Chapter 2
Just when a girl saved lives, she got benched. Or at least that’s how it felt from Gilly’s perch at the dispatch bench in the Ember Fire Base.
The weather map displayed satellite heat signatures with live updates of the dying fire, and another map on the wall pinpointed with tacks the current location of the deployed Jude County Hotshot teams, along with members of the Bitterroot, Lolo, and Flathead hotshot teams.
The wind had finally died, turned in their favor, and with a sortie of bombing runs, they’d managed to stop the fire just over the ridge, kicking it into submission.
Monday night’s storm—not a drenching, but enough to slow the fire down—worked in their favor too. Now, with the teams doing mop-up, packing up their gear, and heading home, everyone hoped the fire season might be dying. With two weeks left before Labor Day, maybe they could end the season without any more flare-ups.
Which meant her flying season was over.
Gilly tried not to let that sink into her like a stone, tried not to glance over at the flight list hanging on the wall next to the hotshot dispatch list, again searching for her name.
Which wasn’t there.
Thank you, oh, so much, Jared. Although, the man hadn’t been back in the cockpit once since their put-down in Fountain Lake nearly a week ago, so maybe she’d rattled him more than she’d thought.
It couldn’t have come as a surprise. Firebombing was one of the most dangerous professions within the firefighting community.
Still, she could admit to being unnerved when she’d gotten a good look at the damage to the Annie as they’d dragged the biplane from the lake, put her on a truck, and ferried her back to the base.
The lower right wing strut had completely blown apart, the wing hanging at a forty-five degree angle. With the wind chop and the heat, Gilly knew that a hotshot team of angels had kept them aloft.
Something her father—the Reverend John Priest—had suggested in Sunday’s sermon about the difference between living dangerously and living dangerously for the Lord. Got it, Dad. She didn’t have to dig deep to find the thinly veiled reproach.
Except, she’d had everything under control. Really.
Although, she had appreciated God showing up to lend a hand to the rescue.
“The Lolo team is hiking out for pickup,” Miles Defoe said now, running operations from the Ember office. “Let me know when they connect with their buggies. Then you can take off.” The incident commander had met them on the tarmac when the plane came in. Had given her a thin-lipped look and shook his head.
Even Patrick Browning, their mechanic, was speechless as he inspected the damage. His family ranched a piece of land to the north—protected a herd of buffalo on their property, which he often surveyed with his own Cessna. The fact that he worked for the Forest Service on an on-call basis even after the death of his son last year showed a commitment to saving lives despite the brutal reminder of all he’d lost.
She well remembered Tom Browning, a few years younger than she was, too young and brave to die. It was guys like Tom that made Gilly drop into the canyon. Guys like Tom...and Reuben.
Which brought her, for a second, right back to that enigmatic look he’d given her across the lake. She hadn’t exactly been close enough to see it as much as feel it.
Gratitude?
Respect?
She didn’t care that they’d grounded her. Because her jumpers were safe. For now, maybe even for the rest of the summer.
Sadly, that meant she would be relegated to the machine shop for the winter. Or worse...
Roped into making cupcakes. Her gaze fell on the large bakery box of chocolate cupcakes decorated with the Ember Fire base emblem, sent over by the Hot Cakes Bakery.
She just wanted to roll her eyes.
How embarrassing to have her sisters involved in something that made them look like stereotypical women... Soft, sweet, and silly.
She would never, ever be one of those girls who swooned in a man’s arms and let him carry her off into the sunset.
She could carry herself into the sunset, thanks.
“Dispatch, Lolo One here. Our pickup has arrived.” The radio lit up, and Gilly confirmed their position, updated the map, and surrendered her chair for the evening shift.
She grabbed her shoulder bag and headed outside into the balmy late afternoon, the smell of pine and loam in the air, roused by last night’s rain.
They could use a lot more of it. The hills around Ember still bore evidence of the parched summer, the pastures brown, the trees dark and dry, some turning to bronze. They’d fought over a dozen fires just in the upper northwest alone—a few that the National Interagency Fire Center out of Boise suggested might be arson.
They’d nearly arrested Conner Young, one of the Jude County Smokejumpers, as a suspect. As if. The thought of one of their own—or anyone who knew firsthand how a fire could kill a person, their lungs boiling, their skin peeling off, or worse, literally roasting to death under their fire shelter—deliberately setting a fire, destroying a forest, wildlife, and threatening lives was—
Well, simply unthinkable.
