Chapter 7 #2
On the way back to the station, I watch the passing blur of forest and powder-blue summer sky as my brother’s words circle through my thoughts.
Him wanting to marry Vivian isn’t exactly a surprise given how deeply they’ve fallen for each other, but it kicks open a hornet’s nest of feels.
And a sting that’s never really gone away.
Kelly’s angry shouts burn through my mind. You’re never here! You’re either at work or training or playing the fun parent with Greta!
And that makes it okay to fuck my best friend?
It’s not about him.
The hell it isn’t.
It’s about me. What I need.
That hit me hard—because I knew she was right about being gone a lot, and the impact it had on our family.
A forty-eight hour shift is a long time to be away.
When the faucet leaks or the car breaks down or there’s a school event—a firefighter’s spouse has to be self-reliant.
But if Kelly sleeping around was her way of expressing her resentment, why then, of all people, did she pick Vance, another firefighter ?
Why not a banker or a teacher or an accountant?
Someone who would come home every evening.
Someone who would never have to work on holidays or miss a birthday.
Not that it would have made it okay…but maybe someday, I could have understood it.
And why, of all people, did she choose my best friend?
The morning of the tree planting, I haven’t seen Meg all week.
I worked a three day and then Greta and I went on an overnight up in the Bitterroots for the Fourth of July.
It’s a holiday every firefighter dreads thanks to the reckless shit people do in the name of celebrating and the added dangers we face because of it.
Thanks to my seniority, my request is usually granted.
Greta and I hiked high enough to find the last of the snow and she kicked my ass in a snowball fight before supper.
On the way down last night, I made Greta drive the narrow mountain road, which took another ten years off my life.
When I scan the trailhead parking lot, Russet is already standing at the edge of the group of volunteers.
When he sees me, his eyes narrow.
I cock my head and stare him down.
Conservation Officer Rowdy Whittaker breaks from the group and heads my way. He’s already tanned from the summer sun thanks to the many hours he spends outside, and though he’s in his mid-fifties, age has not slowed him down one lick. I hope I’m as spry when I reach his age.
“I was pleasantly surprised to see you on my list today,” he says as I gather my supplies at the back of my truck. “Something about a fight?”
“I broke up a scuffle, but he pressed charges,” I say, nodding to Russet, who’s keeping one eye on me and the other on the parking lot.
“And you ended up volunteering today?” He scratches his jaw. “I don’t get it.”
Meg’s sporty blue coupe creeps into the lot. “Put me wherever you need me.”
“Okay.” His tone is curious, like he hasn’t made up his mind about this situation.
Meg steps out of her coupe in a fitted t-shirt, dark gray hiking pants, and boots, her blonde hair in a high ponytail.
“Let me guess, she’s the other half of the scuffle?” Rowdy asks, glancing from me to Meg.
“Yeah. Meg.” I stuff my bigger first aid kit I use for overnights into the bottom of my pack then add my water bottle and a lightweight jacket. “Watch yourself. She’s got a right hook that’ll send you into next week.”
He laughs. “Uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Any chance you could put them in separate crews?” I ask in a low tone. Though I have no authority to demand this, it doesn’t hurt to try.
“Hmm. Good idea,” he replies.
I shut my tailgate and sneak a glance at Meg just as she looks my way. Her face freezes for an instant before she glances at the group gathering at the back of a US Forest Service pickup truck, where her ex is in plain sight.
Without a word, she and I both join the group. Though she puts space between us, every shift of her feet, every flick of her ponytail, registers like little earthquakes under my skin.
The Forest Service Ranger gives a speech about the project, and then we grab tools and head up the trail.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Russet asks me through gritted teeth .
“Nature fires me up,” I reply, grabbing a narrow shovel from the tailgate.
“You think a backwoods hick like you stands a chance with her?” he says.
I laugh. Backwoods hick?
Meg charges ahead, and I make sure to get in front of Russet.
After a half hour, the trail breaks out of the trees, revealing an open hillside ravaged by a wildfire that ripped through here several weeks ago—the season’s first. The wind is stronger here without the cover of the forest, cooling my neck.
“Wow,” the woman in front of me says, scanning the blackened landscape. Some trees survived, but the fire left its mark, turning parts of the trunks a charcoal black. Charred fallen logs crisscross the slope and the soil beneath has been turned to black powder.
Some of the volunteers have already peeled off to the area below the trail, where the Forest Service crew deposited at least a thousand white pine seedlings for planting. Meg is already moving up the slope, a brick of seedlings under one arm.
Rowdy calls the names of four people to continue further down the trail. Russet’s name is one of them. With a glance up at Meg’s back, he shoots me another glare then continues on.
Another warm gust floats down from the mountain, carrying the scent of charred wood and warmed stone, whistling through the maze of destroyed forest.
I grab two bricks of seedlings and start climbing. The blackened dirt is loose and granular and completely devoid of moisture. One good rain and this whole hillside could fail. Hence the rush to plant these baby trees, which will help anchor the slope and speed restoration.
“What are you doing here?” Meg hisses as I come up behind her.
Another gust of warmth sifts down from the ridge, making the little seedlings dance in their containers and the bare trees sway. “I didn’t want you to miss me too much.”
She gives me an exaggerated huff.
I set my seedlings down and slip on my gloves, then use my shovel to pry open the earth. I tuck a seedling into place, then close the seam and pat it secure with my boot.
Meg pulls on a pair of work gloves that look brand new. “Did you fight this fire?”
I cover my surprise that she’s making conversation by slamming my shovel into a new section of dirt, between two charred, crisscrossed logs.
“No. This is wildland territory.” But we were staged on the other side of this ridge to protect Bear Mountain, in case it spread.
She gazes down the slope, to the broad basin bisected by Thistle Creek. “How did it start?”
I slide the seedling into place. “Campfire wasn’t all the way out.”
She grabs a handful of seedlings and climbs over a fallen log. “People are so careless.”
Don’t I know it. I glance at the crew that continued with Rowdy, now mere specks on the distant curve of the ridge.
Another warm breeze sifts down from the ridgetop, stirring up the loose, blackened dirt, and rattling the dry leaves.
A thought tickles my subconscious.
Leaves?
I lunge for Meg just as her terrified cry splits the air.