back. His fire partner, Akbar, had thought TJ was just a yard or two behind him until the falling tree had cut him off with a wall of fire.
In the end, all that mattered was the moment when TJ and Steve had both been lifted clear of the flames, waving to the cheering crew below.
Then she saw Mercerâs gaze shift to where she and TJ sat, and his face shuttered like a hard-doused fire. He looked down, but not fast enough to hide a sour grimace. One that didnât appear to be assuaged by a hard slug of beer or a fierce stab of his fork into dinner. A stab that drew nothing to his mouth but empty air. He didnât pay any more attention to his food or even try again with his fork. Whatever he was paying attention to, it wasnât his food.
And, at least at the moment, it wasnât her.
If it was just them, sheâd go and ask, even though he was a newbie. But her uncleâs hand and her weak knees at his close call were enough to stop her.
***
Steveâs knee hurt like hell.
He half wished he still had the damn cane. Then heâd look like the cripple he really was. For a moment there, one brief moment, heâd been part of the crew. Backslaps and raised beer salutes from other tables.
Then heâd looked at TJ. Twenty years older than Steve and almost three decades of fighting fire. People here worshipped him. Chutes, the jumpers at the next table, and the pilots and maintenance crew who shared Steveâs table. All of them affirming thatâs what a man should be.
And there, shining beside TJ like a golden light, a woman he didnât know, but who sure as hell wouldnât want a cripple. And the doctors had assured him heâd always be just that. Too much tissue loss, too many staples and screws and plates. âAt least you kept the leg,â they kept telling him. About the only good point, and heâd had to fight with them about that even as they were putting him under.
As soon as he tactfully could, he withdrew. Steve dumped the rest of his dinner in the garbage and tried not to limp as he delivered the tray to the kitchen cleanup bucket, then headed around the end of the kitchen building.
Pretty damned morose, Merks âhe tipped the beer bottle up to check it in the fading evening lightâ especially on half a beer. Heâd never really started the first one that afternoon. It had long gone warm and flat before heâd left the table to find his quarters and move in. A duffel bag shoved onto a shelf in a room made cramped by a pair of bunk beds, cramped even without anyone else in the room. He hadnât met his bunkmates yet; they must still be out on the fire. Another damned reminder of where he wasnât.
He dumped his beer on the ground and tossed the bottle into recycling as he passed it. A casual glance showed that though he was in plain view, no one was watching him, no one except Carly. Her face was turned just a little more than necessary if she was merely talking to Chutes, the loadmaster.
Gods, it used to be so easy. A woman who looked like that⦠That wasnât even it. A woman so convinced of her own abilities that sheâd face down someone like Henderson. That was the kind of a woman he would have just walked up to, maybe even spent some time getting to know rather than just targeting her. Back when he was a whole man. Back when he could walk.
Steve got around the corner and out of sight walking tall and easy.
Then he let go of his control. The left knee buckled, and he collapsed. His back slammed against the back of the building, then he slid downward until his butt landed hard on the ground. All he could do was lie there and massage the screaming muscles and stare up at the mountain. The only places the sun still hit were the shining glaciers atop Mount Hood. A beacon in the evening light.
If the thing were a goddamn beacon, shouldnât it be guiding him somewhere?
Chapter 5
The next morning, the truck with Steveâs gear
In the end, all that mattered was the moment when TJ and Steve had both been lifted clear of the flames, waving to the cheering crew below.
Then she saw Mercerâs gaze shift to where she and TJ sat, and his face shuttered like a hard-doused fire. He looked down, but not fast enough to hide a sour grimace. One that didnât appear to be assuaged by a hard slug of beer or a fierce stab of his fork into dinner. A stab that drew nothing to his mouth but empty air. He didnât pay any more attention to his food or even try again with his fork. Whatever he was paying attention to, it wasnât his food.
And, at least at the moment, it wasnât her.
If it was just them, sheâd go and ask, even though he was a newbie. But her uncleâs hand and her weak knees at his close call were enough to stop her.
***
Steveâs knee hurt like hell.
He half wished he still had the damn cane. Then heâd look like the cripple he really was. For a moment there, one brief moment, heâd been part of the crew. Backslaps and raised beer salutes from other tables.
Then heâd looked at TJ. Twenty years older than Steve and almost three decades of fighting fire. People here worshipped him. Chutes, the jumpers at the next table, and the pilots and maintenance crew who shared Steveâs table. All of them affirming thatâs what a man should be.
And there, shining beside TJ like a golden light, a woman he didnât know, but who sure as hell wouldnât want a cripple. And the doctors had assured him heâd always be just that. Too much tissue loss, too many staples and screws and plates. âAt least you kept the leg,â they kept telling him. About the only good point, and heâd had to fight with them about that even as they were putting him under.
As soon as he tactfully could, he withdrew. Steve dumped the rest of his dinner in the garbage and tried not to limp as he delivered the tray to the kitchen cleanup bucket, then headed around the end of the kitchen building.
Pretty damned morose, Merks âhe tipped the beer bottle up to check it in the fading evening lightâ especially on half a beer. Heâd never really started the first one that afternoon. It had long gone warm and flat before heâd left the table to find his quarters and move in. A duffel bag shoved onto a shelf in a room made cramped by a pair of bunk beds, cramped even without anyone else in the room. He hadnât met his bunkmates yet; they must still be out on the fire. Another damned reminder of where he wasnât.
He dumped his beer on the ground and tossed the bottle into recycling as he passed it. A casual glance showed that though he was in plain view, no one was watching him, no one except Carly. Her face was turned just a little more than necessary if she was merely talking to Chutes, the loadmaster.
Gods, it used to be so easy. A woman who looked like that⦠That wasnât even it. A woman so convinced of her own abilities that sheâd face down someone like Henderson. That was the kind of a woman he would have just walked up to, maybe even spent some time getting to know rather than just targeting her. Back when he was a whole man. Back when he could walk.
Steve got around the corner and out of sight walking tall and easy.
Then he let go of his control. The left knee buckled, and he collapsed. His back slammed against the back of the building, then he slid downward until his butt landed hard on the ground. All he could do was lie there and massage the screaming muscles and stare up at the mountain. The only places the sun still hit were the shining glaciers atop Mount Hood. A beacon in the evening light.
If the thing were a goddamn beacon, shouldnât it be guiding him somewhere?
Chapter 5
The next morning, the truck with Steveâs gear
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