Thankfully, it seemed they weren’t being chased by an arsonist anymore. Conner had been exonerated when the NIFC determined that he hadn’t been responsible for any possible blazes caused by his experimental firefighting drones. And then the so-called arsonist had vanished.
They didn’t need an arsonist around to increase the risk to their lives.
Gilly headed for her car, the classic red Mustang with the brown ragtop, shiny under the sun like a beacon of joy in the parking lot. So what that she spent more time fine-tuning it than she should—at least it was dependable. And a sweet ride with the top down on a sunny summer day.
A girl who’d spent most of her high school years restoring a car would never spend her life baking cupcakes.
She opened the door, tossed in her satchel, then walked to the hangar.
The massive garage door stood open, an old Douglas DC-6 in for a repair on the left outboard engine. A red Snap-on tool chest was rolled up under the wing, a ladder extending to the double wasp, radial engine.
She only saw the gray coveralls of the mechanic and took a guess. “Patrick?”
“Sorry, Gil.” Hudson Rich, one of their full-timers, leaned down from his perch. “Patrick finished up the airframe on the Annie and took off for the weekend, the lucky dog.”
“He finished repairing the wing?”
“Worked all week on it.” He gestured to the plane parked outside the hangar, beyond the lot. “It’s been inspected—no test run yet—but he patched up the wing, remounted the struts, and riveted her back together. He did a good job.”
“Of course.” She waved at him and headed outside to where the Annie sat in the shadow of the giant hangar. Fresh rivets banded the new main strut with the bracing wires also taut and re-attached. The wing looked reconstructed, patched, although still not painted, the metal bare and shiny in the fading sun.
Gilly ran her hand over the wing. “Good job, Annie. Thanks for holding together.” And for a second, she was back in the sky, feeling the world shake apart.
She shook her head. Nope. She wasn’t the kind to go back, relive her near misses. If she did, she’d probably end up on the ground in the fetal position.
“Gilly!”
The voice made her turn, and she spotted Kate waving to her from the back of Jed’s motorcycle, her hand on Jed’s shoulder.
Jed and Kate’s budding romance had roared to full flame over the summer, and Jed had put a ring on her best friend’s finger a couple of weeks ago.
Gilly tried not to be jealous—but it must be nice to trust someone enough…
No. She certainly didn’t need a man to wrap her arms around or to lay her head against a strong chest and sway to music on the dance floor.
She didn’t need a man at all.
Gilly lifted her hand to Kate and walked over to her redheaded friend. Kate wore jeans, a flannel shirt tied around her waist, a Jude County Smokejumpers gray T-shirt. She had probably spent the day in the ready room repairing chutes, packing supplies, refolding packs. After a fire entrapment at the beginning of the summer, she went part-time as a jumper and spent most of her time as a fire behavior analyst, jumping only when the roster was slim.
Jed was always calling the team in for more training, assessing fire scenarios. Gilly guessed he had probably spent the day going over their plan of attack on the Fountain Lake fire, trying to figure out how to keep them out of situations that nearly cost them lives. Now, he sat on the bike, his dark hair cordoned back with a baseball cap, his eyes hidden by a pair of aviator sunglasses.
“Hey, Gilly,” he said.
“What’s up?” Gilly asked.
“We’re headed over to the saloon to catch the Ember End-of-Season Roundup semifinals.” Kate answered. “Reuben’s riding a bull, and I think CJ’s doing some roping.”
“Just because we live in Montana doesn’t mean we’re all cowboys. What is it with those two? They spend a week busting their backs fighting fire and the weekend getting them broken on wild animals?”
Jed hiked his glasses down his nose. “We all decompress different ways. Rube’s pretty good. You should check him out.”
Kate waggled an eyebrow at her fiancé’s words.
“Stop it.”
“No, really, Gilly,” Kate said. “Neither Jed nor I are blind. We see the way you look at Reuben.”
“What—no, listen, I’m not interested in—”
“All that muscle wrestling, as you say, a wild animal?”
“All that misplaced testosterone. I pull him out of a fire just to see him break his skull? I don’t think so.”
“Oh, so that’s it. You don’t want him getting hurt.” Jed grinned.
“No—-I mean, yeah, but—listen.” She swallowed, found her footing. “Reuben barely knows I’m alive. He’s practically a caveman around me. And, we’re teammates—sort of.”
“Gilly. Reuben is just shy.” Kate said. “Trust me, get him going, and he’s got plenty to say.”
