White Heat (2 page)

T
o Lyndie Anderson, nothing beat being in the cockpit. With the wind beneath her wings and her Cessna’s tank full to the brim, the rest of the world fell away and ceased to exist.

Not that the world noticed. She could fall off the planet itself and not a ripple would be felt.

She liked it that way.

No ties,
her grandfather had always told her.
Ties held one down. Ties hampered a person’s freedom.

Lyndie wouldn’t know if that was true or not, as the last of her own personal ties—her grandfather, a staunch lifer in the military—was gone now.

Kick ass.

That had been his motto, his mantra. He’d taught it to her on her first day of kindergarten, when she’d stood before her military elementary school, quaking in her boots.

He’d loved nothing more than to have her repeat it back to him. At five years old, she’d stared out of the corner of her eye at the school, where she could see other little girls dressed in their pretty dresses and shiny shoes and ribbons. They all danced their way through the front door with nary a look back at their misty-gazed mothers, while the camouflage-clad Lyndie had suddenly wanted to cling to the man no one else had ever dared to cling to.

“Kick ass,” she’d repeated to him softly.

“What?” Her grandfather had carved a hand around his ear and frowned. “Can’t hear that pansy whisper. Speak up, girl.”

“Kick ass,
sir
!” She’d lifted her chin and saluted, aware of the mothers looking her way, no doubt horrified at the rough and tough–looking little girl with the nasty language.

Her own social status had been cemented that long-ago day, but her grandfather had tossed his head back and roared with gruff laughter, as if it had been their own private joke.

And it had been. She’d lost her parents two years before that in a car accident, and by kindergarten her memory of them had faded. Few had dared interfere with her grandfather, and as a result, there hadn’t been much softness in her childhood. That had been fine with Lyndie, who wouldn’t have recognized softness anyway.

They’d moved from base to base, and after her grandfather had whipped each of those bases into shape, they’d take off for the next. She couldn’t remember how many schools she’d attended, having lost track at the count of fifteen before graduating and gravitating toward a similar nomadic lifestyle as a pilot for hire. But she could remember how many different planes she’d flown. She could remember each and every one of them, with her grandfather riding shotgun, teaching her everything he knew.

Those planes had been her real home, and over the years she’d honed her skills, flying whatever she could get her hands on and loving it. When her grandfather died and his nest egg had come to her, she’d upgraded her old beater Cessna 172 to a six-seater 206, which some liked to say was nothing but a big old station wagon with wings.

She loved her
Station Air
as she fondly referred to it. The big thing sure came in handy. Now, at twenty-eight, she worked for an international charity organization out of San Diego called Hope International. She was paid to fly volunteering experts into regions desperate for their aid. Doctors, dentists, engineers, financial experts…she’d flown so many she’d lost track.

She was flying one such expert now, a U.S. forest firefighter this time, to a small but remote wildland fire in the Barranca del Cobre, an area in northwestern Mexico.

Thanks to her job, she’d spent a lot of time in this particular mountainous region. Surprisingly enough, she’d fallen for the wide, open, undiscovered beauty, and had made it her mission to fly south as often as possible, ensuring that each and every one of the myriad of hidden villages received dental and health care, or whatever they needed. Not a small job.

But right now one of her favorites, an especially isolated village named San Puebla, needed help with a slash-and-burn ranch fire. Due to limited water sources and remoteness, the flames had escaped control. Compounding the problem was the severity of the drought this year, and the fact that wildfires had become a nationwide crisis.

More than seventy Mexicans had lost their lives in this season alone in the deployment of airplanes, helicopters, and firefighters. In southeastern Mexico, 250 Mexican firefighters currently were hard at work, along with 550 military personnel and 2,400 volunteers, all battling the out of control fires still burning. Guatemala and Honduras were threatened by similar situations. The San Puebla fire was considered insignificant in comparison.

No doubt, they desperately needed help. She had some of that help on its way. The man in her Cessna had been a firefighter in South Carolina, and had the skills necessary to organize a big crew.

