remark.
“You, Fast Feet, take the lead. The rest of you, fall in behind him. Single file. If you fall, get your ass out of the way, pick up the rear for a second shot.”
She pulled a stopwatch out of her pocket. “Are you ready?”
The group shouted back, and Rowan hit the timer. “Go!”
Okay, Rowan thought, fast feet and nimble feet.
“Pick up those knees!” she shouted. “Let’s see some energy. For Christ’s sake, you look like a bunch of girls strolling in the park.”
“I am a girl!” a steely-eyed blonde shouted back, and made Rowan grin.
“Then pick up those knees. Pretend you’re giving one of these assholes a shot in the balls.”
She kept pace with Gull, jogging back as he raced for, charged up, then hurdled the first ramp.
Then the little guy surprised her by all but launching over it like a cannon.
They climbed, hurdled, crawled, clawed. L.B. was right, she decided. They were a damn good group.
She watched Gull execute the required flips and rolls on the tramp, heard the little guy—she needed to check his name—let out a wild yeehaw as he did the same.
Fast feet, she thought again, still in the lead, and damned if he didn’t go up the rope like a monkey on a vine.
The blonde had made up ground, but when she hit the rope, she not only stalled, but started to slip.
“Don’t you slide!” Rowan shouted it out, put a whiplash into it. “Don’t you slide, Barbie, goddamn it, and embarrass me. Do you want to start this mother over?”
“No. God, no.”
“Do you want to jump fire or go back home and shop for shoes?”
“Both!”
“Climb it.” Rowan saw the blood on the rope. A slide ripped the skin right off the palms, and the pain was huge. “Climb!”
She climbed, forty torturous feet.
“Get down, move on. Go! Go!”
She climbed down, and when she hurdled the next wall, left a bloodstain on the ramp.
But she did it. They all did, Rowan thought, and gave them a moment to wheeze, to moan, to rub out sore muscles.
“Not bad. Next time you have to climb a rope or scale a wall it might be because the wind shifted and fire just washed over your safe zone. You’ll want to do better than not bad. What’s your name—I’m a Girl Barbie?”
“Libby.” The blonde rested her bloody hands on her knees, palms up. “Libby Rydor.”
“Anybody who can climb up a rope when her hands are bleeding did better than not bad.” Rowan opened the first-aid kit. “Let’s fix them up. If anybody else got any boo-boos, tend to them, then head in, get your gear. Full gear,” she added, “for practice landings. You got thirty.”
Gull watched her apply salve to Libby’s palms, competently bandage them. She said something that made Libby—and those hands had to hurt—laugh.
She’d pushed the group through the course, hitting the right combination of callous insult and nagging. And she’d zeroed in on a few as they’d had trouble, found the right thing to say at the right time.
That was an impressive skill, one he admired.
He could add it to his admiration of the rest of her.
That blonde was built, all maybe five feet ten inches of her. His uncle would have dubbed her statuesque, Gull mused. Himself? He just had to say that body was a killer. Add big, heavy-lidded blue eyes and a face that made a man want to look twice, then maybe linger a little longer for a third time, and you had a hell of a package.
A package with attitude. And God, he had a hard time resisting attitude. So he stalled until she crossed the field, then fell into step beside her.
“How are Libby’s hands?”
“She’ll be okay. Everybody loses a little skin on the playground.”
“Did you?”
“If you don’t bleed, how do they know you’ve been there?” She angled her head, studied him with eyes that made him think of stunning arctic ice. “Where are you out of, Shakespeare? I’ve read
“Monterey, mostly.”
“They’ve got a fine smoke-jumper unit in Northern California.”
“They do. I know most of them. I worked Redding IHC, five years.”
“I figured you for a hotshot. So, you’re wanted in California so you headed to Missoula?”
“The charges were dropped,” he said, and made her smile. “I’m in Missoula because of Iron Man Tripp.” He stopped when she did. “I’m figuring he must be your father.”
“That’s right. Do you know him?”
“Of course. Lucas ‘Iron Man’ Tripp’s a legend. You had a bad one out here in 2000.”
“Yeah.”
“I was in college. It was all over the news, and I caught this interview with Iron Man, right here on base, after he and his unit got back from four days in the mouth of it.”
Gull thought back, brought it into the now in his head. “His face is covered with soot, his hair’s layered with ash, his eyes are red. He looks like he’s been to war, which is accurate enough. The reporter’s asking the usual idiot questions. ‘How did it feel in there? Were you afraid?’ And he’s being patient. You can tell he’s exhausted, but he’s answering. And finally he says to the guy, ‘Boy, the simplest way to put it is the bitch tried to eat us, and we kicked her ass.’ And he walks away.”
She remembered it as clearly as he did—and remembered a lot more. “And that’s why you’re in Missoula looking to jump fire?”
“Consider it a springboard. I could give you the rest of it over a beer.”
“You’re going to be too busy for beer and life stories. Better get your gear on. You’ve got a long way to go yet.”
“Offer of beer’s always open. Life story optional.”
She gave him that look again, the slight angle of the head, the little smirk on the mouth that he found sexily bottom-heavy. “You don’t want to hit on me, hotshot. I don’t hook up with rookies, snookies or other smoke jumpers. When I’ve got the time and inclination for... entertainment, I look for a civilian. One I can play with when I’m in the mood over the long winter nights and forget about during the season.”
Oh, yeah, he did like attitude. “You might be due for a change of pace.”
“You’re wasting your time, rook.”
When she strolled off with her clipboard, he let himself grin. He figured it was his time to waste. And she struck him as a truly unique experience.
Gull survived being dragged up in the air by a cable, then dropped down to earth again. The not altogether fondly dubbed slam-ulator did a damn good job of simulating the body-jarring, ankle-and-knee-shocking slam of a parachute landing.
He slapped, tucked, dropped and rolled, and he took his lumps, bumps and bruises. He learned how to protect his head, how to use his body to preserve his body. And how to
He faced the tower, climbing its fifty feet of murderous red with his jump partner for the drill.
“How ya doing?” he asked Libby.
“I feel like I fell off a mountain, so not too bad. You?”
“I’m not sure if I fell off the mountain or on it.” When he reached the platform, he grinned at Rowan. “Is this as much fun as it looks?”
“Oh, more.” Sarcasm dripped as she hooked him to the pully. “There’s your jump spot.” She gestured to a hill of sawdust across the training field. “There’s going to be some speed on the swing over, so you’re going to feel it