“To you, maybe.” Although she could admit that maybe he spoke more with action than words, given that look from him after the Fountain Lake fire.
The mystery behind it could still light an odd fire deep in her bones.
She felt the burn of a blush spread across her face.
Jed’s face turned solemn. “Reuben is a great guy—a little tight-lipped, but he definitely knows you’re alive, Gilly.”
And what did he mean by that? But Jed, pushing his aviators back up, added, “You did save his sorry hide.”
Oh. Right. That made sense.
“Maybe it’s time to celebrate that with your team, huh?” Kate asked.
And Kate, her best friend since childhood, knew just how to hook her.
She gave Kate a wry smile. “We’ll see.”
“That’s a yes. I expect to see you there.” Kate winked as she fitted on her helmet. Jed gunned them away.
Gilly cast another look at the AN2 then wandered back to her Mustang and headed home to her tiny bedroom in her parent’s rambler next to the Ember Community Church.
The sun lay just over the horizon, a shimmering line of amber across the jagged western mountains.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t stay grounded forever. Maybe Miles’s memory would dim over the winter months.
She parked the Mustang on the basketball court and headed inside, the garlicky smell of a roast in the Crock-Pot filling the house. An old-fashioned woman, her mother produced dinner on the table every night at six p.m. and raised her daughters—well, two out of three of them—with the cooking and baking skills to feed an army of starving firefighters.
Of course her kid sisters, Juliet and Isobel, had taken those skills and parlayed them into a thriving business—a bakery that kept the entire town of Ember in cupcakes, muffins, and designer wedding cakes.
If only they might have picked a different name, Gilly might be willing to occasionally take them up on their prodding to swoop in and help.
Hot Cakes. The last thing she wanted to be known as was “one of the girls down at Hot Cakes.”
No, thank you. She already had enough trouble keeping up her reputation as a fearless pilot, thanks to her less-than-fierce frame. Sort of like Mighty Mouse behind the controls.
She headed downstairs to her basement bedroom and shut the door.
“Gills—open up.” Juliet tapped on the door.
Gilly opened it a crack. “What?”
It simply wasn’t fair that her sisters nabbed all the good looks. Especially Juliet, with her curves, her long brown hair, those big hazel-green eyes. Isobel was a near clone but with blonde hair, hazel-brown eyes, and just a little shorter. Juliet and Belle were beautiful, smart, and sweet—the perfect pastor’s daughters, the kind that men most wanted for wives.
The only reason Juliet, at age twenty-five, hadn’t yet settled down was that she couldn’t make up her mind which fella to choose. As for Belle, she’d inherited the same hard-work genes Gilly had and spent most of her time perfecting her cake-decorating skills.
“Let’s go to the rodeo,” Juliet said.
Really? If she wouldn’t go to the rodeo with Jed and Kate, why would she even think of being seen there with Juliet, a walking magnet for male attention? Gilly opened the door the rest of the way and found her sister dressed in a patterned dress and a pair of black cowboy boots.
“Jules—” Gilly started.
“Aw, c’mon. I love rodeos. They’re so...tough guy. Besides, I heard a couple of your smokejumper friends were competing.” Her eyes glowed.
“My smokejumper friends? Juliet, you have a lineup of fresh hotshots every season. You don’t need my help to meet my”—she finger-quoted the words—“smokejumper friends.”
Juliet made a face. “Yeah, well, those hotshots aren’t here to stay. Besides, when I tell them I’m the preacher’s daughter, they run for the hills.”
Gilly laughed, although that never seemed to slow down the firefighters she had known.
“Fine. But please don’t embarrass me.” Gilly moved away from the door and Juliet came in to sit on her bed. Gilly shed her JCWF T-shirt and green Nomex pants—her uniform for the day—and grabbed a pair of faded jeans.
“Wear a dress,” Juliet said.
“What? Are you kidding? No.” Gilly jerked on the jeans. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for just a few of Juliet’s curves. “I don’t do dresses.”
“C’mon. Just because you run in a guy-dominated world doesn’t mean you’re a guy.” Juliet got up and went to Gilly’s closet, raked through it. Sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
Juliet exited and Gilly was left to stare in the mirror at her reflection. She’d never been the type to go in for the girly stuff—okay, well, once, a very long, ancient history time ago, she might have been the epitome of the word girl. A ballerina. But that all had changed one dark summer night.
