Читать книгу The Eleventh Hour - Wendy Etherington - Страница 12

“SO, HOW ABOUT ME in California?” Laine asked, rocking forward on her toes as she stood in front of her boss’s imposingly disorganized desk.

Mac Solomon’s silver-and-black eyebrows drew together. “That’s a big assignment.”

“I’m ready.” Or in desperate financial straits—take your pick.

“Maybe. You know my philosophy, right? Bad news sells better than good.”

“I remember.” And she knew how the assignment game was played with her boss—the aggressive, pushy photographer always won. Even if, deep down, she was scared to death of getting within ten miles of a raging wildfire. “You’ll be pleased to hear they’ve called in an arson investigator.”

“I want something on this dead smoke jumper.”

Laine swallowed and avoided glancing at the Internet story and picture she’d laid on her boss’s desk. Tommy Robbins had died five days ago fighting the northern California wildfire. In what seemed like a lifetime ago, she’d known him. He’d been a close friend of a guy she’d dated the summer she’d lived with Aunt Jen after her college graduation.

Those carefree days seven years ago had ended in heartbreak, and now her trip back would begin there. Part of her dreaded going. The rest of her relished the challenge.

“I’ll get you all you want on smoke jumping,” she said.

Her former lover, Steve Kimball, might not be thrilled to see her, but his ego certainly wouldn’t deny her the opportunity to follow him around and take pictures of him doing heroic stuff. Of course, she’d have to fight off the gaggle of women surrounding him, but that shouldn’t feel like a kick in the teeth this time around.

Mac harrumphed. “I want some action shots. Destruction and flames.”

“This story is not just about the fire itself, you know. The reports are that the blaze could consume most of the town of Fairfax. There will be evacuations, acts of courage, a community pulling together. It could be a real uplifting piece.”

“Tears are always good sellers.”

“Ah, Mac, you’re all heart.”

“I’m all business, Laine. You know that. We have that in common.”

While she considered herself a professional, she certainly hoped she never reached the jaded bad-news-sells-better-than-good status that Mac had.

“You’ll get the best,” she said.

“I want daily updates. E-mail me what you’ve got. If you can come up with a real action shot, maybe we’ll talk about the cover.”

A big fat bonus came with the cover shot. That would come in handy. Maybe she could pull together enough funds to send Cat back to school, as she’d once dreamed of doing.

“Not too much sissified human-interest crap,” Mac went on.

Since feel-good, human-interest pictures had always been her specialty, Laine had to swallow that blow to her pride. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“I should be sending one of my guys to cover this, not the new girl.”

Nothing like the added pressure of having a sexist for an editor. “But they don’t have a connection with the smoke jumpers. Or an in with the chief in charge of the operation. I do.”

Thank you, Aunt Jen. Provided Laine cleared her shoots with him and supplied the forestry service with copies of her photos for training purposes, the chief had agreed to sign releases for the magazine and get her close to the fire.

“Hmmph.”

“I know the people in this town, remember? They’re a close-knit group. They’re not going to let just anybody wander around taking their picture.”

Of course, close to the people and close to the fire were two entirely different propositions, but Laine had little choice. She’d taken this job not just for money, but for new challenges. She’d decided she couldn’t bear photographing yet another rose show or “garden of the month,” such as the layouts she’d done for Texas Living. It was time she proved to Mac—and herself—that she was ready for a new test in her career.

“I’m the best person for this assignment,” she added.

“Yeah, sure.” Mac shuffled through the papers scattered across his desk. “Then what are ya standin’ here for?”

STEVE KIMBALL SHIFTED the heavy supply pack onto his shoulder as he climbed into the forestry service transport truck. He’d spent two exhausting days digging a fire line, cutting down trees and clearing brush, trying to deprive the raging flames of fuel. He was dirty, frustrated and exhausted. The men around him didn’t look much better. Faces black with soot, eyes downcast and solemn.

Though it had been a long time since he’d been part of a smoke jumper team, he knew they were usually energized by the flight, parachuting through the heat and smoke-choked sky, the feeling that they were making progress blocking the spread of a fire that couldn’t be fought in ordinary ways.

But the cockiness and exhilaration hadn’t come for Steve. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected it. He was in the last place he wanted to be, for the worst reason in the world.

He’d buried one of his closest friends a week ago. The crew he was now part of had lost one of their best.

“Well, this sucks,” Josh Burke commented as he slumped on the bench seat and laid his head back against the dark green canvas surrounding the truck bed.

