Chasing Fire

apples, another of chocolate bars.
    He ate his MRE, two apples, a candy bar—and stuffed another in his PG bag. The vague nausea that had plagued him on the hike to camp receded as his body refueled.
    He rose, walked over to tap Rowan on the shoulder. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
    She stood up, obviously punchy and distracted, and followed him away from the campfire, into the shadows.
    “What’s the problem? I’ve got to hit the rack. We’re going to be—”
    He just yanked her in, covered her mouth with his and feasted on her as he had on the food. Exhaustion became an easier fatigue as he fueled himself with her. The twinges in his back, his arms, his legs gave way to the curls of lust low in the belly.
    She took back in equal measure, gripping his hips, his hair, pressing that amazing body against him, diving straight into those deep, greedy kisses.
    And that, he thought, was what made it so damn good.
    When he drew back he left his hands on her shoulders, studied her face.
    “Is that all you have to say?” she demanded.
    “I’d say more, but the rest of the conversation requires more privacy. Anyway, that should hold you for the night.”
    Humor danced into her eyes. “Hold me ?”
    “The crew boss works harder than anybody, to my way of thinking. So, I wanted to give you a little something more to take to bed.”
    “That’s very considerate of you.”
    “No problem.” He watched her eyes shift from amused to puzzled as he tipped down, brushed a kiss on her sooty brow. “’Night, boss.”
    “You’re a puzzle, Gulliver.”
    “Maybe, but not that hard to solve. See you in the morning.”
    He went to his tent, crawled in. He barely managed to get his boots off before he went under. But he went under with a smile on his face.

8
     
    R owan’s mental alarm dragged her out of sleep just before five A.M. She lay where she was, eyes closed, taking inventory. A world of aches, a lot of stiffness and a gut-deep hunger, but nothing major or unexpected. She rolled out of her sleeping bag and, in the dark, stretched out her sore muscles. She let herself fantasize about a hot shower, an ice-cold Coke, a plate heaped with one of Marg’s all-in omelets.
    Then she crawled out of her tent to face reality.
    The camp slept on—and could, she calculated, for about an hour more. To the west the fire painted the sky grimy red. A waiting light, she thought. Waiting for the day’s battle.
    Well, they’d be ready for it.
    She rinsed the dry from her mouth with water, spat it out, then used the glow of the campfire to grab some food. She ate, washing down the rations with instant coffee she despised but needed while reviewing her maps. The quiet wouldn’t last long, so she used it to strategize her tasks, directions, organizing teams and tools.
    She radioed base for a status report, a weather forecast, scribbling notes, quick-drawing operational maps.
    By first light, she’d organized her tools, restocked her PG bag, bolted another sandwich and an apple. Alert, energized, ready, she gathered in her small pocket of alone time.
    She watched the forest come to life around the sleeping camp. Like something out of a fairy tale, the shadows of a small herd of elk slipped through morning mists veiling the trees like wisps of smoke. The shimmer of the rising sun haloed the ridge to the east, spreading its melting gold. The shine of it trickled down the tree line, flickering its glint on the stream, brushing the green of the valley below.
    Birds sang their morning song, while overhead in that wakening sky a hawk soared, already on the hunt.
    This, she thought, was just one more reason she did what she did, despite the risks, the pain, the hunger. There was, to her mind, nothing more magical or more intensely real than dawn in the wilderness.
    She’d fight beyond exhaustion alongside the best men and women she knew to protect it.
    When Cards rolled out of his tent, she smiled. He looked like a bear who’d spent his hibernation rolling in soot. With his hair standing up in grungy spikes, his eyes glazed with fatigue, he grunted at her before stumbling off for a little privacy to relieve his bladder.
    The camp began to stir. More grunts and rustles, more dazed and glassy eyes as smoke jumpers grabbed food and coffee. Gull climbed out, his face shadowed by soot and scruff. But his eyes were alert, she noted, and glinted at her briefly before he wandered off into the trees.
    “Wind’s already picking up.” Gibbons