And a big crew was needed. Just a few days ago the fire had been at twenty acres, but it’d escalated since, blooming over three hundred acres now, threatening the village.

“Kick ass,” she said to herself, with a grim smile for the man who was no longer around to see her do exactly that.

“We almost there?”

This from her passenger. Firefighter Griffin Moore had gotten on board casually enough, without a glance at her, though she’d glanced at him. She always glanced at a good-looking man; it was a sheer feminine reaction of healthy hormones.

But in the last few moments, since the change in altitude from San Diego as they climbed over the Barranca del Cobre, sailing through majestic peaks dangerous and remote enough to swallow them up if they wanted to, he’d begun to exhibit signs of nerves.

“We’re about sixty miles out,” she said of the just over five-hundred-mile flight.

“Bumpy ride.”

His voice was low, gravelly. As if he didn’t use it often. And since he spoke to the window, she wasn’t clear on whether he was making an idle observation or complaining.

At least he hadn’t hit on her. It happened, and every time it did, it both surprised and amused her. Most of the time she was so wrapped up in her work she actually forgot she was female. But then some guy, usually a gorgeous one—she’d never understood why the better-looking ones always turned out to be jerks—figured her for a captive audience. Not that she had anything against men in general. Actually, she enjoyed men very much, she just liked to do her own picking. And she
was
picky.

Bottom line, her life was flying. And unlike Sam, her boss at Hope International—a man who appreciated the finer, more delicate dance of getting women into his bed—
she
didn’t consider the experts she flew prospective lovers.

When a passenger wouldn’t take no for an answer, she had no problem explaining the basics. One, she was a black belt. And two, she wasn’t afraid to open the passenger door—in the middle of a flight—to assist an annoying passenger off the plane.

That threat alone usually warded off any further advances.

But this man hadn’t so much as spared her a glance. He hadn’t even spoken until now. “There’s always turbulence right here,” she explained, trying to be a good hostess. “And to tell you the truth, it’s going to get a little worse.”

He lost his tan.

“Need a bag?” Damn it, she’d just cleaned out the back yesterday. “Let me know.”

Oh,
now
he looked at her. Right at her with icy blue eyes and a voice turned hardened steel. Except for a sensual mouth, the rest of his face might have been carved from stone. “I’m not going to be sick in your plane.”

How many times had she heard that from some cocky expert, usually a know-it-all surgeon pressed into doing charity work by his hospital, only to spend the rest of the day cleaning up the back of her plane?

Once again, she eyeballed her forest firefighter, who was dressed in the dark green Nomex pants of his profession, with a darker green T-shirt tucked in. Broad shoulders and long legs, both of which made fitting into the compact seats a challenge. Light brown hair clipped short. His big hands gripped the armrests. Not good. Not good at all. “You sure you’re okay?”

He had a quietly sober face, expression unyielding, gaze unflinchingly direct. “Just get me there.”

A charmer. But since she never bothered to be charming either, that didn’t bother her. She looked away from him and glanced down at the alpine crests lined with a green ribbon of conifers and small, hidden rivers as far as the eyes could see. Glorious, and a small part of her heart—not usually tied to any land—squeezed.

It squeezed even more when she got over the next peak. Off in the distance, marring the stark blue sky, grew a cloud of smoke that was so much bigger and more threatening than she’d imagined, her throat closed up.

This guy better be good at his job, she thought, and looked him over once again, this time assessing for strength and character. She already knew he hated to fly, which seemed odd. “I’m taking it you’re not a smoke jumper.”

He had his face plastered to the window, clearly trying to get a better view of the fire, impossible to do with the smoke impeding their visibility. “I didn’t drop out of planes, no.”

Didn’t.
Past tense. Odd…“A hotshot, then?”

“Yes.”

