Читать книгу Firewolf - Jenna Kernan - Страница 14

Chapter Six

Meadow gaped, uncharacteristically finding herself rendered speechless. She had been around long enough to spot paranoia when she saw it. The guy said he’d been in Iraq. Maybe he had a screw or two loose.

Play along, she decided.

“What men? And why would they want us dead?”

“I don’t know the answers to those questions. I do know that you and I being here exactly when that explosion went off is something more than coincidence.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

Her savior did not answer. Instead, he gave her a long, uneasy look and turned away.

“Keep the shirt,” he said. Then he lifted his camel pack and shrugged it onto his wide shoulders and started walking. With him went all the water they had.

“Hey, wait.” She trotted to catch him, wishing her sandals were less cute and more practical. Wearing a wedge that showed her slim calves to best advantage seemed unnecessary when her legs were streaked with soot and covered with grit and sand. She caught him and grabbed at his arm, her hand covered with the long sleeve of his shirt. “Do you know how crazy you sound?”

He kept walking toward the road and the twisted remains of a bit of the blackened skeletal metal infrastructure that survived the blast. She let her gaze travel over the place where the eighteen-million-dollar home had been. She had not seen the explosion. The flash had been so bright and the earth had been shaking. He was right. It had been an explosion. What had caused the blast?

He was a firefighter, and even he had admitted that a gas tank could be the cause. But, as she looked at the ridgeline that she had been filming on and off for months, she realized the size of the demolition. It could not have been caused by a small propane tank or reserve tank for gas. She knew it in her heart.

Which meant someone had gone up there with explosives and set charges and pushed some kind of detonator and let the fires and rock spray down on the pine trees in the driest, hottest month of the year.

“Who would do this?”

He looked back. “You believe me now?”

She nodded. “It’s just too big. I need to look at the footage. Maybe I can see something.”

“I’d imagine the FBI will want to see that footage, as well.”

“It’s up on my feed. Anyone could have seen it live. But the entire thing, it’s only recorded on this.” She lifted the camera. “And on my server.”

“Can’t the social media sites recall it?”

“I don’t know.”

He started walking again.

She spotted a phone sticking out of his back pocket and jogged to come even with him again.

“You have a phone,” she said, pointing at his pocket.

“No service,” he said without slowing.

“You think you’ll have service up there?” She pointed to the ridge.

“Maybe. I know Rustkin’s got a well. Only water within ten miles. The fire started there and moved with the wind. Top of the ridge and the far side will be untouched.”

She looked at the climb ahead of them. Meadow already felt dizzy, and the prospect of the hike made her stomach twist. Maybe she should wait for help. A glance back showed the billowing smoke off to the east. How long until anyone could drive out here. The road they were on dead-ended at the mansion that had once occupied the ridge. Emergency and Fire would concentrate on the threatened town of Pine View and the larger community of Valley View, which lay between the fire and Flagstaff. But her father. He’d come for her. He knew where she was.

When she glanced back to Dylan, it was to find him another two hundred feet along the road. The man was quick as a jackrabbit.

She stretched her legs and walked. By the time she drew even with him, her mouth felt like cotton.

“I need some water.”

“No.”

Now that was a word she didn’t hear very often.

“Are you crazy? I’m thirsty.”

“We don’t have much left. We need to make it up there first. Then, if I find the well, you can have a drink.”

She stomped her foot, raising dust and his brow.

He was walking again. Meadow closed her dry mouth and lifted her stubborn chin. If he could make it up that mountain, then so could she.

* * *

SHE WAS TOUGHER than she looked, Dylan gave her that. The hike had to be four miles uphill, and she made it in those wedge sandals without another word of complaint or request for anything. In fact, it appeared that she would not even have taken the time of day from him if he had offered to give it to her.

Perhaps her strength was born of orneriness, but he still gave her credit for making the trek unassisted. He would have bet good money that she was going to start bawling like a branded calf or just stop so he’d have to bring water back to her.

Dylan glanced at the landscape surrounding them. He’d seen such a view before. Too often. The ground was scorched black and stank of charred wood. The fuel here had all been expended, the fire so hot that it had taken the crowns of every tree. The forest was gone, leaving denuded smoking trunks. The pristine view of the mountains, purchased at great expense, had now become bleak and ruined and would remain so for years to come.

Dylan lifted his phone and found a signal. He called Jack first, before his family and before his friend Ray, who was still a newlywed. He’d attended the ceremony in May. He knew now what no one but Ray and Morgan had known then. His new wife was already carrying his child. Seeing Ray happy for once, and settled with a wife and child, had been the deciding factor for Dylan. He wanted that. A wife. Children. And a job that didn’t smell of charred trees and animals.

Jack picked up on the first ring. “Dylan!”

Dylan could tell from the echo on the connection that Jack was in his truck.

“Yes!”

“Where are you?”

Dylan gave him their position.

“Sit tight. I’m on my way.”

