Firestorm (3 page)

Many crew members were already tucked under shelters, working to seal the edges with knees and elbows and, Reyne was sure, mentally preparing themselves for the coming onslaught. They
looked like foil Jiffy Pop bags, exploding this way and that as they moved inside. Some of her team were not yet covered.

Reyne reached Janice, a trembling rookie from Tucson, and ripped the shelter from her hands to unfurl it. “You’ll be okay!” Reyne shouted to her. Their hair flew madly about, and Reyne fought off the insane urge to laugh. “Remember your training! Seal the edges and ride it out!”

She turned from Janice as the rookie finally got under her shelter. Next to her was Larry, on her crew for the last three years. He looked at her in macabre resignation, gesturing toward a rip in his shelter. “No!” she shouted. “Remember what they told us! Grab the rip and tuck it under you! You’ll be okay!”

The heat became noticeably worse. Reyne glanced over her shoulder. The fire was licking at her heels. With a last look around her team, packed tightly on the road—sometimes two or three in a row—she picked her spot next to two others and frantically shook out her shelter. She dove under it, tucking and praying madly.

Then the dragon came hunting.

R
eyne took a last look in the Motel 6 mirror. Everything was in place on her United States Forest Service uniform. No wrinkles, no smudges.

She wiped her nametag with a tissue until it shone. She finished her pale blond braid, carefully plaited to lie close to her head and out of her face, lightly lined her round, smoky blue eyes, pressed on some concealer to cover the shadows underneath, and touched on some lipstick. She looked for her things.

Today was the day. They
had
to give her the go on her project. She had been so close last year!
I’ll give them no room to decide otherwise
, she thought determinedly.
They won’t hold Oxbow against me. They can’t. This will make up for it
.

She left her room and hurried down the concrete walkway to the spot where her vintage ’46 Chevy truck was parked. It still sported the original wooden bed but was painted only with spots of primer. She wanted to paint it forest green, but she had been busy lately.

Ignoring the admiring looks of two men standing on the walkway nearby, Reyne hauled herself lightly onto the high seat, deposited her briefcase and portfolio on the passenger-side floor, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and she
allowed herself a satisfied smile at the smooth, powerful sound. Then she backed out of her parking spot, stepped on the gas, and headed out of the parking lot toward Missoula’s Forest Service Headquarters.

Within minutes she was there, five minutes before her scheduled presentation. She carried her portfolio and briefcase into the brand-new, wood-sided building that had been built to echo national park lodges of old. The foyer towered above her, flanked by huge old trees that had been stripped of bark and capped with steel. They supported enormous beams high above her. Enormous windows illuminated the building, even on a somber cloudy day like today. The building still smelled of fresh-cut lumber and varnish.

“Reyne Oldre,” she said to the receptionist. “I have a nine-thirty with Deputy Chief Alders to present my research proposal.”

“Very good,” the efficient woman said, nodding at her appointment book. “General Alders is expecting you. You’ll find him and the other interagency brass in Room 115. Two doors down on the left,” she said, gesturing toward the hall.

Reyne thanked the woman, reached the door, took a deep breath, and entered. The ten men who stood to meet her represented both Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management decision makers. Smiling, she greeted each man by name and quickly set up her portfolio on a portable stand.

The presentation began smoothly, just as she had practiced the afternoon before. She had done her homework, going through the whole spiel in front of her friend Rachel, pretending to shake hands with the room divider and couches, then setting up her materials and delivering her presentation. Rachel had helped her tear it apart and build it again, crafting a killer appeal that no one could negate. She hoped.

Her preparation was paying off. Reyne began with a field story, one learned from personal experience, that immediately grabbed the attention of all ten in attendance. They studied her face, listening intently as she segued into the crux of her request. “So, you see, gentle men,” Reyne said, glancing around the room, “the research money would be used to develop a hand-held computer that could store and accurately chart readings on temperature, humidity, wind speed—even fuel moisture levels. Crew bosses could carry it into the front lines and get an accurate reading anytime they needed it. The time factor is crucial. My project could save many lives by giving bosses the information they need, when they need it, where they need it.”

