Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REED
12 years old
I watch in horror as the embers lick at the bed of pine needles around us and skitter across the ground.
“Reed! What have you done!” Dad screams from behind me.
Jack races for his truck and pulls a long, hoe-like tool and shovel from the back end. He tosses the tiller to my dad.
“Start scraping away anything that can burn… sticks, weeds, pine needles. You’re going to have to get kind of close,” he instructs as he jams the tip of his shovel against the packed dirt. It only penetrates a couple inches below the surface, but he dumps the excess off the end and tries again.
“Come on!” He hollers at my dad, who startles from his stunned state.
He’s clumsier than Jack with jittery nerves and wobbly arms. But he does what he’s told, scraping away all of the random brush from the trench.
“What can I do to help?” I ask .
“You’ve done enough,” my dad barks back, but Jack intervenes.
“There’s another shovel. Bring it to me.”
I run faster than I ever have before. Climb onto the tailgate and drag it back by the wooden handle.
“You saw what your dad was doing right? Trade him jobs. Work this left side now and scrape away anything that’s not dirt.”
The shovel feels like lead in my grip, the weight of it clunking against the ground when I transfer it to my dad’s hands. Between the swept-away brush and the channel Jack dug, the right side of the two-foot fire holds steady beneath their barrier.
We get to work on the opposite side. They continue the trench while I work between them, raking everything I can find.
“Now stand back!” He motions away with his arms and hauls two coolers a few feet in front of the flames. As I watch them eat up the ground he’s standing on, all I can think about is how brave he looks. How bold he has to be to command a running fire like that. The flames reach the toes of his boots by the time he dumps the ice. They sputter, sending smoke billowing overhead.
With the fire surrounded on all sides, and everything burned in the center, the active flames die down and we breathe a sigh of relief.
Well, Jack and I do. My father levels me with a look of disgust.
“What were you thinking, dammit? I told you not to wave the stick around like that! Do you know how much worse this could have been?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I know this was my fault. If I could take it back …
“Why can’t you be more like your brothers!” he screams, and something inside of me dies along with that fire.
How will I ever be good enough for him after this? I more than disappointed my dad today. I made him realize he’s better off never relying on me.
I trudge toward the truck and open the passenger door. The leather seat bounces with my jump and the hunk of metal slams shut with a pull. I don’t know how long I’m sitting in there before Jack approaches my side of the vehicle. He presses his palms against the window. My reflection in the side mirror is hard to look at, my eyes swollen and red from crying.
He wraps his fists around the window frame and caps his large palm around my scrawny bicep, giving it a squeeze. “You did good out there, kid.”
If it weren’t for him, we would’ve never stopped that fire on our own. I know that. He knows that. Yet he still praises my efforts? My eyes well with fresh tears as he squeezes a second time.
“Most people freeze in fight or flight.” His eyes find my dad through the driver’s-side window. He’s pacing with his hands threaded behind his head. “Not you. I think you would have jumped out of an airplane into that if you could. You have a future in this if you want it someday, and we were lucky to have you by our side.”
Not I but we , he says. A word I’m not sure will ever describe the kind of relationship I’ll have with my father. I may not have gotten what I wanted out of this weekend, but I found something better. A new dream. An answer to Jack’s question.
I’m going to be a wildland firefighter when I grow up.
Present Day
A thick fabric covers my nose and mouth as I jolt up in bed. The sleeping bag slithers from my face and down my torso until it falls in a heap on the stone floor. Strobes of golden light shine through the blind slats, and I block them with my forearm.
What time is it?
“Get up. We’re meeting at the trailhead in ten. And you’re not rooming in here,” McCafferty barks.
“Take it up with Murphy,” I tell him.
He kicks his sleeping bag back to his side and stomps out of our shared bedroom.
I groan. Between the deep ache settled in my muscles and the tender wounds on my heels, I’m not ready to be a whipping boy today.