Of course, he wasn’t just talking about the wildfire. Almost five thousand acres of beautiful northern California forestland had burned so far, with the flames creeping closer to civilization by the hour. If they didn’t get some rain soon, they would have to start evacuating the small community of Fairfax, the town where Josh grew up and Steve had lived during the three years he’d been a full-time smoke jumper. If the fire got beyond that, there was nothing standing between the blaze and the more densely populated city of Redding.

No one mentioned these dire details, or the late Tommy Robbins. They were men after all. Smoke jumpers. Firefighters. Heroes.

Yeah, right.

“Let’s send Kimball into town for women,” Cole Taylor said.

“You don’t buy them at the store,” Steve said, bracing himself as the truck bounced along the country highway. Besides, he didn’t want company. He just wanted the meal that awaited them at base camp, then to collapse on the guest bed in Josh’s apartment.

Josh raised his head long enough to glance at Steve. “We’d have to clean him up first. Not even Mr. Magic could get a woman looking like that.”

“Mr. Magic?” one of the younger guys asked.

Josh lay back again, casually folding his hands across his stomach. “Women love him. Go figure. Personally, I don’t see it.”

Steve forced himself to smile, relieved to have something to focus on besides death and flames. He could grieve and feel sorry for himself when he was alone later. Right now he had a role to fill—the fun guy, the one who couldn’t wait to charge the deadly fire again, then dance with the girls and hoist a beer to his comrades. “When you’ve got it…”

Cole leaned forward, his white teeth peeking from behind his sooty face. “So come out with us tonight. You bailed the other night, and we wanna see you in action.”

“I don’t—”

“Unless you’re afraid of some competition,” another guy shouted.

“I got twenty on Kimball,” Cole said.

“I wouldn’t take that bet,” Josh advised the others. “Especially since it would be so easy for him to hook up with an old flame.”

Steve cocked his head. Who did he know—

“Laine Sheehan is in town.”

His heart stuttered. He and Laine had dated the summer after her college graduation. He, Josh and Tommy had been roommates, living in Fairfax, working for the forestry service as smoke jumpers. Cocky and wild, they’d cut a now-notorious path through the parties and clubs of Redding and one night had run into Laine and some other women from Fairfax.

The shy, reserved blonde had stopped Steve dead in his tracks.

Though Josh and Tommy had never really understood his single-minded interest in Laine, Steve had soaked up her gentleness, her golden-brown eyes, her complete adoration of him. At the end of the summer he’d asked her to move in with him, but she couldn’t deal with his dangerous job, and she’d gone back home to Texas.

At the time, he’d been resentful of her asking him to choose her or his job, but seven years later he supposed he understood her hesitation to get more involved with him. Especially in light of Tommy’s death.

He’d never completely gotten over her.

“How do you know she’s here?” he asked Josh, feeling the gazes of the other men on him.

“Saw her the other night at Suds.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “What was Laine doing at Suds?”

“Drinkin’.”

“Drink—” The truck jerked to a halt before Steve could finish. Since they had to consult with forestry service officials about the fire’s progress and get their schedule for the following day, he didn’t have a chance to question Josh further until dinner.

As he dug into baked chicken, macaroni and cheese and green beans, he was grateful for the delicious food. The churches in Fairfax had banded together to feed the dozens of teams fighting the fires, and they’d pulled out all the stops. He didn’t even want to think about any of those people losing their homes and businesses.

“So why was Laine Sheehan drinking at Suds?” he asked Josh quietly as they sat next to each other in the bustling food tent located in the base camp’s center.

He shrugged. “I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say.”

“Some help you are.”

“I don’t know why you’re still getting worked up about that woman. You’re complete opposites.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”

“And, sorry to be critical here, but she’s not up to your usual physical standards.”

“Just because she doesn’t have a double-D chest—”

“Though, come to think of it, she looked pretty good the other night.”

Steve put down his fork. “She did? How good?”

“I don’t know, man. Just good.” He pushed his plate aside. “And if you’re so interested, I heard she’s staying out at her aunt’s and covering the fire for some big-time magazine.”

“Laine is covering the fire?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“This fire. Our fire.”

“Yes.”

“She dumped me because she thought my job was too dangerous—”

“And don’t forget she wasn’t wild about your popularity with women.”

“She never said that. I just got that feeling.”

“I told you at the time that I agreed with you. I still do. Women can get real possessive.”

“And men don’t?” Steve waved away the comment before Josh, who had gotten into countless fights over some guy looking at his date, could respond. “We basically broke up over my job, and now she’s covering the fire.”

“Kinda weird the way life turns out, huh?”

“Does she realize she’ll have to get reasonably close to the fire to take pictures of it?”

“I assume so. Laine was a quiet one, but no one could call her that naive.” Josh paused. “I guess this means you’re going out with us tonight.”

