Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
REED
12 years old
“ I think it’s best if we go home in the morning,” was what my dad said after we stayed up until midnight making sure the flames were officially put out. We’d emptied every last cube of ice from the coolers and soaked the bed of charred pine needles with all the water bottles Mom and a few people from surrounding campsites had packed.
I unzipped the tent at sunrise to a black line in the dirt. It stretched on and on around us. I wasn’t convinced if I stepped anywhere near the eternal circle, it wouldn’t swallow me whole. Everything was the color of midnight and covered in ash. A situation that still required an incident report to local authorities by Jack. My mistake was even harder to look at in the daylight.
If I could go back and make different choices, I would. I’d tell my dad I was sorry right away, and he’d not only hear it but believe it too. But it’s too late for that. The damage has been done. I’m afraid I’ve lost his trust.
It’s quiet when we pull up the driveway in Park City, the end of an eight-hour drive spent in silence coming to an end. I’m not sure I’ve ever run out of things to say in my whole life, but at a loss for words was exactly how I’d describe the weight sitting on top of my chest.
“I’ll unload. You can head inside.” His voice is even. He doesn’t even sound mad anymore. But the fact that he’s still acting so withdrawn, pushing me away, stings more than anger ever could.
This weekend built a barrier between us. We’re that black line that never ends. I don’t know if I’ll ever become more like my brothers or if there will be a day when something I do makes him proud. But right now, it feels like I could do just about anything, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
Present Day
Forget it ever happened? Is she kidding?
How am I supposed to ignore the soft curve of her waist that fit perfectly beneath the palms of my hands. Or the way her hair fanned across her breasts as it cascaded down her chest. I can’t stop picturing Hailey pressed up against that bathroom wall, and it’s doing exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t let happen after my training mistakes… It’s making me lose focus.
My first day on the line was yesterday, and I’m determined to be the best at this job. But now there’s a small problem. A crimp in my plan. The superintendent’s daughter is consuming my every thought.
“Failing to break in your boots, dehydration, disrespect.” Jack presses his palms into the door casing, commanding my attention. My hands freeze, wrapped in shoelaces. I unwind them and roll my shoulders back. He doesn’t look mad; it’s worse. He looks disappointed .
“It’s one thing to show up unprepared,” he continues, “but had you started training with us in April, I would have let you go the moment you mouthed off to anyone on this crew. I want to be right about you, Morgan.” His eyes bore into mine as if he’s transferring a memory… that night … the campsite … the fire . A mistake I never want to relive. It was nine years ago, but the pieces all fall into place like it was yesterday.
You did good out there, kid. Maybe you have a future in this .
I still remember his vote of confidence in me. I think it played a big role in why I chose this career path for my life. But I pushed that weekend so far out of my mind that I never tied the two together until now. And even though I hardly know this guy, his opinion matters to me because of it. I want to impress him like I did back then.
A crackle sparks through the radio speaker clipped to Jack’s collar and draws my attention to the staccato voice delivering a choppy message.
“ Dispatch to Iron Summit. We’ve got a brush fire north of Warren, Idaho, at the White Horse Campground. Sending you the resource order now .”
He tucks his chin to his collarbone so that is mouth presses against the communication device. “Superintendent of Iron Summit. Copy that.”
He draws his phone from his pants pocket and swipes across the screen. I study the movements of his mustache as he mumbles, “45.264 degrees north, 115.6765 degrees west. Command One, Garret Paxton. Air Tactical 6. Tac 3.”
GPS coordinates, incident commander contact info, and radio frequencies, I determine from the limited information he whispers.
“ Department 8, this is dispatch. We need two engine crews on site ,” the static continues .
Jack drowns out the alert with his own phone call. “Murphy, we roll out in one hour. Notify Jackson.”
With swift movements, he tucks his phone away and grips me by the shoulders.
“I’m taking a chance on you because I owe…” He shakes his hand as if he can physically mop away the end of that sentence. “But I will sure as hell find a replacement if you keep pulling stunts,” he warns.
I’d nod if it wasn’t for my stunned realization. The reality of my situation all making sense now. I didn’t get hired mid-season because of my talent, skill, or résumé. I got this job as a favor to my father.
“Oh, and Morgan… stay away from my daughter.”
“Saddle up, gentlemen. It’s time to take Pony for a ride!”
Half the crew gathers around a two-wheel-drive commuting vehicle. It’s mint green with a mountain logo and Region 4 stamped on the back door. Long white stripes paint the sides of the buggy nicknamed after a small horse.
“Look who’s on their own two feet today.” McCafferty slaps his palm over the top of my helmet and jostles it around a bit. “Thought that life-saving sheep maneuver of yours might have done you in, rookie.”
I vaguely remember boasting about that in my disoriented state.
“Do your worst,” I say to the alpha squad leader as he assigns us all our tasks.
He saved me for last.
“Fuel duty,” he calls over his shoulder, then breaks apart with the rest of the guys to get to work. I expected toilet paper duty at this point, so I’ll take it.
