Chapter 1
Wilderness northeast of Bakersfield, California, September
The deafening noise and stinging smoke assaulted Flash’s senses as vibrations jolted up her arms. Even with earplugs, the intense roar of the massive forest fire, punctuated by the shrill whine of chainsaws, blended into a cacophony of destruction. Beneath her yellow hard hat, Flash’s short, sweat-drenched autumn brown hair stuck to her head, salty runoff blurring her vision.
A hundred yards to her north, angry orange flames leaped in concert through towering pines, surging up the western ridge toward the position held by the Cal Fire Smokejumpers team, the most elite wildfire fighters in the country. This blaze had raged for a week. When other California flare-ups stretched Cal Fire thin, they called for backup. Flash and a dozen other Texans had jumped at the chance to battle the formidable conflagration, only to be relegated to cutting a fire line on the opposite bank of a nearby stream. The raging beast had already breached one line and jumped an even wider waterway on its relentless march through the Kern River Valley District.
Campers had been evacuated days ago, and, so far, injuries were minor. The smokejumpers atop the crest conducted a controlled burn down the rise, hoping that when it ran into the all-consuming beast, no fuel would remain to feed it. Flash’s team’s responsibility was to stop any spread down the valley. She wielded a loud, heavy chainsaw, carving wedges out of pines and hardwoods todirect their fall, while others swung axes, raked leaves and twigs, or turned over dirt with shovels. It was grueling work, but watching the blaze from a distance reminded Flash that, while not glamorous, their efforts were vital to containing the roaring monster.
“Hey, Texas!” Kevin shouted and waved at her as he approached, a hefty pickaxe over his brawny shoulder. His naturally umber face looked even blacker, smeared with soot and dirt.
Pulling her blade from a cut in the trunk before her, Flash released the trigger and braced her saw in both hands, letting it idle. “What now, big guy? Need me to tie your boot laces again?” She flashed the Cal Fire lieutenant in charge of their operation a playful grin.
Lieutenant Kevin Garcia had relentlessly teased the Texas volunteers since their arrival with quips like, “I hope this turns out better than the Alamo,” or calling them nicknames, such as “Lone Star” and “Spurs and Boots.”
“Naw, Missy Houston,” he said as he halted a foot in front of her, exuding an imposing vibe. “Why don’t you fetch us all some water from the cooler over yonder?” His attempt at a Southern accent fell hilariously short.
“Oh, what?” Flash laughed but turned off her saw to hear better and save gas. “Because I’m a woman, I get to play water girl?” She raised a challenging brow and, dangling the silent saw in one hand, propped a fist on her waist. “Why not ask Shane to get the water?”
Kevin, also wearing his PPE, pulled off his safety glasses, revealing clean spots around his eyes. Peering past the lanky, athletic Flash, his gaze fell on the shorter, gritty Shane Anderson as she raked debris across the twenty-yard-wide clearing they’d cut along the stream’s southern bank. In Flash’s estimation, she surpassed the woman from Oklahoma in every regard. If anyone should be assigned the role of gofer, it should be her.
“She’s busy.” The man in charge flashed a grin at Flash’s dropped-jaw response.
“What do you think I’m doing—knitting a sweater?”
Laughing, Kevin lifted the chainsaw from her hand and threw a thumb toward the cooler. “Roll it over here. Between the chopping and the heat, we all need a drink.”
Flash rolled her eyes, groaned, and slumped her shoulders before casting a longing gaze at the top of the ridge where the smokejumpers did their thing.
“Yeah, I know,” Kevin agreed, with a glance at the distant point. “The hot shots get all the glory, but don’t forget that, if it wasn’t for the hand crews, firestorms like this would cause much more destruction. We do need you, Tex, and I, for one, am glad you’re here. Now, be my hero and go bring us some water.”
Feeling a tad less insulted, Flash tromped through dirt and sawdust to a gathering of coolers and folding chairs beside a charcoal all-terrain vehicle. She flipped each lid, hunting for the one with the most ice still floating and wheeled it back to where Kevin and half a dozen of her fellows stood wiping sweat from their brows and catching their breath.
“Thanks, Flash!” Dillon—his soot-smudged creamy face speckled like a spotted lanternfly—tipped his hat and snatched the first bottle from the chest. Also a Texas volunteer, the eager young fellow hailed from Amarillo, practically the other end of the state, where Texas grass fires often wreaked havoc.
“Thanks, Tex,” echoed Shane, who could have at least used her name. Well, two could play at that game.
“Anytime, Okie,” Flash replied.
Truthfully, Flash didn’t mind being sent for water; that way, she didn’t have to look like a wimp for taking a break of her own accord. Come to think of it, she’d been at it for hours. Every muscle ached, the lining of her nose burned, and she wished she’d slipped the eye drops in her pocket before leaving base camp this morning. She’d been sawing through timber as fast or faster than the men, while Kevin and several of the bigger guys dragged manageable pieces of the downed trunks and branches into piles away from the water. Did she look as exhausted as she felt? Is that why Kevin sent her instead of Shane?
It was all good. In the two days she’d been on scene, Flash had become one of the guys, ribbed and accepted. While some fellows kept to themselves, mostjoined in drinking and sharing stories during their downtime at the base camp. Dillon had almost gotten into a fistfight with a volunteer from Oregon who dared to badmouth the Cowboys, but Kevin had intervened in time.
Although it wasn’t how Lisa Cash had earned her current nickname, she downed her water bottle in a flash. Removing her hard hat, she poured the last drops over her head, lifting her chin to let the little streams carve wavy lines through the grime on her face and trail down her neck. When she shook her head, she showered Shane, who stood closest.
“Watch it, Ms. March,” Shane complained with a sour expression. “It’s not like being christened by you will turn me into a calendar pinup gal.”
“Sorry.” Flash grimaced at her faux pas and slipped her protective hat back on. Dillon and Kevin laughed, and the crew tossed their empty bottles into the cooler in lieu of a trash receptacle. “The line is looking really neat,” she offered in praise of Shane’s work.
The stocky brunette’s expression softened a hair before turning sarcastic. “Says the woman who cut enough timber to replace the roof of Notre Dame. Thanks, anyway.”
“Hey,” Kevin said, taking up his role as Gandhi. “Everyone’s contribution is equally important.”
When Flash returned from taking the water chest back and resumed her chainsawing, she sensed a change. With a final heave, she finished cutting and pushing over the tree, pausing to survey the fire and sniff the air. The hot wind that whipped across her face no longer came from the east as it had for the past two days, but from the north. A sudden gust swept down the valley, blowing Dillon’s hard hat off his head, prompting him to chase after it.
“I just got a call from the squad up on the ridge,” Kevin yelled. “They say their line is contained. The fire’s stopped climbing the mountain.”
Cheers rang out as they held their saws and axes to congratulate each other. “Great news!” Dillon hollered.