Fast.
Forever.
And there was no going back. So she was left with this—a sunburned face that outlined white raccoon eyes from her aviator glasses, freckles across her tiny nose, unexciting lips, dark auburn hair that never cooperated, hence always the ponytail, and a body that felt most comfortable in a bomber jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap.
There was a reason she didn’t work for Hot Cakes, besides her pride. She simply wouldn’t fit in.
“Ta-dah!” Juliet returned, holding a dress, light blue with a lacy top and hem. “I bought it a few years ago, but it doesn’t fit me, and I was thinking...”
“What? No—are you kidding me? So—”
“Girly? Yep.” Juliet held it up to Gilly. “And if you think you’ll get cold, you can just add a denim shirt over it, tie it around your waist.”
“I’m not worried about getting cold, Jules—I need the shirt for modesty! This dress barely covers my backside.”
“That’s not true. Hold up your arms.”
Gilly frowned at her but obeyed. Juliet dropped the dress over her. Billowy and soft, it accentuated her thin, muscular legs and distracted from the fact she didn’t have much in the back to cover up. “Now, we’ll put up your hair, add some boots, and you’ll be adorbs.” Jules winked at her. “Maybe catch the eye of one of your jumper pals.”
“That’s what this is about—I don’t need to catch the eye—”
“Stop it. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed any of the cute guys on your squad.”
“They’reteammates, Juliet.” She made to pull off the dress, but her sister grabbed her hand. Gilly surrendered. “Fine. But no—I haven’t noticed any of them.” She opened the door, walked down to the bathroom, grabbed a brush for her out-of-control hair.
Except. Well. But the last thing she’d do is fling her heart out for some man to trample on.
Or more.
Besides, Reuben was just so…well, she’d have to stand on a bench to kiss him. And how that thought drifted in, she didn’t know, but…okay, yes, it wasn’t exactly random, or rare.
She’d wondered more than once what it might feel like to be swept up in those massive arms, to know the quiet man who often ended up in the copilot’s seat, fighting his sensitive stomach during a flight.
And she found it oh-so interesting that he hadn’t dated one—not one—girl since arriving on base seven years ago.
Seven years was a long dry spell.
Oh, for cryin’ out loud.
She ran the brush through her hair, and Juliet appeared to put it up in a messy bun. She handed Gilly some mascara and lipstick, and soon Gilly was in over her head.
“We’re taking your Mustang,” Juliet said.
Reuben just needed a way to burn the frustration away. To jolt free of the residual hum of fear, the panic that gripped him around the throat when he thought of their run to freedom.
Regret did that—lived deep in his gut, an ember, smoldering.
He needed something bigger than himself—a fifteen-hundred-pound black-and-white Plumer bull named Custer, a beast with so much mean in his eyes he didn’t need the horns to make a man’s gut roil. But he had them—cut off on the ends, just in case—and tonight he’d already tried to tear up everything that got near him—the horses, the stalls, the barrels.
Even the cowboy trying to ride him.
Reuben straddled the chute, breathing hard, trying to remember what he’d learned about this bull. Just a junior bull in the big world of PBR, this animal was known as a sunfish bucker—twisting up his belly, mid-kick. If Reuben managed to stay on longer than four seconds, the bull might settle into a spin. Throw Reuben off like a top.
Not tonight.
Reuben simmered with a restless energy, something dark and brooding lit by the fire, still seeing Hannah nearly perish as the wall of flame bore down on them. He could still smell the sizzle of flame in water, feel his boots on the superheated embers as he and Hannah ran down the road.
He still heard Hannah’s scream as she fell, tasted his heart in his throat as he grabbed her by the scruff of her jacket, boosted her up, dragged her into the open toward the cool water of Fountain Lake.
How they’d survived, he still couldn’t work out, although he knew it had mostly to do with Gilly’s miraculous rainstorm of rescue as he’d run toward the wall of flames.
He’d never been a fast man—not even in football. Well, a lineman didn’t actually have to be fast, just sturdy. But he ran like he could have gone to state, his regret—no, his stupidity—ringing in his ears like the brutal wind.
Why hadn’t he stopped Pete earlier, listened to his gut, told them to head the other direction? They would have cleared the fire before it jumped the road.
And then he wouldn’t be waking from his sleep, nightmares piling one over another.
First his dad, then Jock, and now this.
And all were his fault for not speaking up, for letting someone else make the decisions.