I crawl out of my makeshift bed and bunch the sleeping bag from the top until it fits back in my pack. Shirtless and in gym shorts, I stuff my feet into unlaced boots and grab a change of work clothes to bring with me to the bathroom. Laughter sounds from the kitchen I have to pass through. I should have thought about the fact that other people would be up by now.
“That’s a good look for you, Morgan.” Hailey rakes my torso with her gaze as I tromp through the archway. She’s leaning against the countertop, nursing a cup of coffee. Steam curls from the top of the mug.
“That was supposed to be from me.” I nod at her hands.
“Got to get up a little earlier next time.” A guy dressed in the same blue polo as her smirks.
Hailey swallows a sip of her coffee and sputters out a cough.
“Everything okay?” he asks, reaching for her.
My eyes glue to where he’s touching her arm.
“I’m fine, Ben. It’s just… the cream.”
It’s my turn to smirk. Serves him right for not getting to know her first.
“It’s good right?” He smiles at her, completely oblivious to her look of disgust. “Nothing better than hazelnut.” He squeezes her shoulder as he walks past her. “I’ll see you in there.”
I make a mental note to set an alarm. Today will be the last day I let anyone wake me up to watch Hailey choke down overly sweet coffee.
“Yeah, see you in there,” she replies.
I close the gap between me and the kitchen.
“Your coworker seems great at asking questions.”
I think about spending a day with her in that medic wing instead of whatever hurdles McCafferty has waiting for me. Even if it means sitting around for hours, it sounds more fun.
“Ben is nice,” she says.
Yeah, because that’s what you want in a guy, nice . Well, how’s this for nice?
She startles when I take the mug from her hand. I slog to the kitchen sink and pour the almost mocha-colored coffee down the drain.
Damn , how much sweetener did he put in this?
The overflowing dishwasher rack needs a stiff tug to get open. There’s one spot in the very back where I fit the dirty mug in. I shove it closed and open the closest cupboard above me. It’s filled with ceramic plates.
“They’re over there.”
My eyes follow her finger to find a dozen mismatched mugs hanging from pegs next to the coffee machine.
I chuckle when I reach for the one that says This wine is aw-ful. Give me another glass .
Oh, Moira Rose . At least these guys have good taste in TV.
“What are you doing today?” she asks.
I pour her a new cup of coffee and hold out the payment I promised last night. “Probably subjecting myself to a good ass kicking. ”
She accepts the mug and touches it to her lips to stifle a giggle. “I’d like to see that.”
My eyes trace the curve where they wrap the rim. “I’m sure you would.”
“Three minutes left, rookie.”
Hailey and I startle at the creak of a recliner in the living room. McCafferty is eating a Costco-sized blueberry muffin and watching the weather report.
“Duty calls.” I motion toward the hall that leads to the bathroom.
“What about your coffee?”
I take three strides forward—the entire distance that’s left between us—and steal the cup from her hands. I tip it back, letting the hot liquid drain down my throat. Hailey’s mouth hangs open as she watches my lips peel off her cup. I spin it to the side my mouth was just on so it’ll be where she drinks from next.
“Yours tastes better,” I say, taking clunky backward steps.
Her expression melts into a grin and then pinches into the one a mom would give a child who forgot to do their chores. “Two pairs of socks inside out so the seam doesn’t rub on your toes.”
I grin at her. “Thanks for taking care of my feet, Red.” But my grin is wiped clean off as my back connects with another body.
“Where’s your gear, Morgan?”
I spin on my heels, nearly tripping over my shoelaces. Jack’s eyes volley between me and Hailey as if he’s been standing there all this time, studying our interaction like a sociologist.
“I was told it’s a good look.” I say, winking at Hailey.
“It won’t be when your shins are charred to the bone. McCafferty, update me.”
Dean swings his recliner around so that it’s facing us. “Drilled a PT test, three hikes, fire procedures, and pulling an injured guy off a mountain yesterday.”
“And how’d he do?” Jack asks right to my face.