For a minute, Steve wondered if seeing Laine again was a good idea. He’d already spent a lot of time the last few days reflecting on the past. The path he’d taken. His regrets and mistakes.

His life had been one long adventure. As the youngest of four and the son of a firefighter tragically killed when Steve was only nine, he’d been indulged and encouraged to pursue the never-ending energy and curiosity that filled him. High school and a year at a university in Europe. Firefighter and paramedic training. Working in the Atlanta Fire Department. Then smoke jumper training and tackling one of the most challenging—and dangerous—aspects of firefighting.

Then one spring he and another firefighter had been trapped for several hours along a ridge during a wildfire. The experience spooked Steve. He’d never found the same level of commitment to smoke jumping or forest fires since. So, he’d gone back to his home in north Georgia. Though part of him felt as if he was running from fears and insecurities he didn’t want to face, and that he was betraying the memory of his heroic father, he’d been happy.

He’d discovered he didn’t need constant life-and-death struggles to fulfill himself. He could be satisfied keeping the women of Baxter occupied and playing cards in the firehouse in between saving cats from trees.

When adventure had tapped him on the shoulder a few days ago, offering another taste of exhilaration, he’d accepted reluctantly. He was only here to honor Tommy’s memory. To offer himself to Josh and the rest of the team one last time.

Maybe Laine could remind him why he belonged with these guys. “Oh, yeah, I’m coming.”

LAINE SQUINTED. Most of the bar was a vague blur.

Maybe she shouldn’t have ordered a cosmopolitan then downed half the contents in one swallow. Gulping was the only way she could get the thing down. Though her sister and friends had claimed the drink as their own—as a joke, since being cosmopolitan in tiny Kendall, Texas, was something of a challenge—she’d never gotten used to the taste.

She was going to need a designated driver at this rate. And still nothing would change the humiliating call she’d gotten that afternoon from her editor.

Mac, in his charming, sweet way, had torn into her pictures. Though at least by sending the digital images, she’d assumed that he couldn’t literally tear them.

“Do I need to send one of the boys out there to show you what pictures of a fire look like?” he’d asked.

She’d sent him pictures of evacuation preparations, people living in the shelters and firefighters getting into their gear. Though planning to develop a well-rounded piece—complete with uplifting shots as well as action ones—she was still working her way up to the actual fire.

“You don’t need to send the boys,” she’d said, not at all surprised by Mac’s impatience. “I’m going up in a helicopter tomorrow.”

Which was why she was drinking tonight.

Her assurances had warded off Mac’s threat of replacement and kept her paycheck coming—for the moment anyway.

She sipped her cosmo, winced, then promptly advised her scaredy-cat conscience that she wasn’t some insecure little girl who had nightmares about her boyfriend’s horrifying death. She’d conquered her fear of heights years ago. Her hands had barely shaken as she’d watched a truckload of tired-looking smoke jumpers climb out of a chopper yesterday.

Unfortunately, her plan to take care of Aunt Jen wasn’t going much better than her job. She’d tried to convince her aunt that her home was about to be consumed by fire. And wouldn’t it be a good idea to be prepared for that event?

Nope. Not according to Aunt Jen. And her prayer group was working overtime just to be sure.

“Can I buy you a drink, honey?”

Scowling, she glanced up at a smiling, dark-haired man. “No, thanks.”

Men were the last complication she needed. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen Steve or anyone on his team yesterday, as they were deep in the forest, digging fire lines. She’d met Chief Jeff Arnold, finding him professional, experienced and cooperative.

And much more interesting than the guy who was now sitting next to her, despite her refusal of his drink offer.

“I’m Mark,” he said.

Laine pushed to her feet. “I’m going.”

“Don’t go. Have a drink with me.” Mark pointed at her half-full martini glass. “Cosmo?”

“Yes, but—”

As Mark raised his hand to catch the bartender’s attention, she noticed something jaw-dropping. “You’re wearing a wedding ring.”

Mark shrugged. “I’m just looking for someone to talk to.”

No wonder she spent her days working and her nights and weekends balancing the books at Temptation. Alone. “Are you really?”

“My wife understands.”

“I’ll bet.”

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“Nothing,” Laine said before Mark could respond. Shaking her head, she waved. “Bye, Mark.”

As Mark the Cheating Scumbag got up from his stool and strolled away, Laine glanced around Suds. With its ancient-looking tables, scuffed floor, ever-flowing tap and simple bar food, it reminded her of Temptation.

It was still hard to believe she was too far away to rush back to Kendall and see what problems had popped up at the bar.

