Getting Married Again. Melinda Curtis

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      Jackson carefully lifted the ends of plain folded paper, revealing a beautiful black shawl with pink roses that was made of the finest wool. Jackson had seen shawls like these in the market, had heard other American firefighters talk about the high prices of the handmade, hand-blocked shawls.

      “Breniv, this is too expensive. I can’t accept it.”

      But Breniv was already backing away, his expression solemn. “You save life.”

      “Not all of them.” He couldn’t accept the gift. Didn’t Breniv realize Jackson had almost killed them all by taking them out to fight a forest fire when they were so ill-equipped? Fighting a fire without benefit of weather reports to predict the impact of strong winds or air support to monitor the progress of two converging fires was foolhardy at best. Fighting a fire without an escape route was plain-ass stupid.

      They called Jackson a hero.

      He was no hero.

      While the flames had roared toward them, he’d made his team shore up two sides of a crevice carved naturally into the mountainside, not an easy task given the hard-packed forest soil. Only as the fire leapt closer did he see the look of terror in Alek’s eyes. It was the young man’s first summer fighting fire. Jackson doubted the rookie had ever seen a fire’s rage mere yards away.

      They’d crammed themselves like sardines into the grave they’d made and covered themselves with Jackson’s fire shelter—a one-man tent made of silica, fiberglass and aluminum foil that reflected heat. Everyone jumped in, except Alek. The fire had passed over the men with heat so intense it blistered exposed skin.

      Alek had not been so lucky.

      By the time the vivid memories of crackling wood, unbearable heat and failure receded, and Jackson returned his attention to the humid street in Russia, Breniv was gone.

      Now the shawl sat on the passenger seat next to Jackson as if holding a place for Lexie. The rest of the gifts he’d brought back were tucked into his backpack on the floorboard of his truck.

      Who was he kidding? Gifts and groveling weren’t enough to get her back. She wanted the one thing he’d been unable to give her—another child.

      Jackson pulled onto the highway and headed into Silver Bend. He needed a beer before he decided what to say to Lex. Since it wasn’t noon yet, a strong cup of coffee would have to do, and if that cup came with a bit of advice from his mom, so much the better. He could use all the help he could get.

      As Jackson drove by the gas station, the attendant nodded in greeting while pumping gas into Marguerite’s shiny new Cadillac. Marguerite Sterling, his mother’s friend, craned her neck far enough in the direction of his passing truck that Jackson feared she’d knock her spine out of alignment again.

      Jackson waved, somewhat comforted by the familiarity of it all.

      Smiley Peterson tottered out of his client chair in the barbershop and pressed his bulbous nose to the glass when Jackson parked his truck on Main Street in front of his shop. The old man shuffled to the front door, opening it with a clang of the bell that Jackson had helped him install.

      “Hey, Jackson, that you?” he called.

      Jackson climbed out of his truck, working the kinks out of his body after sitting for so long. It took him a bit to answer, but Silver Bend was a quiet town where slow wasn’t necessarily considered stupid.

      “Yeah, Smiley. It’s me.” Jackson slung his backpack over one shoulder.

      “Seen Lexie?” Smiley asked, not smiling. Jackson couldn’t remember when he’d seen Smiley without his trademark toothless grin.

      Ignoring the feeling of emptiness that hearing Lexie’s name gave him, Jackson shook his head, pushing off his unease. Lexie was fine, he was sure.

      Jackson gestured to Smiley’s candy-striped barbershop pole listing dangerously to one side of the door. “How long has that sign been broken? Some fool will smack into it if they aren’t watching where they’re going.”

      “Blew loose in a summer storm a week or so ago.”

      “Got a screwdriver handy?” It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to fix it.

      Now Smiley grinned. “’Course I do.”

      The old barber leaned against the door frame while Jackson tightened the pole back into place. “Wanna shave that beard?”

      “Naw.” Jackson stroked the thick growth covering his cheeks and jaw. He hadn’t shaved since he left home, hadn’t had a haircut in months either. Besides, no one let Smiley near their hair anymore. He’d nearly taken off a little kid’s ear a couple of years back because his eyesight was atrocious and his hands were too shaky. Now, he employed younger hairstylists in the afternoons and on weekends, but he still hung out all day in the shop.

      “Shame. Goin’ back soon?”

      “I start back in two weeks.” The Department of Forestry hadn’t expected him to return for another five months, so there weren’t any immediate job openings for a Hot Shot leader. His slot as superintendent of the Silver Bend Hot Shots had been filled for the year by Logan. He’d been assured they’d find something for him in two weeks. In the meantime, they had granted his vacation request.

      Bureaucrats may talk about budget cuts and downsizing, but when push came to shove, the Department of Forestry found the approvals and moneys necessary to keep valuable assets like Jackson on the ground where he could make the most difference.

      An asset. That’s how his boss at the Department of Forestry in Boise had referred to him this morning when Jackson explained that he was thinking about giving up firefighting.

      There were fewer than one hundred Hot Shot superintendents in the United States, employed by various government agencies including the Department of Forestry. There were less than fifty with Jackson’s tenure of service, and fewer than twenty who had served overseas. The Department of Forestry wanted Jackson back on the first line of defense against wildland fires—not exactly the ideal situation for a guy who broke into a sweat just remembering the feel of heat on his skin.

      Jackson hadn’t wanted to listen to his boss’s protests, but he couldn’t help himself. He was a second-generation Hot Shot. Fighting fires was in his blood. The last thing he wanted to do was quit. But what choice did a coward like him have?

      Despite his boss’s protests, he’d applied for two different desk jobs, one as a fire specialist—to predict the path of destruction a fire might take—and one as a member of the Incident Command team—an on-site group that managed the various crews and support personnel needed to combat a fire. Both jobs were with the National Interagency Fire Center, which monitored fires in the nation, processed requests for assistance with fires burning on government land and recommended deployment of resources, which included everything from fire engines to portable showers to fire fighters. The DOF and NIFC were both located within the Boise airport.

      Jackson handed the screwdriver back to Smiley and accepted the old man’s “Welcome home” before continuing on his way.

      Jackson walked down the empty sidewalk to the Painted Pony, noticing the vast number of cars and trucks parked in the lot beside the life-size plastic horse that was the restaurant’s icon. He recognized many of СКАЧАТЬ