It was over a 120 miles from Turquoise Canyon to Flagstaff and most of it on winding mountain roads.

Dylan told him he had a companion and relayed the name. Silence was his answer. Finally Jack spoke.

“Not good.”

“Did you contact Kenshaw?” asked Dylan, inquiring about their shaman and the leader of Tribal Thunder, the warrior sect of Dylan’s medicine society.

Jack said he had and that Kenshaw had been unable to reach Cheney Williams. “Kenshaw said he was there, right at the epicenter.”

“What is the news saying?” asked Dylan.

“Forest fire. Evacuations. No mention of the explosion yet.”

Dylan told him about the live streaming.

“I should be able to get that feed,” said Jack. “Have to submit a request. If it captured a major crime, they’ll release it.”

Dylan scanned the smoking landscape. He’d call it major.

“Cheney Williams’s death qualifies,” said Jack. “Was the home owner up there?”

“I don’t think so. Cheney said it would just be the two of us and a caretaker.”

“I’ll look into that. You have the caretaker’s name?”

“No. Sorry. Maybe you ought to call Luke Forrest.” Forrest was the field agent in charge when they took Jack’s twin brother, Carter, into federal protection. Forrest was also Black Mountain Apache.

“Maybe. Hey, they’ve already called in our hotshots. Ray’s heading up the guys in your absence. I guess you won’t be crew captain on this one.”

The Turquoise Canyon Hotshots were going on assignment without him. That was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? The reason he’d gone back for training as a fire-safety inspector. So why did his gut ache?

“Yeah.”

“I can’t get to you until the fire is off the road. You got water?”

“Soon.”

“All right, Brother Bobcat. Hold on. I’ve got another call. It’s Forrest.”

Dylan heard a double beep indicating he was on hold. He disconnected and continued along. They needed water.

“So, Cheney was here?” asked Meadow. It was the first she’d spoken to him in over an hour.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. He’s gone.” Now Dylan was wondering if Williams was a victim or some sort of suicide bomber. Kenshaw had recommended Dylan for this job, but now Dylan wondered exactly how his shaman knew this attorney who had lived down here in the valley? And why hadn’t Cheney sent one of his staff to meet Dylan up here on the ridge? If he worked with Meadow’s father, he must have people to do such things.

“Why did he call you brother bobcat?” she asked.

“You could hear that?”

She nodded.

“Bobcat is my spirit animal.” He pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt, showing her the tattoo. “This is his track.”

She stroked a finger over the muscle of his arm and purred, her hand lingering. Dylan’s muscles twitched as he grappled with the tension now overtaking him.

He stepped back, breaking the connection between them.

She distracted him. Made it hard for him to think. Now the questions swarmed him again. Buzzing around his head like gnats when he reached the crest of the ridge. Nothing of the building had survived. The explosion had ripped away the rock beneath the building. The infinity edge pool that had floated above the valley on steel legs, the house, garage and guest suite—all gone.

Dylan checked his phone for calls and found the battery dangerously low. “I’m almost out of juice.”

“Switch it off and then check it periodically.”

“Will do.”

Dylan made another call to his parents’ home and reached his grandfather, Frank. He told him quickly what had happened, and that he was safe and Jack Bear Den was coming to get him. He remembered to tell the old man that he loved him before he disconnected. Frank Florez was the only father Dylan had ever known.

When he finished, he turned off his phone.

“That was sweet. Your father?” she asked.

“Yes, but officially he’s my grandfather. My mother’s father.”

“What clan?” she asked.

“Butterfly.”

“Same as your mother, of course.”

Dylan could see how Meadow had gotten all A’s in school. She was quick.

“Can I call my family?” she asked.

That was a bad idea. Her dad would find out she had survived eventually from his radio communication. But he didn’t want her father knowing exactly where to find them.

“Not yet.”

She lifted a brow but said nothing, keeping her thoughts to herself as they continued up the hill.

He moved farther up and over the ridge. He had left the road to climb past the wreckage and so had not seen beyond the epicenter of the blaze to the pristine pavers of the curving drive that led to the untouched gate and gatehouse beyond the flashpoint of the fire. His mouth quirked in a smile.

Meadow arrived beside him a moment later. Her face was dangerously red. He gave her the mouthpiece to the camel pack and she took a long drink. Then he led them to the gatehouse. The only standing structure had survived the blast by being well down the private road and back from the ridge. The fire had spared the gatehouse only because prevailing winds had carried the blaze in the opposite direction, westward from the epicenter of the blast.

The Rustkin gatehouse was larger than his home on the rez. Dylan knocked on the front door but received no answer.

“You said on the phone the guy would be here,” said Meadow.

“That’s what Cheney told me.” Dylan tried again, knocking louder. Then they gave up and circled the home. He broke a window in the garage and crawled inside, then disconnected the opener and hauled up the door himself. Meadow stepped inside.