Reyne’s heart pounded as she sensed that men in the room were coming on board with her, understanding and getting excited about her project. Many were nodding and appraising her appreciatively—and for once the appreciation had as much to do with her thinking as with her looks. She allowed herself a brief surge of elation.
I’m going to get it!
she thought.
It’s going to work!

But the project was not yet in the bag. As the developmental time line and financial requirements for her project became clear, and as she got into the more intricate details of the experiment, Reyne could see several of the men’s faces grow bored, distant, day-dreamy. This she had anticipated. She was in the process of wrapping up the presentation with another story that would bring them all back around when the conference-room door burst open.

“This is where the party is?” the man’s voice boomed. His expression was relaxed, unconcerned about the intrusion, and he wore a huge grin plastered across his face. “Sorry I’m late! Car broke down again!” He shook each man’s hand enthusiastically, greeting each man by name as she had … although she noted that he seemed to be
on a first-name basis with all of them. Each was clearly pleased to see this Logan McCabe and greeted him with smiles, laughs, shaking heads, and personal words that far exceeded those for her reception.

“Chief!” McCabe boomed as if meeting an old, lost friend. His back was to her, but she could see the general’s face, warm and receptive. “When are we going to get together again and smoke some more Cubans?” Logan cracked.

“Oh brother,” Reyne mumbled. The forest firefighters boys’ club was always difficult for a woman to enter—even in the new millennium—but this guy was making it impossible. The tall, handsome, wavy-haired man was steadily sealing her out.

“And who’s this beautiful lady?” he said, finally reaching Reyne. She bristled.
That’s it! Bury me forever! Of all the sexist, egotistical, unthinking things to say in a meeting …

General Alders appeared not to have noticed. He stood and introduced them. “Reyne, let me introduce you to one fine BLM smokejumper, Logan McCabe. Logan, this is Reyne Oldre, a fire-science researcher for the Forest Service.”

“Rain? Never heard of a name like that before! Although it’s a welcome word in a firefighter’s ear.” He smiled around the room, clearly winning each man over. He left her no room to get a word in edgewise.

“It’s Norwegian—,” she began her grudging reply, but he was already launching another joke.

“Did I ever tell you guys the one about Forest Service groundpounders?”

The Forest Service officials shook their heads warily while the Bureau of Land Management brass egged Logan on. He ignored her murderous look.

“How many Service groundpounders does it take to screw in a mess-tent light bulb?”

Logan raised one eyebrow as he spoke, working the crowd like a seasoned veteran. “Twenty-one. One to hold the light bulb and twenty to break down the tent and rotate it.”

The Forest Service reps shook their heads while the BLM guys groaned, slapping him on the back as if they were welcoming back a long-lost friend. Logan shrugged it off, smiling, then looked over at Reyne appraisingly. “I’m sorry. I interrupted your meeting.”

Reyne sent daggers with her look.
You’re ruining it, you big oaf. I’ve lost momentum
.

“Groundpounder, eh?” Logan quipped. “No wonder you didn’t appreciate my joke—”

“Reyne Oldre is hardly your average U.S. Forest Service groundpounder, Logan,” spoke up Henry Frasier, a Bureau of Land Management boss. “You’ve spent too much time in the Southwest with the BLM. Reyne’s seen fire action from Mexico to Alaska with the Service. She made it to crew boss with the Lolo Hotshots before moving on to fire science.”

“I’m surprised you two haven’t crossed paths yet,” Deputy Chief Alders broke in. “Reyne’s one of the best researchers we have, and McCabe has made a name for himself in smokejumping. He’s working on some new equipment you should take a look at, Reyne.”

Ordinarily, Reyne would have appreciated the introduction and been interested in Logan’s project, but she was anxious to get things back on track. Her track. “Yes, well … as I was saying, gentlemen?” She raised her voice to get the party back in order. They settled quickly, but as she wrapped up her presentation, Reyne could tell that the interruption had done critical damage. They were not all in
agreement on her project. She could see it on their faces as clearly as if they were holding up numbered judging cards after watching her fall on the ice, hind-end first.