McCafferty delivers his next update with a wicked grin. “He got blisters.” His eyes dart to Hailey, and his sinister look disappears when her smile unzips.
“Ohhhhh!” A series of groans and chuckles seep into the room. Several guys round the corner, a hearty laugh leading the pack.
“Bet you’re regretting everything now, aren’t you, rookie?” My barracks tour guide slaps me on the shoulder.
“Ignore him. He has no tact.” A Hispanic guy with frosted gray tips exchanges a glare with Logan Murphy. He slots a pair of gold-and-black-accented glasses against his nose with a single finger.
“Diego Ramirez, everybody. Mother figure of this crew.” Murphy claps for him.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Ramirez ignores Murphy’s moniker and tips his head in a bow.
Murphy tosses a thumb in Ramirez’s direction. “If you need an herbal remedy for those feet, this witch doctor’s got you covered.”
“They’re called essential oils, dumbass, and I believe they helped pop out that ponytail you got wound into a knot yesterday,” Ramirez retorts.
I think Murphy’s cheeks flush, but it’s difficult to tell behind his shaggy facial hair.
“Seems like the two of you have met,” Jack interrupts.
We exchange a knowing look as Jack points to the next guy in a line of six.
“This is Hawkeem Jackson, your other captain. ”
A Black guy with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes steps forward and shakes my hand.
“Good to meet you, man,” I say.
“So you’re Walker’s replacement. A rookie for a rookie. Watch out for that leg,” he teases.
“Thanks for the warning.”
Jack works down the line. “Returning crew member, Grant Daniels.”
The guy’s thumbs tug at the straps of his overalls as his bushy mustache quirks up on one side.
“What do you say, farmer… why don’t you step up there and shake the guy’s hand?” McCafferty drawls.
“Ya’ll are gonna be sorry when I have a sixty-acre plot of land someday and you’re still living out of the back seat of your trucks,” Daniels says.
“You already have land. It’s called a forest,” Jack volleys back. Then he turns to me. “This is Wells Evans.”
Blond, tall, and muscular… the walking definition of a Disney prince, I notice.
The shortest guy of the group by a foot pats Evans on the arm. “What this one lacks in brains he makes up for in height.”
Evans hip-checks him back, knocking his black-framed glasses to the ground. A tuft of curly red hair gathers above his forehead when he bends to retrieve them off the floor.
“What the hell!”
“If you can dish it, you can take it,” Evans says.
“And this is Owen Marshall, your beta squad leader,” Jack fills in.
When Marshall pops back up, his green eyes have doubled in size from the thick frames. I shake my new crewmate’s hand until I get to the end of the line where McCafferty now stands with them.
Two captains and a beta squad leader. That must make him…
“ Alpha squad leader.” He sneers at me as if he’s reading my mind.
Of course you are .
“The rest of the guys are spending their time off away from the barracks,” Jack says. “But, gentlemen, this is Reed Morgan. Our newest recruit.”
McCafferty taps his watch.
“Good to meet you all but I’d better get to it.” I shoot one last glance at Hailey. She’s still smiling at me, which makes it hard to be anything but happy as I disappear to the bathroom to get dressed. They can all count on the fact that they won’t be calling me rookie for long. I don’t plan on quitting.
I pull on a fresh pair of green Nomex pants and strap gloves with a carabiner to my belt loop. I slip my yellow shirt on next and fit my helmet over my head.
“Grab your line pack. We’re working hand tools,” McCafferty says as I make my way down the hall toward the gym.
I pull the pack from my red bag, strapping it to my back. I’m thankful Murphy took me to the supply cache yesterday. It’s already stocked with eye pro sunglasses, ear plugs, toilet paper, a fire shelter, two full water bottles, and fusies in the top front zipper pocket.
Dean throws a yellow bound book the size of a handheld notepad at my chest. I snatch it before gravity does.
“Your instant response pocket guide. Memorize it. Might save your life.”
