“What kind of injuries?” I asked. “Aside from burns.”
“I’ve seen a lot of guys get hurt by snags—the trees still standing in the black. They can topple so silent, you never hear them coming. Lotta guys hurt that way. We work with a lot of sharp equipment—the saws, pulaskis—not to mention the drip torches and flares. Pretty much everything we do can get somebody hurt, and we’re operating on little sleep and physical exhaustion.”
“Why do it?” I asked. “Loving the outdoors and physical labor is a given to even think about this job. But when you’re exhausted and surrounded by fire in the middle of nowhere, what makes you think, ‘This is worth it’?”
“My boys. Doing something so difficult for months on end makes for a tight-knit crew. We’re family. Some days I think I’m getting too old, and then I remember there’s nowhere else you can find what we have. Soldiers, maybe. That’s all I can think of.”
I scribbled in my notepad, straining to see in the glow of the dashboard light. Jubal told me stories about the different crews he’d been on, how Alpine was his favorite, and how he’d decided wildfire fighting was his calling. Then he recalled the day the Maddoxes walked into the station.
“The closeness and trust level of a crew is paramount, but those boys … they came in and were the glue. I don’t know what we’ll do if they move home.”
“Where’s home?” I asked, a sinking feeling coming over me.
“Illinois.”
“Why would they move back?”
“They’re dad’s gettin’ older. He’s a widower, you know.”
“Tyler mentioned that.”
Jubal thought about that for a while. “They’ve got two younger brothers there, too. They’ve talked about moving back to help.”
“That’s sweet, but I can’t imagine either of them doing anything else.”
“Neither can I, but they’re a close family, the Maddoxes. I’ve just heard Taylor and Tyler talk—I’ve never met any of ’em. The rest of the family doesn’t know the boys fight fires.”
“What?” I said, stunned.
“Nope. They don’t want to upset their dad. Those boys are rowdy, but they’re softies on the inside. I think the twins would light themselves on fire before they’d let anyone they love get hurt.”
I looked up at Tyler sleeping deeply, his face peaceful. I leaned over, barely touching my cheek to his arm. Without hesitation, Tyler reached around my shoulders and hugged me against his side. I stiffened at first, but then relaxed, feeling the warmth of his body thaw my frozen bones.
I met Jubal’s gaze in the rearview mirror. His smile touched his eyes, and then he looked forward. “Ellie?” he said. Just the reflection of his ice-blue irises seared through me. “Do you know what’s coming?”
“Goodbye?” I said, only half-joking.
Jubal smiled, concentrating again on the road. “Maybe not.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Finley’s duck-lip selfie popped up on the display of my cell phone, but I pressed END and let my voicemail talk to her instead.
“Your sister again?” Tyler asked, patting his face with an old ratty hand towel. The rest of him was still dirty, as were the rest of us.
I’d forgotten what my hair smelled like when it didn’t reek of smoke, or how my sheets felt against my skin. I pulled my camera off my neck and fell onto the raggedy sofa of the Alpine duty station, deep in the Rocky Mountain National Forest. Fire season had started early, and I’d been camping with the Alpine Hotshots for fourteen days while they fought a fire that dug in so deep the smoke jumpers from all over the country were deployed. According to the Alpine crew, it was their biggest fire in two seasons.
The crew headed for the kitchen, and I sat, my limbs sprawled in every direction, watching them pass by. Every muscle in my body hurt, every joint, even my insides. I’d started my period our second day in fire camp, but it was barely present before it went away, most likely from the sudden surge in activity and decrease in caloric intake. My pants were loose. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to look at myself in the mirror.
Smitty high-fived Taco before opening the fridge and leaning in to weigh his options, his face smudged with soot.
“That got intense for a second there,” Tyler said.
“Thanks for babysitting me … again. And for helping me with my tent. I can’t believe the guys slept on the fire line for three nights. Some of the guys didn’t even have coats.”
“They’re bigger guys. It’s called flight weight—sort of like a weight limit. Sometimes, the helos fly us to the more remote locations, so we don’t have to hike so far on foot. Between equipment, our fuel, and the crew, the helos can only carry so much. Sometimes, Runt will bring one of those aluminum sheets the mountain climbers use for camping because he’s skinny, and he has the flight weight to spare.”
“So you huddle?”
“Huddle, share blankets, spoon … it’s fucking cold up there. Whatever works,” he joked.
“Then why do it?”
“Sleeping on the fire line means hazard pay. Some of the guys prefer it to sleeping at fire camp.”
“The generators were pretty loud,” I said.
“You should have said something. We could have hopped in a truck and driven a little farther out, away from the noise.”