She stumbled over her words, distracted by the mental image, and lamely finished up. No sooner had she sat down than Logan McCabe stood, saying, “Great! Sounds like I missed a good presentation. You guys will have to make a tough decision. But wait until you get a load of what I want to do with the government’s money …”

Reyne looked around the table as Logan began his presentation, a loosely concepted idea about some “horizontal stabilizer.” They were entranced. It was like being back at high school, watching a bunch of gaga girls hang on every word that left the school jock’s mouth. And his project had to do with air compression and darts.
Like something out of a James Bond movie
, she thought.
Not the more mundane ins and outs of computer science
.

As she focused, she had to admit that Logan was onto something, and something exciting, especially for smokejumpers. But could it save as many lives as hers could? And had he spent the time and effort developing the idea that she had? Obviously not. He relied on short jokes and a nudge-nudge camaraderie to get them all on board. Yet on board he got them, she grudgingly admitted.

She watched as he spoke animatedly, gesticulating in excitement, pulling each person into each word he uttered. His charisma was unmistakable, his leadership skills obvious. He was charming and handsome and buddies with every one of these guys.

Logan McCabe will get my funding
, Reyne mused in disappointment.
Just as surely as Dirk Tanner will fish for the biggest rainbow trout in the Kootenai this summer
.

R
eyne sipped her coffee from a deep mug and smiled as she spotted the dusty Jeep far below her on the highway. It was the Tanners’ Jeep, which meant that Rachel was driving, probably after picking up Beth at the Double M. Within months of Reyne’s arrival in Elk Horn, their Saturday morning get-together had become a weekly routine, and Reyne always looked forward to it.

With a happy sigh, Reyne gazed out past the still-distant vehicle to the little town of Elk Horn, the airstrip, and the Rockies beyond. It was a beautiful spring morning. And Reyne adored her new home, situated on a small hill at the southwestern corner of the Morgans’ sprawling ranch—the Double M. She had saved for years to build. And now she had the house of her dreams, with a view to boot.

She smiled again as the Jeep finally pulled up in front of the cottage and Rachel, full of her usual energy, swung her long legs out. Reyne sobered as Beth emerged more slowly, taking her time, obviously not feeling well.
The cancer …
She pushed the thought away and put on a happy face as the two turned toward her.

“Good morning!” she called. “You two finally extricated yourselves from family?”

“It takes a while to get a baby situated with Dirk,” Rachel said, climbing the steps to the wooden porch and giving her friend a big hug. “You know, even with Mary there, this is supposed to be strict Papa time. So I have to get everything set: clean diapers, bottles,
clothes … It’s almost more work than bringing the baby with me.”

“Try prying a three-year-old from your leg as if you’re leaving her forever,” Beth said, joining them. Her smile faltered as she realized what she had said. Her friends hesitated, the words hanging in the air.

“Come on in for a caffeine and sugar fix,” Reyne smoothed over. “I’ve been looking forward to some girl talk for days.”

She hurried to the kitchen for two more mugs of coffee and a plate of muffins while her friends situated themselves in the living room. Reyne’s cottage was basically just a wooden box with a wraparound porch and peaked roof. Her cozy front room featured a big picture window with a view of the town and the mountains. She had decorated the house in classic but feminine fashion—ivory walls with framed botanical prints, ivy stenciled around the tops of walls, a distressed, whitewashed screen to divide living room from dining room, and a recycled-brick fireplace with a two-sided hearth that fed heat to the sitting room on one side and her bedroom on the other.

Rachel sank into an overstuffed white chair, pulled her long, sable hair from behind her back, and pushed off her flats, propping stocking feet up on the ottoman. She was a pretty woman, as tall as Reyne, but with more exotic features. Big, oval, green eyes. Enviable olive-toned skin.

“Ahh,” she moaned. “This is heaven. Pure luxury. Remember our bachelorette days, Beth? Remember our incredible apartment in San Francisco? We once went with Country French decor too, Reyne. Sadly, those years of white furniture are over. But it’s great to visit. I feel like a real girl here. And listen … Not a kid to be heard for miles.”