Of the four side compartments on the vehicle, the two that hug the back end carry Siggs—twenty-ounce red metal bottles of fuel made for saws. I slide a couple dozen small MSR-made tanks into the pipes that hold them and the corresponding bar oil beneath. With the fuel properly loaded, I double-check my own line pack. The government-issued bottles in the side pockets are still empty.
I jog to the kitchen and fill five liters of water and add two Gatorades from the fridge. I won’t make the same mistake twice.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” I hear Jack yell from the parking lot. “We’ve got fifty miles to cover on a thirty-mile-an-hour road. That’s an hour forty minutes for you loiterers to dink around.” He slides behind the wheel with Murphy in the passenger seat.
I’ve managed to leave it turned off for days now, but I fish out my phone to check my messages on the drive. Several sets of work boots clank against a metal strip running down the aisle as the guys pile on by rank. We all shove our line packs in the mesh-covered compartments overhead and plop down into one of four rows of dual black leather seats. As the newest recruit, I’m at the very back with Ramirez. But I’m not complaining. The view of a certain ambulance out the back window is all I was hoping to see.
Mere minutes down the road, the buggy is a party bus of noise. The clang of heavy metal tools on board, the grate of shoe soles on the rough floor, the shout of conversations as they compete to be heard, and Ramirez, my seatmate, who is belting Beyoncé lyrics four feet from my ear drums.
A pounding pulses behind my eyes, and I don’t know if it’s the lingering aftereffects of dehydration or the dread of turning on the phone cradled in my lap. I still don’t want to think about seeing Miles and Teddy on Instagram. When it powers on, one unread text message shows up. I tap on the green icon and a phone number I don’t recognize flags at the top.
Hi. How’s that head feeling? the message says, and I sweep the buggy for the guy who’s messing with me. No one has their phone out but Ramirez, and even he has his eyes closed, head tipped back as he warbles another verse.
I glance through the back window and find Hailey watching her lap. Was it her? There’s only one way to find out.
How’d you get this number? I type. Seconds later, three dots pop up in the bottom corner, float there, and disappear with a new message.
It’s my duty as EMT to make sure my patient is feeling up for this , it reads.
A grin splits across my face. I try to peek out the back window again, but the glass has fogged over from Ramirez’s passionate lungs. Man, he’s into it .
I swipe an arc of condensation with my forearm.
REED: You know, you could have just asked me for my number instead of stealing it from your dad’s office.
She smiles at her lap.
HAILEY: Now where’s the fun in that. You didn’t answer my question.
REED: Well, you’re coming, so I’m going to be perfectly fine. How’s it going back there?
HAILEY: Ben keeps asking if I’d like a drink from his thermos. What are the chances it’s filled with 99 percent creamer?
REED: Proceed at your own risk.
HAILEY: What about you? Dean killed you yet?
REED: McCafferty couldn’t kill a fish if he caught one by accident. But I could use a game of 20 Questions to pass the time. Ramirez is singing “All the Single Ladies,” and it smells like feet in here. Interested?
His voice jumps up and down as the rattle trap buggy traverses a long stretch of gravel—Warren Wagon Road.
HAILEY: You poor thing. Sure, I’m in.
REED: Planner or spontaneous?
A part of me hopes she’ll say spontaneous, but the way she clung to that safety manual on the plane… I’m going to say planner.
HAILEY: 100% planner. Stay up or sleep in?
Thought so.
REED: This is a no-brainer. Stay up.
But I imagine it. What it would be like if sleeping in meant having her in my arms. I’m not sure I’d ever want to leave that bed.
REED: Date night in or out?
HAILEY: In… by the fire. Eyes or Hair?
REED: Butt. You?
I snicker when I find her shaking her head at her phone.
HAILEY: You’re such a rebel. Good thing you have really nice eyes.
Suddenly we’re inching toward dangerous territory. But I can’t stop now.
REED: You do too… and lips.
HAILEY: Watch it! Your driver is my father, remember?
It’s a tease of a warning. A reminder that this thing—whatever it is between us—can’t cross a line, even if we both want it to.
REED: Oh, I haven’t forgotten. Neither has he.
She sits up straighter, holding the phone closer to her face.
HAILEY: Did he say something to you?
I don’t want to worry her.
REED: Nothing I can’t handle.
I catch her gnawing on her bottom lip.
HAILEY: Casual or serious?
For some reason this question makes me think of Teddy. I never used to be a casual guy. But after her… I’m afraid to be an ything but. Even if the idea of Hailey and I together as more than casual makes my heart beat faster, I lie to her.
REED: Casual. You?
The three dots show up and disappear several times. I’d watch her reaction through the window, but we take a left turn, and I can’t see her face when the text finally comes through.
HAILEY: Call me the queen of casual.
My eyebrows lift. The buggy takes another sharp turn, and a burst of color fills the back window. I don’t have a chance to reply when my vision glasses over at the sight before me.