Not tonight. Tonight he was in charge. Tonight he would do what he did best—tighten down his grip, hold on, be the master of his fate.
Reuben settled himself on the bull and worked his gloved hand into the bull rope, the bell beneath the animal’s chest ringing. He worked his fist into the rope, pounded his fingers down, closed.
Already his muscles burned, adrenaline rippling through him.
Custer snorted, slammed against the back of the chute.
“You sure, Rube?” This from CJ, his gate man perched on the rail, holding the nylon rope to swing the door open. CJ shed his smokejumper attire for a good-ole cowboy aura, including a Stetson and faded jeans, cowboy boots. He wore his dark blond hair short under that hat. “I’m not sure even my uncle would ride this one.”
CJ’s Uncle Rafe, multi-PBR champion, now a high-faultin’ bull-riding trainer. “I doubt that, kid.”
“No seriously—he had this bull that tried to kill him—”
CJ stopped talking when Reuben shot him a look.
He breathed out, centering himself. Then, just before lifting his hand, he looked out into the crowd.
The bleachers were full for tonight’s semifinals. Just local entertainment, but if he landed enough points here, he could move on to something bigger—like a junior PBR event.
Reuben scanned the crowd—usually some of the team showed up to the events. Conner, maybe. Or Jed.
Or—his heart slammed into his sternum, full halt.
Gilly. Wearing a—no. That couldn’t be.
A dress. Cut above her knees, girly and sweet and pretty.
She was standing up, her hand over her eyes against the setting sun, her hair turning to a dark sizzle under the twilight, scanning the cowboys in the gate.
For a second he was standing on the shore, watching her land in her broken airplane. Watching her as she stared out the window like she might actually be looking...for him.
It took the breath from his chest.
Below him, Custer shifted, his muscles bunched.
Reuben ripped his gaze off Gilly, to CJ.
“Ready, Rube?”
He breathed in, tried to right himself, found his center.
This one, Gilly, is for you.
He lifted his arm.
“Pull!”
CJ yanked open the chute and the crowd erupted.
First move out of the chute, Custer reared—and Rube expected it. He pushed himself up over the bull’s shoulders, gripping the length of the bull’s body with his legs.
Custer landed hard, and Reuben himself up onto the backbone, glued to the animal.
He was a big man, yes, but he had nothing on fifteen hundred pounds. Custer threw himself up, rearing again, then landed in a spin.
For Reuben, time slowed, narrowed, focused, one thrilling, terrifying millisecond after the next. Holding on, breathing, anticipating, doing.
That’s what he loved about bull riding. As dangerous and jarring as smokejumping, bull riding pared every action down to one.
Stay on the bull.
No thinking, no choices. Everything by instinct, ground in by training. He didn’t have to rely on chance, on favor. Just his strength against the bull’s.
He heard the roar of the crowd, thunderous in his ears, then the horn blared.
Eight seconds.
Eight seconds to lose the fire inside, to break free of the fist of regrets. Failures.
Grief.
Eight seconds to remind himself of who he was, who he’d become. Maybe even be proud of himself.
He released his hand.
Launched himself off the bull.
He took a breath—cauterized, even cleansed—as he landed, then scrambled through the dirt while the clowns caught the bull.
Then he jumped onto the rail and raised his hat to the crowd, breathing hard.
He spotted Gilly. She was on her feet, cheering, whistling.
For him.
He couldn’t swallow, his heart hammering as he hopped over the rail into the corral area, waiting for his score.
Pete met him there. “Are you kidding me? That was fantastic!” Pete, with his long surfer blond hair and charmer blue eyes hadn’t a smidgen of cowboy in him. He spent his off days in epic sports that were probably every bit as dangerous as bull riding. BASE jumping, free-climbing, even white-water rafting.
Still, Pete understood the rush of adrenaline after a challenge. Probably had his own residual hum to work off after this week.
They announced Reuben’s score, and it landed him at the top of the leaderboard. He hopped the rail, waving his hat again.
He wanted to look for Gilly, but didn’t know what he’d do if she were looking back at him, so he simply scanned the crowd.
He must have worn a sort of dazed expression because Pete gave him a strange look as Reuben took off his hat, rubbed the inside sweat rim.
“You okay, dude?”
“Did you see Gilly?”
He didn’t know why he asked that—wanted to take it back when Pete glanced over his shoulder, scanned the crowd. Gave a whistle of appreciation.