“Phew,” she said. “Cool in here.” She glanced around. “No cars.”

Dylan hoped the caretaker was far away because the road that circled down the unscathed side of the mountain met the burning side at the break in the ridgeline. If the caretaker had evacuated, he would not get far.

She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted a hello. There was no reply. She turned to Dylan. “Well, we have lights and AC.”

“Generator out back. Saw it on the way in.”

“Let’s take a look around,” she said.

She was a bold one, he’d give her that—perhaps a little too daring. Dylan didn’t just charge forward. He was more of a planner.

“Maybe you should wait here.”

“Hell with that.”

Meadow pivoted and led the way down the hall and past the office facing the drive, through the small living space and into the kitchen in the back.

There she stuck her entire head under the sink faucet and soaked her hair making the blue and purple turn a darker shade. Then she drank until he thought her stomach might rupture.

When she drew back, she whipped her head up so that the ends sent a spray of water to the ceiling.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Alive, thanks to you. But I’m dizzy...and what a headache.”

“Heat exhaustion.” Or heat stroke, he thought.

“Never had it this bad.” She stepped aside and Dylan drank. Then he soaked his head, letting the lukewarm water wash away the sweat and sand from his short hair. The water was heaven.

“I’m going to find a bathroom. I need a shower.”

“I’ll check the generator.”

She cast him a glance over one shoulder and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Had she been inviting him along? That idea should have sent him in the opposite direction because he did not want to listen to the water running while he imagined Meadow washing her tempting body clean. Instead, he watched her walk away.

She strode down the hall that presumably led to the bedroom and bath. On the way she dropped the shirt he had lent her, giving him an unforgettable view of her back broken only by the lace bra. He’d kept her from being burned. Every inch of her was perfect, if dirty. Her tan covered her skin all the way to her bottom, which seemed very white by comparison above the scrap of pink lace. She cast a final glance over her shoulder and gave him a wink.

“You’re up next.” She reached behind her back and unfastened the bra as she turned, heedless of the glimpse she gave him of her body in profile. She was smaller up top than he had imagined, small and round and perfect. Thanks to him.

Dylan found the generator ran on propane and had switched on automatically when the power quit. How long it would last was just a guess, but he thought this would be the place to bed down tonight. Still, he would be careful about what electricity they used. He did a perimeter check familiarizing himself with his surroundings, then returned to the house and checked the rooms. The kitchen had a small table and chairs, and both the living room and the single bedroom were furnished. Someone had been living here, judging from the books, laptop and half-full coffeepot. The mail on the counter was addressed to David Kaneda. Dylan used his camera to snap a shot and sent it to Jack Bear Den with the message that they had reached the caretaker’s house, which was empty. Jack’s replay was the letter K.

Okay.

He busied himself filling his camel pack and then checking the landline, which was dead. The security system was not yet functioning, though the metal gate across the drive was locked. Unfortunately, the wall was not finished and a temporary road had been graded beyond the gate for construction vehicles to complete one of the most expensive homes in Arizona—and the only one that broke the ridge. Was that why they had blown it up?

They’d achieved a two-for-one, endangering the affluent community in the valley, as well.

He searched the cupboards and refrigerator. The refrigerator had bottled water, some of those sixty-four-ounce soda-fountain drinks and leftovers from lunches, some fruit, two half sandwiches—one meatball and one roast beef that smelled edible. On the counter he found chips.

Dylan arranged some of the food on the kitchen table and listened but did not hear the water running.

“You done?” he called.

“I didn’t start yet.”

“Why?”

“No soap.”

Meadow called from the shower. “Is there soap out there?”

He searched and came up with a bottle of liquid hand soap and was halfway down the hall when he paused as all kinds of erotic images flooded him.

Dylan debated his options. Sex meant nothing to her. He patted his front pocket where his wallet held two condoms. He had principles, but he was still a man.

“Dylan?”

“I found some.”

He stepped into the steaming air of the bathroom. The glass door gave him a pretty fair image of what she looked like naked and wet. He growled and lifted the soap over the top of the glass barrier.

“There are no towels,” she said, accepting the soap and then tipping her head back to let the spray of water cascade over her crown.

“They’re in the linen closet in the hall.”

She rolled back the shower door. He didn’t look away.

“So, do we have a bed?” she asked. She was so casual about her body and sexuality. Do we have a bed?

“There’s only one.”

“That’ll do.”

Now his skin was prickling and his body responding to the possibilities she raised.

“Is that all you ever have on your mind?” he asked.

She faced him, pressing herself against the glass, giving him a view he would never forget. “Only since I met you.”

He didn’t believe it, but he found himself growing hard.

“Why don’t you step in? I’ll wash you off.”

“Meadow, I don’t even know you.”

“You will if you get in here.”

Dylan untied his boots and stripped out of his clothing. He retrieved his wallet and one condom. Then he ignored his conscience, slid back the door and stepped into the shower with Meadow.