Getting Married Again. Melinda Curtis
faces. Most of his Silver Bend Hot Shots were congregated for a late breakfast. In their fire-resistant Nomex green pants and yellow shirts, they looked ready for battle. The group glanced at him curiously, at first not recognizing him behind his beard.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Logan McCall, who had been the best man at Jackson’s wedding, kicked his chair back and strode across the room “Slummin’, Golden? Or did they kick your lazy butt out of Russia?”
Jackson grinned and took two steps before receiving a bone-crunching hug with much backslapping. “I heard the fires were raging back home, so I took the first plane out, Tin Man.” Jackson used Logan’s nickname, bestowed after one particularly disappointed woman publicly proclaimed Logan to be lacking a heart. Logan was a confirmed bachelor who enjoyed women as long as they didn’t expect more from him than a night or two of his company.
“Just in time,” Logan said. “We’re shipping out today. Got us a nice runaway in Wyoming over at Bighorn.”
Like most Hot Shot teams, Silver Bend fought fires anywhere they were needed, from Alaska to Florida. It was dirty, exhausting, dangerous work fighting fires from the ground with little more than a shovel and a Pulaski—a combination ax and hoe. The physical job requirements were so tough, only the strongest passed the arduous work-capacity test. And only the most courageous lasted more than a few seasons.
His gut clenching at the thought of facing flames again, Jackson concentrated on holding on to his smile.
“Have you eaten? The guys would love to hear some stories.” Logan pointed to the table and walked back as if assuming Jackson wanted nothing more than to join them.
Jackson recognized many of the faces there, had trained most of these men. Those who he didn’t know watched him with the eager expressions of novices. Jackson quickly looked away from their curious stares.
Logan introduced Jackson to the newest Hot Shot members, and slid him into a chair facing the kitchen. “Best view in the house,” Logan said with a private grin, as if he, and he alone, were privy to some inside joke.
Someone poured Jackson a cup of coffee.
“Did you teach the Russians how we fight fires…Golden…sir?” This from a fresh-faced boy, introduced as Rookie, who didn’t look old enough to drive, much less shave, although he had the broad shoulders and beefy arms of a seasoned firefighter.
Most Hot Shots kept in shape, but the Silver Bend Hot Shots trained like fiends—lifting weights and running miles across the mountainous ranges in the area to increase their strength and endurance. They had a reputation for the ability to build more fire lines than any other crew, and generally considered themselves the best of the best. Up until last year, Jackson had believed leading the Silver Bend Hot Shots was a job he’d been born for.
“I did teach my Russian crew something.” Jackson only half smiled, trying to ignore the hero worship in Rookie’s eyes as he remembered another eager, young recruit. Unwilling to elaborate, he felt his easy grin slip away as his mind flashed upon that face, filled with terror.
Why did you run, Alek?
The table was oddly silent as everyone waited for Jackson to say more. He took another sip of coffee, unable to talk about what had happened over there. The goofy grin on Logan’s face was starting to wear on his nerves.
He could hear his mother in the kitchen, banging pans and talking to herself. Now would be a good time to excuse himself, greet his mom and ask her what she thought he should do about Lexie.
“They spoke English, did they?” Chainsaw Hudson asked after a bit. Chainsaw carried his namesake into battle. One of the shorter crew members at only six feet tall, Chainsaw was a burly man who was a terror to trees standing in the way of a firebreak.
“Some. I had an interpreter most of the time.”
“A blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty?” Chainsaw waggled his brows suggestively.
Jackson chuckled, thinking of Levka, the pudgy, wrinkled firefighter that had been assigned to the team of U.S. firemen. “Something like that.”
That was just what the crew wanted to hear. Chainsaw slapped Jackson on the back as other crew members pulled their chairs closer. “Gentleman, our boy is definitely back in the dating game. Anyone want to offer him some tips?”
Everyone started talking at once.
Jackson brought his coffee cup to his lips, letting the table’s enthusiasm roll over him unacknowledged. He didn’t want his team to know he was still devastated over his divorce. He’d never live something like that down.
If only he could hide his cowardice as easily.
“I suppose you’ll have lots of stories to tell. Knowing you, they’ll be good ones.” This from Spider, who had a love of scary movies and wore only black when he was off duty.
Jackson didn’t answer. He didn’t plan to tell many stories, especially stories about that last fire. The heat. The smell of fear so pungent you could taste it.
He took another sip of his coffee, trying to drown the gnawing monster of doubt eating away at his gut. The same demon had been his constant companion since the fire. Nothing seemed to keep the demon at bay—not coffee, not alcohol, not exhaustion.
“Seen Lexie yet?” Spider asked, stretching his wiry frame and tipping the chair back on two legs.
His control—already worn down from exhaustion and longing—at its end, Jackson leaned forward. Appearances be damned. “Hell, no, I haven’t seen my wife yet. Why do you ask?”
“But…but,” Spider sputtered. “You’re divorced.”
Jackson stared real hard at Spider.
Spider let his chair fall forward with a solid thunk on the hardwood floor, averting his gaze. “I’m just gonna keep my mouth shut,” he mumbled.
“Jackson!” Mary Garrett gasped before running around the ancient wooden bar of the Painted Pony.
He’d shot up out of his chair upon seeing her, and was ready when she threw herself into his arms.
“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.” His mother squeezed him tight.
“We finished up a little early,” Jackson replied gruffly, holding his mom close and trying not to remember that he almost hadn’t made it home. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but he rarely uttered those words, even to Lex—and there was his reputation to consider, with half a team of Hot Shots watching his every move. Instead, Jackson put some distance between them and reached down into his backpack for the gift he’d brought back for her. Awkwardly he thrust a book of Russian fairy tales her way.
His mother ran her fingers over the brightly colored cover, then flipped through the pages. “What fun this will be to read with Heidi,” she said, her eyes bright. With a sigh, she laid the book carefully on the bar.
“Let me look at you and make sure those Russians took good care of you.” His mother studied him. “You were always such a picky eater, and I worried you wouldn’t have anything to eat over there.”
“Mom.” He scuffed his boots against the wood floor as if he were thirteen, not thirty, hearing Logan’s chuckle behind him. His mother often treated him as if he were still in the seventh grade. The only saving grace was that she treated every one of the Silver Bend Hot Shots as if they were in the seventh grade. The Painted Pony was the last place the Hot Shots stopped before leaving to fight a wildland fire, and the first place they gathered when they returned.
His mom gave him the once-over, then peered at his face. “Have you slept at all?”
“Not much.” Jackson still had frequent nightmares about the fire’s advance and continued to carry the emotional scars from his brush with death. It was tough enough for him to fall asleep when he was alone, even harder when he’d been worried that he might wake up screaming or in a cold sweat on an airplane