So he battled his fires from the ground, in fiery, unfathomable conditions requiring strength and stamina, facing mayhem and death at every turn. Still…“You knew you’d have to fly here, right? Maybe you should keep your volunteering closer to home if you don’t like to get on a plane.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” His knuckles were white on the armrests. He shifted in the seat and bumped his knees. He was a pretty big guy. Rather mouthwatering, too, if she was being honest, and she usually was. There was a suppleness to all that lean muscle—and a good bit of pure power. It was obvious that physical labor was a part of his lifestyle, weak stomach or not. Interesting.

Taking her eyes off him, she simultaneously turned the control wheel and applied rudder pressure for an eastward banking turn.

He let out a low oath.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I could fly this thing upside down and backward and still get us there.”

If possible, his grip on the armrest tightened.

“Really,” she said. “This is just a barely more challenging approach than most because of the quick change in altitude, but I’ve done it so many times I could—”

“Yeah. Fly it upside down and backward. Got it.”

A smart-ass, too. That bothered her even less than the lack of charm, but because he’d gone an interesting shade of green, she wanted to keep him talking instead of puking. “You do this often? Volunteer?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I hear a firefighter’s schedule can be pretty hectic. Twenty-four hour shifts, right?”

He lifted a shoulder.

“Well, I hope you’re braced for that because you’re going to hit the ground running down there. There are people in danger of losing everything. And believe me, they don’t have much to begin with.”

With another noncommittal grunt, Griffin pressed closer to the window so she could no longer see even his profile, but she had no problem getting the message.

Conversation over.

Fine. She’d only been trying to help him forget to lose his lunch in her clean plane. Instead, she’d concentrate now on getting them there. Time was of the essence this time around. Beneath them lay Copper Canyon, a breathtaking network of more than twenty canyons covering 20,000 square miles. Four times the size of the Grand Canyon, the place was a natural wonder. Lost in there, in the foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental, lay San Puebla. The village had once been a miner’s jackpot but was now too remote and isolated for anything or anyone but the most rugged of ranchers. The thought of them losing what little they had frightened her. She could only hope this man had what it would take to direct the crew, who would likely be a bunch of ranchers and a few military laborers sent in by train, all with little to no fire training.

She dipped the plane into a low valley, her breath catching at the vast beauty of the forest, the undiscovered creeks and rivers. The deep gorges and canyons and high vistas were some of the most amazing in the world, unarguably among the most rugged and secluded.

Above her, the sky spread glorious blue for as far as the eye could see—except for the ominous cloud billowing up from the ground. A cloud that began to threaten her visibility as she came in close.

Nearly there now, she stole another peak at her stoic passenger, over six feet of pure heartache. “You okay?”

He took his gaze off the window to send a baleful stare her way.

Right. He still didn’t want to talk.

The smoke thickened even more. It’d been a while since her passenger had spoken. There was no sound in the cockpit except the drone of the engine. She squinted a little, as if that could help her see. No matter how many hours she had in the air, flying in conditions like this could mount tension faster than anything, and she mentally prepared for the inevitable difficult landing.

“Can you even see?” he grated out a moment later when visibility had gone down to next to nothing.

Not so much, no. But they were only a few miles out now. She could see the bright glow of the actual blaze. It was a horrifying sight, and she could hardly make out the land beneath, but she knew the layout extremely well. “Don’t worry.”

He let out a muttered response to that, but he didn’t understand. Flying was her life. Some women her age had husbands, or kids.

She had this.

Up here she controlled her destiny; up here she was free as a bird, and just as content in all this wide open space, no matter what the challenge. This would be a difficult and unwelcome challenge, but she wasn’t in over her head—yet. She made a sharp bank to the right to accommodate the stunning landscape beneath her—and for one quick moment, visibility deserted her entirely. Nothing but dark, thick, choking gray smoke in every direction. She blinked rapidly but didn’t see even a crack in the smoke. She let out a long breath and carefully checked her instruments, decreasing their altitude.

“We’re going down?”

One way or another, but, concentrating on her instruments—all she had at the moment—she didn’t answer. Still no visibility. She dropped them even lower in a last-minute attempt on her part to clear the smoke. “Damn.”