“You mean Legs McGee over there in a blue dress? As Conner, our former green beret would say, hooah and it’s about time.”
“Okay, Romeo, that’s enough,” Reuben said, but found her too, now that the crowd was focused on the next rider.
She wore her hair in a soft, messy bun, sipped a fountain drink from the Hotline, cheered for the rider who went down in the dirt.
“Reuben—when are you going to ask her out?” Pete moved over to the rail, one foot on the bottom rung.
“What—no. I can’t...she wouldn’t...”
And now Pete was looking at him, a quick glance of confusion.
“Listen,” Reuben said. “I’ve known Gilly since, well since I moved here seven years ago, when I was a greenie hotshot. She’s not interested in firefighters—and especially not me. We’re just coworkers. Trust me, there’s no spark there on her side. Besides, her dad’s a preacher, for cryin’ out loud. And I’m not exactly a saint.”
“Aw, c’mon, Rube. When’s the last time you went out with a girl—seriously. The dawn of time?”
Reuben watched as the next bull rider settled into the chute. “What are you, my matchmaker? I promise, I’m no monk. I’m just not—it wouldn’t work. We’re all over the place in the summer. It’s not the right time to start a relationship.”
“Dude—you don’t need to start a relationship. Just take a girl for a whirl on the dance floor.”
Reuben’s mouth closed, tightened. He looked away. “I’m not you, Pete. I don’t know how to... I’m no Casanova.”
Pete laughed, shook his head. “I’m not either. I’m just not afraid to ask a woman to dance. Go—talk to her. What could it hurt?”
What could it hurt? How about him doing something stupid? He wasn’t like the other guys, especially Pete, or Jed. He couldn’t make a girl fall into his arms with a smile. More often, Reuben turned into a monosyllabic oaf next to the cute ones.
Cute one.
Small and cute, and for a second he had an image of trying to pull Gilly into his arms, inadvertently crushing her. She stood a probably eight inches shorter than he was, and he felt like a buffalo next to her. Worse, with those big blue eyes and beautiful dark auburn hair, he sort of forgot his own name when she walked into the room. Which meant he was bound to do something stupid, trip over himself, say something idiotic.
Hurt her.
Besides, even their meager teammate friendship meant enough to him to not want to screw it up.
They were friends—proven by the fact that she often let him sit copilot just to soothe the angry bear of his temperamental gut. She didn’t betray him to Jed, or even Miles.
Not to mention that she held his life in her hands every time they went out on a jump—and most recently saved his hide from being barbecued.
So, yeah, someday he might scrape up the courage to say something to her. But he wasn’t crazy enough to ask her to dance.
Which meant that, after he’d gotten his score, unbuckled his chaps, and headed into the Hotline for a cool drink, words left him when Gilly came sauntering into the saloon and grill with her sister, the way too vivacious Juliet.
Juliet could drive a man crazy with her cheery flirting. But for some reason, half the guys on the crew every summer fell for her smile, lining up to buy her a basket of O-rings, or even some filling the church pew on Sundays so they could walk her home later.
Nope. Reuben preferred a woman like Gilly, who didn’t need to flirt to have a man appreciate her smile, and—whoa, she had legs. Pete was right—Legs McGee.
Tan, muscular, beautiful legs shifting under that dress, tucked into cowboy boots.
And there went his brain, turning to mush.
He tore his gaze off her form as she walked in, down to the bar and stared into his half-empty beer.
The Hotline, the local hangout, buzzed with the stories of the season. Jude County hotshots released from shift were filtering in, settling in at the yellow picnic tables in the center of the room, waitresses delivering craft beers, baskets of curly fries, fresh grilled burgers. Pictures of past teams were rearranged to make room for this year’s crews.
On the dance floor, a band was setting up.
“Hey—can I ask you a favor?” The voice turned him and he smiled at Conner, sauntering over to him, holding his own frothy beer. “I’m going to head down to Kalispell this weekend, and I was hoping we could switch shifts. You could cover my shift coming up, I could take yours next week.” The former Green Beret wore a smile, wiping the froth from his upper lip.
His girlfriend, Liza, had survived a bear mauling only two weeks earlier and was still in rehab in Kalispell hospital.
“Of course,” Reuben said. “Except I was counting on my shift getting me out of having to go down to the ranch for Labor Day weekend. My mom is hounding me.”
“I love your mom,” Jed said from where he shot darts with Kate. “She makes the best chocolate chip cookies.”
