Chasing Fire

the righteously exhausted in Ella’s bed, Rowan headed into her eighth hour of the battle. They’d had the fire cornered, and nearly under control, when a chain of spot fires ignited over the line from a rocket shower of firebrands. In a heartbeat, the crew found itself caught between the main fire and the fresh, spreading spots.
    Like hail from hell, embers ripped through the haze, battering helmets, searing exposed skin. With a bellowing roar, a ponderosa torched, whipping flame through clouds of eye-stinging smoke. Catapulted by the wind the fire created, burning coal flew over the disintegrating line, turning near victory into a new, desperate battle.
    On the shouted orders, Rowan broke away with half the crew, hauling gear at a run toward the new active blaze.
    “Escape route’s back down the ridge,” she called out, knowing they’d be trapped if the shifting flank fed into the head. “If we have to go, drop the gear and run like hell.”
    “We’re going to catch her. We’re going to kill her,” Cards yelled back, his face fervent with dragon fever.
    They knocked down spots as they went, beating, digging, sawing.
    “There’s a stream about fifty yards over,” Gull said, jogging beside her.
    “I know it.” But she was surprised he did. “We’ll get the pump in, get the hoses going and build a wet line. We’ll drown the sister.”
    “Nearly had her back there.”
    “Gibbons and the rest will knock the head down.” She looked at him, his face glowing in the reflection of the fire while hoarse shouts and wild laughter tangled with the animal growl of the fire.
    Dragon fever, she knew, could spread like a virus—for good or ill. It pumped in her own blood now, because make or break was coming.
    “If they don’t, Fast Feet, grab what gear you can, haul it as far as you can. The way you run, you ought to be able to outrace the dragon.”
    “You got it.”
    They worked with demonic speed, dumping gear to set up the pump, run the hose, while others cut a quick saw line.
    “Let her rip!” Rowan shouted, planting her feet, bracing her body as she gripped the hose. When it filled, punched out its powerful stream, she let out a crazed whoop.
    Her arms, already taxed with the effort of hours of hard, physical work, vibrated. But her lips peeled back in a fierce grin. “Drink this!”
    She glanced back over at Gull, laughed like a loon. “Just another lazy, hazy summer night. Look.” She jerked her chin. “She’s going down. The head’s dying. That’s a beautiful sight.”
     
     
    AN HOUR shy of dawn, the wildfire surrendered. Rather than pack out, the weary crew coyote’d by the stream, heads pillowed on packs to catch a couple hours’ sleep before the mop-up. Rowan didn’t object when Gull plopped down beside her, especially when he offered her a swig of his beer.
    “Where’d you get this?”
    “I have my ways.”
    She drank deep, then lay back to watch the stars break through the thinning haze of smoke.
    This, she thought, was the best—the timeless moment between night and day—the hush of forest, mountain and sky. No one who hadn’t fought the war could ever feel such intense satisfaction in winning it.
    “A good night’s work should always be followed by beer and starlight,” she decided.
    “Now who’s the romantic?”
    “That’s just because I’m dazed by the smoke, like a honeybee.”
    “I dated a beekeeper once.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Katherine Anne Westfield.” He gave a little sigh of remembrance. “Long-legged brunette with eyes like melted chocolate. I had the hots enough to help her out with the hives for a while. But it didn’t work out.”
    “You got stung.”
    “Ha. The thing was, she insisted on being called Katherine Anne. Not Katherine, not Kathy or Kate or Kat, not K.A. It had to be the full shot. Got to be too much trouble.”
    “You broke up with a woman because her name had too many syllables?”
    “You could say. Plus, I have to admit, the bees started to creep me out, too.”
    “I like to listen to them. Sleepy sound. Cassiopeia’s out,” she said as the constellation cleared. Then her eyes closed, and she went out.
     
     
    SHE WOKE curled up against him with her head nested on his shoulder. She didn’t snuggle, Rowan thought. She liked her space—and she sure as hell didn’t snuggle while coyote camping with the crew.
    It was just embarrassing.
    She started to untangle herself, but his arm tucked her in, just a little