White Heat (3 page)

“What?”

“The wind’s picked up to thirty knots.”

“Too high?”

Well twenty would have been mildly challenging, forty would have been deadly. “Hopefully we’ll miss any crosswinds, so really, it could be worse.” Again she had to adjust their altitude, this time going higher to miss the craggy, sharp mountain she knew was there even if she couldn’t see it. The rocky turbulence threw them around for a moment but she fought for control and maintained it, barely. Even
her
stomach pitched.

Only a few more minutes.

Another rough drop but her hands and eyes remained steady, as did her heart, though her palms had grown damp.

Behind her she heard the slap of a sweaty hand on an armrest. Heard the low, muttered curse.

In her mirror, their eyes locked and held. “We’re okay,” she said.

“Don’t waste your breath coddling me, just get us there.”

She dropped altitude again.

At the abrupt shift, she heard another sharp intake of breath. She took one herself, then let it out slowly, using all her strength to guide them in.

Blind. “Hang on.” Thrusting the throttle forward, she executed a sharp climb to miss the crest that was leaping with flames, banking sharply to the right, swinging back around for another shot at the landing.

And again lost all visibility.

“Pull up again,” he said. “Take your time.”

She glanced down at her gauges. “No can do.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Not enough fuel.”

Their eyes locked. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple. Her own skin was damp. “Hang on,” she said again, and with another drastic maneuver brought them back around, slightly to the west this time, and over fire-free land. “Ready?”

“Shit.” He closed his eyes. Then opened them with a grim determination that took her by surprise. “Ready.”

Ready. And she took them directly into the remote, dizzying, dangerous, and definitely rough-around-the-edges Mexican mountains, flames and smoke and all.

T
he timbered peaks had vanished under the smoke, and Griffin felt his own heart rate accelerate to a pace it hadn’t reached in quite some time as they descended for their landing. Then suddenly they flew in beneath the smoke and could see again, and he took in the heavily grown hills, the bushy plain—and the flames in them.

They came down into a valley, over a low running river and a bridge that looked as if it’d been around for centuries, and then they hit with a hard bump that sent Griffin’s stomach plunging. They bounced up once, twice, then skidded unevenly over the rough dirt road that looked as if it was going to end before they could stop.

Leaving them to plunge down an embankment of which he couldn’t see the bottom.

Lyndie shoved the throttle forward and stomped on the foot pedals, and Griffin gritted his teeth, stomping his own feet into the floor as if he could help stop the plane.

When they finally stopped—mere feet from the end of the runway—he closed his eyes, trying to regain his equilibrium. For a long moment, he sat there after the engine powered down, concentrating on breathing. He’d been told, by just about everyone he knew, that post-traumatic syndrome could and would take place in many forms.

That had pissed him off then, and the thought of it pissed him off now. He wasn’t suffering from post-traumatic syndrome. He’d
lived,
damn it, and that had been good enough for him.

His pilot stared worriedly into his face. She’d managed to somehow do the impossible, flying on pure skill and talent, keeping them alive, and instead of taking a moment to breathe herself, she was staring at him with concern. “Okay?” she asked, and put a hand on his knee.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t take her hand off his knee. “Take a moment.”

“I don’t need one.” He took off his seat belt with unsteady hands out in the middle of an on-fire nowhere, and he had to shake his head. Just flying had nearly undone him along with the butt-squeaker of a small craft that had shimmied and shuddered like a toy.

How the hell was he supposed to fight that fire out there waiting for him? “That was some flying.”

“Thanks.”

Easy confidence. Something he’d lost. God, this had really been a stupid move. His palms were damp, his heart still threatening to burst right out of his chest. He’d been in some tough spots before, the toughest, but after months of doing nothing more than watching time pass on the beach, clearly he’d lost his edge.

No, scratch that. He’d lost his edge on a mountain in Idaho nearly a year ago.…

Her fingers, still on his knee, squeezed gently. He put his hand over hers and looked into her eyes. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, and yet her eyes could devastate a man at close range. “I’m okay.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded and backed up.