She did, however, have to worry what bills might need paying. And she couldn’t push aside the compulsion to call her sister and remind her to call the auction house about selling the furniture.

She’d left a clearly outlined plan of action taped to the bar before she’d left on Thursday, and she’d bet her best zoom lens that Cat hadn’t so much as glanced at it.

Digging her cell phone from her purse, she called the bar. Though it was nearly nine on a Sunday night, she knew her sister wouldn’t be home with a cup of tea and a book.

“Cat?” she yelled into the phone over the blaring music.

“Lainey?”

Laine ground her teeth. “Have you called the auction house yet? We need to get some cash for the furniture to pay off the liquor supplier.”

“Hi, sister dear, how are you?” Cat answered back in a sarcastic tone. “How was your day? I’m sure it’s so difficult dealing with everything all on your own since I left you there without a thought at all for anybody but myself.”

Laine eyed the bar in front of her and tried to resist the urge to pound her head against it. They’d had this argument already. Her income was all they had at the end of the month. She had to make sure the money kept coming in. “Please don’t start, Cat,” she said calmly. “You’ll be fine. Just follow my list.”

“What list?”

“The one I taped to the bar that explained step by step what you needed to do this week.”

“Oh, I wondered what that was. Some guy spilled whiskey all over it Friday night. I threw it away.”

Laine rubbed her temples. Why had she called? Why did she continue to submit herself to the torture of communicating with her sister? “I’ll e-mail you another copy. And call the auction house first thing tomorrow.”

“I’m busy.”

“Please, Cat. We have to get moving on these things.”

“Yeah, sure we do.”

Was that a catch in her sister’s voice? Okay, maybe she was irresponsible and forgetful, but she was family. Her baby sister. This closing was hard on her. Maybe—

“Look, Laine, I’ve got to go,” she said and disconnected.

Their once-boisterous Irish father was no doubt rolling over in his grave at the tension between his two girls. Laine had always taken care of her sister, tried to get her to do the right thing, the responsible thing. But Cat never saw things the same way and inevitably dug in her heels whenever Laine tried to convince her otherwise.

Feeling both relief at having done her duty and overwhelming guilt at abandoning Cat to tasks she would never manage on her own, she closed her cell phone, then dropped it back in her purse.

She would just have to straighten it all out when she got back.

Rolling her shoulders, she thought about her shooting plan for the next day. Some aerials of the damage, some—

Without fanfare or a drumroll, Steve Kimball walked into the bar, his buddy Josh Burke flanking him.

Steve looked every bit as good as he had that summer. Wavy black hair, broad shoulders, confident, seductive smile. Caught up in her stunned, drooling stare, she even thought—from fifteen feet away—she could see the mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes.

Her body loosened. Sparked. Stood at attention.

Though confused at being awakened so suddenly, she was pretty sure her libido saluted.

What had she done? Why had she thought she could be within twenty miles of this man and not want him again?

Like the chicken she was trying to prove she wasn’t, she hid behind a menu. She wasn’t ready to face him.

By now she supposed he knew she was in town, since she’d spotted Josh the first night she’d arrived, when she’d met her friend Denise for drinks.

As she peeked past the menu, she saw him looking around the bar, as if searching for someone. Her? Not likely. He’d been angry and resentful when she’d asked him to choose between her and his job. In retrospect, she could hardly blame him.

An adventurer like him wouldn’t have stayed satisfied with her for long. Not when he had his pick of any woman he wanted. And she couldn’t imagine spending her life watching him jump out of airplanes, wondering when the day would come that he never made it home.

Deep down she’d known they’d never last. Asking him to choose, when she already knew the answer, was an easy way to bring everything to a neat end.

He and Josh obviously spotted their buddies in a back booth, already crowded with giggling women. She recalled many times when Steve, Josh and Tommy were surrounded by women. Josh, with his shaggy, curly dark hair and direct stare. Tommy with his clean-cut, blond California good looks. And Steve, rounding out the gorgeous and charming threesome.

She could hardly blame the women for their good taste. Still, Laine had been embarrassingly insecure and jealous.

In the years since, she’d grown up a lot, found some confidence and backbone. She wasn’t emotionally invested in Steve anymore. He and his dangerous job simply reminded her of an uncertain time in her life, and of her insecurity about his feelings for her. And while he might still affect her body, his job didn’t matter, except in relation to her photo assignment. She wasn’t falling for him again.

Especially since he wasn’t likely to give her a second glance.

Save Aunt Jen from a wildfire and her pride. Wow her editor with action, nongirlie photos. Resist Steve Kimball.

A workable plan. A reasonable plan.

Right?