sandwiches have seen better days though.”

“Better than MREs any day,” Logan quipped, referring to the army-style Meals Ready to Eat that smokejumpers usually carried. “Even squished,” he said, sounding less sure as he looked over the oddly shaped sandwich.

Reyne smiled over at him and took a big bite of her own misshapen sandwich. Then, looking beyond Logan, she stood and went to the edge of their little clearing, pushing brush away to get to the largest of the saplings. Taking her Swiss army knife from a back pocket, she sawed away at the biggest branch until it fell and she could study its core.

Her face sobered. All around them, the underbrush of the forest was this dense.

Logan looked at her, understanding what she was after. “How old? Four, maybe five years?”

“That’s what I’d guess,” she said. “We’ve had incredible rainfall in the last five years.”

“And good summers, too,” Logan said, taking another bite. “The bad news is that we’re behind in precipitation this year. Things are too dry already.”

“Record-breaking rain and hot summers only spell one thing,” she said, lost in thought.

“An excellent fire season,” Logan finished for her, grinning.

She stared at him. “An excellent fire season means something else, too,” she began.

He looked at her, puzzled. “What?”

“A lot of separation for us,” she said, hating the neediness that climbed onto her words and rode them. “Which will give us more time for our research,” she rushed on, knowing her follow-up was lame.

He nodded, chewing, thinking it through.

“The Kootenai used to set these woods on fire,” Reyne said, referring to the native tribe that had once lived in this part of Montana. “To clear land for farming, to chase out game, even for entertainment at times.”

Logan nodded, still walking. He grabbed a leaf from an aspen as he passed, smashing it in his hand. “This still has good water content, at least,” he said.

“It’s not the aspens I’m worried about,” Reyne said. “It’s all this underbrush. These woods are like a giant tinderbox just waiting to explode.”

“From what I hear, so is everything west of the Mississippi.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Yeah. What’s worse is that these forests haven’t seen a major fire in twenty years. They’re due.”

“Was that part of the impetus in establishing the Elk Horn smokejumper and hotshot crews?”

“I assume so,” he said. “Aside from not wanting to pass up the opportunity to allow my masterful hands to mold a new generation of firefighters.”

Reyne snorted, rolling her eyes. “Oh yes, that of course was a large part of their decision.”

“You’ve got it. I think the execs with the timber company pulled some strings with the BLM to get me to head it up for the summer. I know some guys who work for them.”

“I’m glad,” Reyne said. “Or else you might’ve been stationed far from me.” He turned to flash her a grin, and then they walked for a bit in silence.

“So tell me more about those crazy, fire-happy Indians,” he said flippantly.

“They were hardly fire-happy,” Reyne said. “By setting a few well-placed fires, they cleared underbrush, which created grazing areas that drew game. They made their camps more defensible—or threatened their enemies. To me, it’s all very logical.”

“Yeah, if you had been in one of the torchers’ camps and not their enemies’,” he laughed.

Reyne nodded, smiling.

“I was studying some old settlers’ journals last year,” Logan said, choosing his next step carefully as the trail narrowed. “They wrote of how the valleys were wide and treeless and how game was much easier
to hunt. To them it seemed like a paradise. Then after forty or fifty years, the forests grew dense again, making hunting more difficult and forest fires more dangerous. The Indians were no longer maintaining the forests.”