I shove it in my pack and follow him up the trail.
One mile in, I’m praising the bandages Hailey wound around my feet. The second pair of socks too, with the way my blisters aren’t rubbing anymore. Looks like I owe her again.
But right now, all I can focus on is the fence of sagebrush climbing up our ankles and snagging at our knees. I’m hacking it back with the curved ax tip of my brush hook, and even with the sun well shaded behind the packed canopy, I’m already sweltering. I can’t imagine how it’ll feel when we reach the hilltop.
“The McLeod next,” McCafferty says.
If a hoe and a rake had a baby, that would be the sixth hand tool he’s asked me to demonstrate today. I slam the steel prongs into the driest ground the August sun has ever made. Then I drag the straight edge in three-foot strokes to create a clean line.
“Enjoying yourself back there?” I ask.
He isn’t even standing. He’s slumped on a log nearby.
“Enjoying myself would be spending the day on the line, not babysitting the likes of you.”
“You do make a good babysitter though,” I goad him. “Anything else you’re good at besides barking orders and changing diapers?”
Someone’s got to make this hike entertaining.
“Watching you struggle,” he says.
Branches crack under his boots as he stands.
“This is far enough.” He hands me a chainsaw. “Fire is coming from the south. Keep it from spreading north.”
In his hypothetical situation, he wants me to clear the row of trees in front of us so the fire can’t carry through the canopy. This is the one skill we spent the least amount of time on during training. All I really remember is that it requires every piece of protective gear I have on me.
I add eyewear and ear plugs to my safety uniform and approach the first tree. It reaches a good twenty feet off the ground, with a stump around twelve inches in diameter. I know I’m supposed to determine the cutting technique next—conventional notch, Humboldt notch, open-face cut—but they all sound like a foreign language in my head .
That last one seems the most self-explanatory. Open-face cut it is .
Positioned a safe distance away, I line up my chainsaw in the direction I plan the pine to fall. Two cuts, one horizontal and one… from behind? Or is it at angle? I can’t screw this up.
The blade slices halfway through the trunk’s diameter and— great —I’m about to get creamed. It sways and tips in my direction.
McCafferty jumps to his feet and in a split-second decision, I finish the notch in the front. Wood shavings fly in my face. I only have it cleared by a foot when I hear the base snap. Gravity takes over and the whole thing topples to the ground.
It’s not a clean cut by any means, but it didn’t kill anyone either.
“This is why you need a babysitter. Now discard it in a controlled heap,” Dean says.
I follow his orders, working under a gaping hole in the desert sky. Here, in the hot summer sun, my traitorous mind thinks of Teddy and Miles. Boating and swimming and laughing so hard my stomach aches. Or maybe it’s the breakfast I skipped.
With my watch buried beneath my work gloves, I can’t check the time. It’s got to be noon, right? I glance over at McCafferty, who’s squatting in the shade eating a turkey sandwich.
“Any chance you were going to tell me it’s lunch time?”
“Waiting to see if you would notice,” he says.
I set down the chainsaw, finding a small patch of shade across from him. He tosses me the brown paper sack from my line pack.
“Thanks.”
I take a bite of the soft wheat bread. I know he isn’t a fan of small talk but maybe if I try to get to know the guy, he might not dislike me so much .
“How long have you been on this crew?” I ask.
“Four years,” he says.
“Four years and you made squad leader? Your parents must be proud.”
What would my parents think if I stuck with something for four years?
As if he’s reading my thoughts, he says, “All it takes is proving yourself here. Showing you can work as part of a team instead of next to one.”
I chuckle softly, and he flicks his gaze from his sandwich.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just haven’t seen a lot of proving from that tree stump.”
Why am I this way? I can’t just leave it alone?
“I’ve done my time here, and you know nothing about me.” He stands and walks off with his sandwich in hand.
I can’t blame him. Two days in and all I’ve learned is that maybe I’ve made a huge mistake.