Standing, he came face-to-face with her for the first time. Lyndie Anderson had fiery auburn hair sticking straight up from the aviator sunglasses she’d shoved to the top of her head. The rest of her hair was hacked to her chin as if she’d taken the scissors to it herself. With her temperament, she probably had. Her eyes were sharp green, void of makeup, and narrowed on him as if he were a bug on her windshield. She wore dark blue trousers and a white blouse that could have used an iron, on a tough, lean body he had no doubt could kick some serious butt. And she hardly came to his shoulder.

Had he thought she wasn’t beautiful? At the moment, with her hero-worthy flight still fresh in his mind, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She thrust her chin in the air. “What are you looking at?”

“You.” For some reason, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was interesting—arresting—he had to admit. “You’re tiny.”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

Together they moved toward the door, but she pushed ahead of him, throwing a shoulder against it, muscling it open before he could lean in and help her.

It creaked open as if the movement was painful.

“At least the thing got us here,” he muttered.

“Thing?”

“Nicer word than a trap.”

“Trap?”
With a lithe easiness, she jumped to the ground and patted the plane. “Don’t listen to him, baby,” she crooned. “You’re a beauty, and solid to boot.”

“You…talk to your plane.”

“Yep.”

Shaking his head, he grabbed his two duffels; the firefighter’s red bag, which held all his personal stuff, and his backpack with the IA gear. Inside the initial attack pack was everything a wildland or forest firefighter might need out in the field, and everything he’d hoped he wouldn’t ever need again.

He eyed the sharp, jagged mountain peaks to the north—what he could see of them, anyway, through the smoke—noting all the heavy vegetation with dread. It was late August now. He knew they’d experienced an incredibly wet winter, followed by no precipitation since. With all the new, thick, heavy growth, things were as bad as they could get.

“Let’s go.” She nodded toward the two metal buildings a few hundred yards away that looked more like an old movie set than a real airport. “It’s an abandoned silver mine,” she said to his unspoken question. “But it’s got the only good solid road around that’s both the right length and straight. Perfect makeshift airstrip. Add in a couple of hangars, and one lone gasoline tanker that comes with a guy named Julio who’ll only fill ’er up if you tip him in booze, and you’ve got yourself an airport.”

“Right.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Hey, it works. So…” She sized him up from toe to forehead, somehow making him want to stand up taller. “You didn’t need a bag to toss your cookies after all.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” he responded, mocking her own words to him.

She smiled, apparently unapologetic for her bluntness, which was oddly both refreshing and a little startling. “You still look a little green, but strong enough,” she decided. “You’ll need that strength, with the job ahead of you.”

As if his stomach wasn’t wobbly enough, it did another somersault. It’d been so long. A year.

A lifetime.

And it would have been longer if Brody hadn’t interfered.

The thought of his brother, probably at this very moment lounging on the beach, grinning at bikini babes and chuckling over what he’d done, made Griffin grit his teeth. “Let’s just get this over with. Take me to the fire.”

“Oh, no. My job was to get you here.” Turning to an old weathered guy in beat-up coveralls and a cap low over his eyes, she nodded when he pointed to the gas tanker.
“Gracias,”
she said, and handed him a brown bag that no doubt held the required booze.

Julio, apparently.

“Good luck, Ace,” she said to Griffin over her shoulder as she headed back to her plane.

“Wait.” He stared at her, stunned. “You’re leaving?” He didn’t like her, mostly because she’d provided the means to get him here, but she was also his only tie down here.

“Don’t worry. Tom Farrell will be here any minute to pick you up.”

She’d told him not to worry a few times now. He hated those words. “Tom?”

“The postmaster.” She cocked her head. “In fact, I hear him coming now.”

“What? Where?”

“Shh.” She listened some more. “Yep, that’s his Jeep. For your sake, I hope he got the brakes fixed.”

Two seconds later, a Jeep roared right onto the “tarmac,” and skidded to a stop a few feet from the plane. There were no windows, no fenders, no top, and what might have once been a cherry red paint job had long ago faded and rusted down to the metal.

“Hey, Tom.” Griffin’s pixie pilot smiled, transforming her face. “You washed this heap, I see.”

“Nah.” Tom hopped out. Fiftyish, he had a tough, rangy body, long blond-gray hair pulled back in a leather strap, and deep brown eyes. “I drove through the
rio
yesterday. Just long enough to spruce it up some.” He stuffed his hands in his front jean pockets. His tanned Caucasian face crinkled into a welcoming smile.

