The Rancher's Daughter. Jodi O'Donnell
a state of mind he hadn’t been able to revive in himself since…well, since forever, it seemed.
But today he’d experienced the whiff of a remembrance, like a familiar scent from childhood drifting on the wind, of a time when he hadn’t been skeptical of every hope that lifted its wings being dashed to pieces when it inevitably fell to earth. A time when every small taste of sweetness didn’t come with a castor-oil dose of bitterness. A time when he wasn’t constantly wary, could be open with his heart and know how to keep another’s heart in trust.
And he supposed he had Maura to thank for that— or should he curse her instead? Because she had only underscored how difficult, if not hopeless, was his journey toward redemption. Toward regaining such trust, in others as well as in himself.
With a shake of his head, Ash roused himself from his contemplation. Well, he only had to make it through the night with Maura and her hopefulness. And kindness. And honesty. And tantalizing appeal. He could keep her at a distance until the morning. Then, with any luck, he could say goodbye and return to reality.
Placing his hands on his thighs, Ash hauled himself to his feet and went to see how he could help her.
Maura glanced around as Ash entered the chamber, where she’d made inroads to getting organized for the night.
His gray eyes turned abruptly stormy as they took in the results of her efforts.
“What the hell is this?” he asked.
“I discovered the space blanket in your fire pack,” she explained. “I laid it out next to the one I had, you know, so we could share our b-body heat.” She couldn’t believe she was stammering and blushing like a girl. “It’ll help us keep warm.”
“Really,” Ash said in that one-word commentary she was coming to learn had a lot of different meanings. Such as right now, with how he’d slipped his fire shirt back on but hadn’t buttoned it, as if oblivious to the cool temperature in the cave. He was also back to being remote, it seemed, and she wondered why.
“I also have a bunch of water purification tabs in case we need to go that route,” she prattled on almost nervously, “but with a combined total of four bottles of water, we should be good for a few days, if needed. And we both have compasses, duct tape and first aid kits, as well as some pretty complete rations.”
She spread her hands, indicating the food she’d assembled on their space blankets. “Your three power bars along with my MRE,” she said, referring to the ready-made meals that were available for firefighters to take with them when it seemed likely they might not make it back to fire camp that night.
“An MRE, huh?” He picked up the retort pouch the meal had come in and scrutinized it as if it were vermin. “‘Hearty Beef Stew.’ The problem is, it could say chicken or pasta or veggie delight on here, and it wouldn’t matter. It all has the taste and texture of corrugated cardboard.”
“How on earth did you get to be such a sourpuss!” she finally burst out, half teasing, half serious. “I think we can count ourselves lucky to have any kind of nourishment at all. And that we’re in here, relatively safe and sound, instead of being the ones getting eaten alive by that fire out there!”
He looked at her strangely for a long moment, then shrugged. “You’re right. Let’s eat.”
They settled into their spare meal, Maura sitting cross-legged across from Ash, who was doing the same. After her previous nausea, she was surprised to find herself as hungry as a bear, and it was difficult not to bolt her food. The MRE had come with a helping of apple crisp, and despite Ash’s dearth of expectations, the dessert tasted as close to ambrosia as Maura could imagine.
Ash ate methodically and without enthusiasm, as if in the past he had indeed had to eat corrugated cardboard and like it. She couldn’t help but be curious about his history, but she had a feeling they weren’t going to pass the evening chummily sharing their life stories. Although it would be nice to know his last name, for crying out loud.
She was about to ask when he said, “It’s true, you know.”
“What is?” Maura asked.
“That the fire is alive. That it has a purpose. That it’s vengeful. And it will swallow you up, just like the whale did Jonah.”
She glanced sharply at him, wondering again at this change of mood. “You can’t think about it that way. You know that. That’s one of the first rules of firefighting. You make the fire too real and you lose your ability to combat it. And it’ll consume you.”
“Exactly.” He continued eating methodically, musingly. “Either you’re consumed with combating it, or it’ll consume you. Either way, you lose something of yourself.”
Was he right? Maura asked herself. Her thoughts turned to the fire that had been scorching the countryside for more than eight weeks since it started just outside of her hometown of Rumor. It had steadily marched, like a plague of locusts, south-southeast into the Custer National Forest, one of the most diverse and spectacular pieces of forestland in the state of Montana. Already the fire had torched more than 250,000 acres, leaving nothing in its wake, the soil charred so badly it was as hard as her plastic helmet.
And the fire didn’t seem to be letting up. It did seem possessed, in fact, with its own vicious temper and capricious moods that were as unpredictable as that of a wild man, making the damage it did that much more senseless.
Maura set her dessert aside, no longer hungry. “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “But even if I try to be objective about forest fires, the truth is, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about a lot of things having to do with the land.”
She gave a rueful shake of her head. “It’s the main reason I got a degree in forestry and natural resources management, because I love this state—love it like it’s a part of me. This fire…well, you know how it goes. Its effects will reverberate throughout the whole ecosystem. The jackrabbits, sage grouse and ground squirrels lose food, shelter and nesting cover with the cheatgrass and sagebrush gone. With those animals dying off, there’s nothing for raptors and snakes to prey on. And it goes on and on from there.”
“It’s called survival of the fittest,” Ash murmured. He had set his meal aside, too. The dank, depressing smell in the cave seemed worse all of a sudden.
“Is it? Or is it not getting the God-given right to thrive and have a normal existence, like Smokey and his mother?”
He gazed at her calmly. “No one’s ever said that life was fair.”
She gestured around her, rather urgently, she realized. “And we’re not to try and do our best to make it a little more fair?”
Was she trying to convince Ash? Or herself? She only knew she had to try.
She leaned forward intently, forearms on her knees. “You know how you have dreams you want so badly to make happen you can nearly taste it?”
“I guess.” He was wary, watching her.
“Well, I have a dream. Someday I want to have a ranch. It wouldn’t have to be big, maybe just a few dozen acres. I’d invite all kinds of disadvantaged children there—children from broken homes, or who’ve had some behavioral problems, or who just need a place to go after school instead of a dark, empty house.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’d teach them how they can be a part of taking care of the land. I’d show them how we need to be good stewards and protect and preserve our environment and wildlife. And maybe by doing that, the children will learn how to be responsible and helpful and purposeful. And they’ll feel safe and secure themselves. And happy.”
“You think that will do it?” Ash asked. His voice wasn’t skeptical so much as carefully neutral. “Spending some time on your ranch is gonna turn these kids’ lives around, and it won’t matter what they have to go back home to each evening?”
“I think it will help, at least a little, or maybe just enough.” She dropped her chin, studying