“That’s what happens when you have five sons and two daughters,” Reuben said, wishing he could avoid the twinge of grief every time he thought of his family working the ranch without him.
But there was no room for him there, not anymore. His father had made that clear even before his sudden death.
Besides, Reuben had been born to jump fire, not herd cattle.
Maybe.
“To a season without a casualty.”
He looked up, and even Conner turned at the voice.
Juliet leaned on the bar, holding up a lemonade. “This is the kind of summer we all like to see.”
Reuben raised his glass, saw Gilly glance at him, give him a wry smile.
Heat filled his chest, his face, and he looked away.
“I think we should probably raise the glass to Gilly,” said CJ, holding a pool stick. His fellow rookie, Tucker, appeared beside him, clearly his opponent.
“To Gilly,” Jed said, and out of the corner of his eye, Reuben saw a blush press her face.
“I didn’t do—”
“You nearly lost a wing and crashed into the lake. So, yeah, you did something.”
The room quieted, and Reuben couldn’t believe he’d spoken up, let alone the tone of his own voice. Almost, what—angry? But he wasn’t angry—just so immensely relieved—and yes, there it was again, the frustration, along with a fresh realization that she had nearly gotten killed while saving his backside.
Because he’d let them run the wrong way.
So much for breaking free of his regrets.
“Yeah, okay, so again, to Gilly,” said CJ.
CJ and Tucker returned to their game, Jed and Kate to laughing over their darts. Conner pulled out his cell phone, moved away, thumbing a text.
Which left Juliet to sidle up to him.
Up close—or even far away and squinting—she cut a form a man might take a long, second look at. Another man. A different man. One who didn’t mind the way she giggled, pressed her hand on his arm. “You were magnificent on that bull, Reuben. I couldn’t believe it when you stayed on. And then just jumped off and waved to the crowd!”
She smiled at him, standing so close he could smell her perfume—which made him need to sneeze.
“And you should have seen the bull. Meanest one in the lot. Nearly took apart the chute.” CJ, clearly lured over by Juliet’s presence and, thank you, because Juliet turned to him.
“Juliet Priest,” she said, holding out her hand. “And you are?”
Right then, as if on cue, the band started up with a song.
“CJ St. John.” He took her hand, and Reuben rolled his eyes when the kid pressed a kiss on it. “Wanna dance?”
Of course she did.
Then it was just Gilly and Reuben at the bar, watching the couple work their way onto the dance floor.
For a second, she looked at Reuben.
Blue eyes, so beautiful that he just swallowed.
“Hey,” he said, a sound that confirmed that, indeed, he was some throwback Neanderthal. He wanted to cut and run right then.
“Juliet was right. You were pretty amazing. Congratulations on winning.”
“Thanks.” More brilliance, but it was all he had. Worse, even sitting, he still loomed over her. Funny, she didn’t seem that petite on the radio or in her NIFC uniform or her jumpsuit.
He ran a thumb down his glass, parting the condensation there. Thought of something. “You want a drink?”
“I can get it.”
She began to raise her hand, but he held up his.
“Please—Gilly. You... Thanks for what you did. It was a big deal.” He offered a smile, mostly because these words came easily, honestly. “What are you drinking?”
“Root beer. Preacher’s kid and all that.” She offered a smile, and he felt like the chiefest of sinners with his half-drunk beer.
He ordered her drink, and she slid onto a high-top chair next to him. At least he wasn’t looking down at her.
She pulled the basket of popcorn toward herself, began to pick at it.
On the dance floor, the band played a Brad Paisley cover.
“They grounded you,” Reuben said, almost a grunt.
The bartender brought her drink. She took a sip, and it left foam on her lip. She grabbed a napkin, wiped it off. Nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Miles will forgive me by next season.”
“He competes in the rodeo circuit during the winter months. I’ll talk to him—”
“No!” She held up her hand then made a fist, put it back into her lap. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know, but—”
But what? He glanced out at the dance floor, seeing CJ with his arms around Juliet, slow dancing.
“It was my fault.”
“What? Rube—you can’t control the fire—”
“We should have run the other way. I knew it in my gut. Same as...” He winced. Shook his head. “Nothing.”
She was staring at him. “You kept them all alive. I know. Hannah told me how you picked her up, practically carried her to safety.”
“That’s what I do—carry things.” He meant it as a joke, but a frown crossed her face.
Then, however, she sighed, looked away. Gave a small chuckle. “Me too.”