“Tom came from North Dakota,” Lyndie explained to Griffin. “In case you’re wondering why he’s as white as I am. He showed up here in the seventies to fish, fell in love with a local, and never left.”

“True, true,” Tom said, thrusting his hand out to Griffin. “And you’re the help we need so desperately.”

“Yes, and you’re…the postmaster.”

Tom gave Lyndie a long, wry look. “You never get tired of messing with the guys’ heads, do you? I bet you took the long way in, too.”

“Who, me?”

Tom shook his head, still pumping Griffin’s hand. “I’m mostly the sheriff now, but also I deliver the mail. When we get it. Don’t worry, son. You’re not dreaming, you’re really here.”

Not so much of a comfort, actually.

“How bad is it really?” Lyndie asked Tom, who sighed.

“Bad.”

“Well, keep me posted.” His pilot, the little she-devil, gave them both a wave and started backing away. “Later.” She tossed a look Griffin’s way. “You go play hero, now. I’ll be back for you at the end of your shift. Sunday night.”

That wasn’t a comfort either.

“Yeah…uh, Lyndie?” Tom took off his hat and scratched his head. “Nina’s sort of in a mood again.”

Lyndie stared at him, than laughed a little and shook her head. “Nope. I’m not translating for you all weekend. I haven’t had a day off all damn year. Sam gave me this weekend, and I’ve got a date with a long nap and a pleasure joyride wherever I feel like winging to.”

“So who’s going to translate for your hotshot here?”

“He’s not
my
hotshot, he’s yours.”

“Now, Lyndie—”

“No.” She pointed at him. “Don’t you ‘now Lyndie’ me. Sam pays Nina to do it, and you know it.”

“Who’s Nina?”

Both Tom and Lyndie looked at Griffin as if they’d forgotten he existed.

“My daughter,” Tom finally answered. “She’s uh, rather headstrong.”

“Code for stubborn and selfish.” Lyndie let out a sound of annoyance. “She’s a native with flawless English who translates for our volunteers in return for cash. When she’s in the mood, that is.”

“Yes, she’s a hothead, that one.” Tom lifted his hands in the helpless gesture of someone who’d created a monster and now didn’t know what to do with her. “Stay, Lyndie. Please? You yourself said you had time off, and how better to spend it if not in a place you know and love, a place now in danger if the wind doesn’t cooperate and our men don’t get that fire under control?”

“Yes, but—”

“But you hate to be social, I know. I know—”

“I don’t hate to be social,” Lyndie said through her teeth, which Griffin thought was interesting.

She didn’t want to help any more than he did. After the plane had landed, she’d put her hand on him to soothe. The urge to return the favor shocked him.

“Then you won’t mind helping us out,” Tom said smoothly.

Lyndie put her hands on her hips and glared at Tom, who pretended not to notice.

“Into the Jeep, now,” he said to no one in particular, putting a hand on Lyndie’s back and trying to push her toward the vehicle.

“I can’t stay,” she insisted, notably less forcefully this time. “I have…”

“Yes?” Tom smiled sweetly, his warm eyes guileless. “You have something more important?”

Lyndie stared at him, then suddenly her shoulders sagged. “No. Damn it. Of course not.”

“There you are,” Tom opened the beat-up door and patted her arm. “You know it’s okay to admit you have a home here,” he said gently.

“I do not.”

“You
feel
at home here,” Tom said.

“My home is the sky—which I should be up in right now, thank you very much.”

“Whatever you say, Lyn.”

She let out a low, unintelligible reply that sounded like a growl.

Griffin had never known a woman who could snarl so convincingly, as if she might launch herself at the source of her aggravation. He wondered if he touched her now if she’d snap at him. He put a hand on her shoulder.

Whipping around to face him, she stared at him.

Unbelievably, he nearly smiled.

“It’s all settled then.” Tom nodded approvingly. “I’ll make sure your plane is properly tied down and cared for, and that Rosa knows you’ll be staying for the weekend. Get in now, darlin’.”

And to Griffin’s amazement, the strong-headed, temperamental, free-spirited Lyndie merely sighed and climbed up into the waiting Jeep.

In the front seat, naturally.

Leaving the back to him.