I scribbled in my notepad, straining to see in the glow of the dashboard light. Jubal told me stories about the different crews he’d been on, how Alpine was his favorite, and how he’d decided wildfire fighting was his calling. Then he recalled the day the Maddoxes walked into the station.
“The closeness and trust level of a crew is paramount, but those boys … they came in and were the glue. I don’t know what we’ll do if they move home.”
“Where’s home?” I asked, a sinking feeling coming over me.
“Illinois.”
“Why would they move back?”
“They’re dad’s gettin’ older. He’s a widower, you know.”
“Tyler mentioned that.”
Jubal thought about that for a while. “They’ve got two younger brothers there, too. They’ve talked about moving back to help.”
“That’s sweet, but I can’t imagine either of them doing anything else.”
“Neither can I, but they’re a close family, the Maddoxes. I’ve just heard Taylor and Tyler talk—I’ve never met any of ’em. The rest of the family doesn’t know the boys fight fires.”
“What?” I said, stunned.
“Nope. They don’t want to upset their dad. Those boys are rowdy, but they’re softies on the inside. I think the twins would light themselves on fire before they’d let anyone they love get hurt.”
I looked up at Tyler sleeping deeply, his face peaceful. I leaned over, barely touching my cheek to his arm. Without hesitation, Tyler reached around my shoulders and hugged me against his side. I stiffened at first, but then relaxed, feeling the warmth of his body thaw my frozen bones.
I met Jubal’s gaze in the rearview mirror. His smile touched his eyes, and then he looked forward. “Ellie?” he said. Just the reflection of his ice-blue irises seared through me. “Do you know what’s coming?”
“Goodbye?” I said, only half-joking.
Jubal smiled, concentrating again on the road. “Maybe not.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Finley’s duck-lip selfie popped up on the display of my cell phone, but I pressed END and let my voicemail talk to her instead.
“Your sister again?” Tyler asked, patting his face with an old ratty hand towel. The rest of him was still dirty, as were the rest of us.
I’d forgotten what my hair smelled like when it didn’t reek of smoke, or how my sheets felt against my skin. I pulled my camera off my neck and fell onto the raggedy sofa of the Alpine duty station, deep in the Rocky Mountain National Forest. Fire season had started early, and I’d been camping with the Alpine Hotshots for fourteen days while they fought a fire that dug in so deep the smoke jumpers from all over the country were deployed. According to the Alpine crew, it was their biggest fire in two seasons.
The crew headed for the kitchen, and I sat, my limbs sprawled in every direction, watching them pass by. Every muscle in my body hurt, every joint, even my insides. I’d started my period our second day in fire camp, but it was barely present before it went away, most likely from the sudden surge in activity and decrease in caloric intake. My pants were loose. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to look at myself in the mirror.
Smitty high-fived Taco before opening the fridge and leaning in to weigh his options, his face smudged with soot.
“That got intense for a second there,” Tyler said.
“Thanks for babysitting me … again. And for helping me with my tent. I can’t believe the guys slept on the fire line for three nights. Some of the guys didn’t even have coats.”
“They’re bigger guys. It’s called flight weight—sort of like a weight limit. Sometimes, the helos fly us to the more remote locations, so we don’t have to hike so far on foot. Between equipment, our fuel, and the crew, the helos can only carry so much. Sometimes, Runt will bring one of those aluminum sheets the mountain climbers use for camping because he’s skinny, and he has the flight weight to spare.”
“So you huddle?”
“Huddle, share blankets, spoon … it’s fucking cold up there. Whatever works,” he joked.
“Then why do it?”
“Sleeping on the fire line means hazard pay. Some of the guys prefer it to sleeping at fire camp.”
“The generators were pretty loud,” I said.
“You should have said something. We could have hopped in a truck and driven a little farther out, away from the noise.”
“It was fine. I was fine.”
“For a rich kid, you don’t complain, do you?”
“I loved it out there. I really did.”
Tyler leaned over and sniffed my shoulder. “You smell amazing.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. Wildland smoke is my favorite smell. On a girl? Makes you strangely appealing.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Tyler frowned. “Not in front of me.”
I managed a tired smile. “My hero.”
The hotshots had already peeled off their suits and packs in the truck bay, but we all smelled like old cheese that had been smoked in a giant campfire. Tyler kneeled, pinching the laces of my snow boots and pulling apart the knots. He slipped them off, one by one, and I leaned back even further, wiggling my toes a few times to celebrate their freedom. He pulled off my socks slowly, grimacing at the new blisters, the seeping blisters, and the healing blisters.
“Christ, Ellie. We talked about this.”
“I don’t mind. Makes me feel like I’m earning it.”
“Gangrene isn’t an award.” He jogged over to fetch the first aid kit and began doctoring the mangled mess I’d been walking on for ten days.
I tried to blink, but it took a while for my eyes to open again. They felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. I could have taken a nap right there.
Tyler finished slathering antibiotic cream and taping gauze to my wounds, then took a blanket from the back of a recliner and unfolded it, spreading it over me. I bounced when he plopped on the sofa next to me, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved thermal, the three buttons at the top open. I preferred him in his ill-fitting, flame-retardant clothes and blue hardhat, but he would never let me forget it if he knew.
“You never complain. No training, you just jumped in there and hiked miles and camped out in the dirt and snow in freezing temperatures,” he said, relaxing next to me. “I’m impressed. All the guys are.”