He didn’t know what to say, and a silence filled in between them.
You look pretty tonight. The words crossed through him, hung on, and suddenly he couldn’t think of anything else but that. Pretty. Tiny. Sweet.
He stared at his beer, hating that the words glued in his chest, clogging everything else.
This was why he didn’t talk to women. Didn’t talk to, well, Gilly.
“Reuben, man, get out here!”
CJ, calling him from the dance floor. Reuben looked at him, wanting to incinerate him where he stood. But the rookie wore a grin, two-stepping, of course, with Juliet. He twirled her in and out and back, dipping her.
Reuben glanced at Gilly, wishing he could read the expression on her face.
Shoot. What if she wanted to dance? And he just sat here, and...
“Gilly, ask him to dance!”
Now Juliet was in on it, waving at Gilly, who was turning white. She swallowed, clearly embarrassed.
He couldn’t take it. Seeing Gilly sit there, waiting for him to actually cowboy up. “Gilly, do you wanna—”
“No, I’m fine.” But it was the funny, half smile that appeared, then disappeared, that made his gut clench.
Did she want to...
And then she glanced at CJ and Juliet on the dance floor.
That’s all it took. He was tired of standing in the middle, not following his gut.
And his gut said Gilly wanted to dance.
Tonight, regret wouldn’t chase him home.
And they thought bull riding was tough. He took a breath. “Let’s dance, Gilly. I promise not to step on your toes.” He held out his hand, and when she only hesitated a moment before taking it, he congratulated himself on the best epic victory of the night.
She had a strong hand, despite her size, and she followed him around the tables to the dance floor.
The band had picked up a Josh Turner song, appropriately Why Don’t We Just Dance, and he looked down at Gilly. “It’s been a while, but my mama taught me how to two-step.”
She nodded, a smile curving up her face. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Just follow me.” He took his first step.
Right onto her foot. “Sorry. Right foot, left foot, quick, quick, slow.”
She came to about his chest, and so he held her back a little, just so he could find her eyes, and tried again. They sputtered around the sides of the dance floor, halting, starting again. His hands began to sweat.
She kept that pretty smile but glanced a couple times at Juliet twirling with CJ.
Oh, this was a bad idea.
My two left feet, our two hearts beating...
Reuben took a breath and tried to twirl her out. She bumped into another couple, and he pulled her back fast. “Sorry.”
“We don’t have to— “
“I can do better.” He nearly barked it.
Nice, Rube. He glanced again at CJ and realized—the kid had no rhythm. Just a crazy desire to wiggle his body and twirl his girl.
Yes, Reuben could do much better. He moved them to the center of the floor, found the beat, and led them in a circle, landing the steps, quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow.
Then he took her hand and twirled her out. Back in again.
She giggled—wow, really?—and he felt it in his chest, warmth, the slow unwinding of the coil of tension.
He led her out in a turn under his other arm then caught her in a cuddle hold.
She might be tiny, but she had moves, and she followed his lead as if anticipating him. Even looked up at him and grinned, her eyes shining.
And that’s what did it. His heart skipped, his brain stopped, and he missed a step.
The next moment, he’d tripped over his own oxen feet, and in a flash of horror, felt his momentum shift.
The floor came up at him, Gilly trapped in his arms, and all he could think was to twist, to turn his back to the floor and hold onto her.
Cushion her as he crashed onto the dance floor.
Sort of.
He landed with his body curled around her, one leg under her, one on top of her, his arms crushing her to his chest. The dancers parted, gasps echoing into the chorus of the song.
Gilly lay tangled, her arms pinned against him, her leg under his, her face buried in his chest.
Struggling.
“Let me go.”
He didn’t hear her the first time—the chorus muffling her cries.
But he definitely heard her when she slammed her fist into his chest. “Reuben. Let. Me. Go!”
The music still played, but with her near shout, hands came down, lifted her away from him.
Rescuing her from his embrace.
He scooted back, trying to free her.
And then, he was just sitting alone on the floor. She had scrambled to her feet and now stared down at him.
He expected embarrassment, maybe anger.
Not the wide-eyed horror, the almost terrified expression that flushed her face.
Nor the sense that she wasn’t staring at him, but through him, to a fixed point of pain that he’d managed to stir to the surface.
“Gilly—”
She turned and fled.
His only saving grace was that the music covered his sharp epitaph of frustration, freshly lit, a live coal in his chest.