was right. That fire was closer than he’d expected.
“Cade?” Jordan said, her voice pitched high. “Do you smell that?”
“We’re doing fine,” he called back. “It’s just drifting smoke.”
Which shouldn’t be anywhere near them right now. It was still too damned early. That wind should blow north until tonight.
He balled his good hand into a fist, wishing to God he could see that fire. He hated hiking through this forest blind.
Because if he’d learned anything in his years of smokejumping, it was to trust his instincts. And right now, every nerve in his body urged him to get to that clearing fast.
But Jordan couldn’t move any quicker. Even hiking this slowly, the woman had clearly reached her limit.
Hoping to shorten the route, he slanted directly up the steep slope. But then her pace fell off even further, forcing him to drop back. Her breathing sawed in the mountain air.
“I’m sorry,” she wheezed when she’d caught up. “I know I’m holding you back.”
“You’re doing great.”
“Hardly.” She shot him a skeptical look. “I can’t believe you do this for a living. You’re in incredible shape.”
“You get used to it. And it’s not always so rough.” He decided it wouldn’t hurt to keep talking. It might take her mind off her pain and help her get to the ridge.
And keep him from worrying about that fire.
“The first couple days on a fire can be hard,” he said as they continued walking. “The goal is to contain it fast, before it spreads. So that first night nobody sleeps. We automatically push through until morning.”
“That must be tough.”
“Yeah, but everyone expects it. And strong coffee helps.”
Despite her fatigue, she shot him a smile, a genuine one that played along the edges of her mouth and lit up her eyes. He grinned back. She’d always shuddered at the sludge he’d brewed.
“After that, it depends on the fire and how long we stay out there. The fire lies down at night when the wind dies, so that gives us a few hours to rest.”
“That’s still not much.”
“You get used to it.” And after a while, it became a way of life. Crawling into his hootch near dawn, filthy and exhausted, his arm muscles trembling, his lungs burning from choking back smoke.
Lying under the moaning pine trees, his body spent, too tired even to doze. Listening to the fire crackling around him and the hypnotic wail of the wind.
And with that exhaustion, in those moments of weakness, the loneliness came creeping back, the vulnerability. The thoughts of Jordan.
When he was too damned tired to fight off the truth anymore. When his anger slipped, and he yielded to that soul-wrenching need. That longing for what he could never have.
The wish that she’d loved him enough to wait.
And despite it all, night after night, he found himself aching for her, wanting her, wondering what he could have done to make her stay.
Another gust of smoke drifted by, and he shook himself back to the present. He glanced at her, and saw she was now limping badly. Her face was furrowed in concentration, and lines of pain etched her brow. That ankle had to hurt like hell, but she still persevered.
And suddenly, he knew that the next time he lay alone in the darkness, he’d picture her like this. He’d remember her spirit, her strength, her determination.
But willpower alone wouldn’t get her up this mountain. He had to keep her mind off the pain. “Once we get the fire contained, the work gets easier,” he said.
“How? You still have to pack out your stuff.”
“Yeah, but that’s easier than fighting the fire.”
“Right.” Her tone told him she wasn’t fooled.
“And we don’t always pack it out. Sometimes, if we’ve got a lot of equipment, they do a long-line gear retrieval. That’s when a helicopter comes by and picks it up with a net.
“And if the season’s really busy, they even fly us out. So we can get back on the jump list and be ready for another fire.”
“But not normally.”
“No, usually once the fire’s out, we pack up our gear and hike to the nearest road. We leave a couple of people behind to cold-trail the fire.” A fire could look as though it was out, but still smolder for weeks. So they had to go through on their hands and knees, digging out stumps, making sure it was out.
She wiped her forehead on her sleeve and wheezed in a breath. “I remember. You always stayed behind to do that.”
“Choice from the top, boned from the bottom.”
“Meaning?”
“That I didn’t have a choice. I had to stay. You’re not always first on the list.”
She blinked. “Oh, I thought…”
“What? That I didn’t want to come home?”
“Well, I…”
A stark stab of bitterness jolted his chest. Hell. “How could you think that?” Didn’t she know him at all?
“I’m sorry, I-” She cringed. “Oh, God. I assumed you were like my father, living for your job. I…I should have asked.”
“Yeah.”
And maybe he should have explained.
That thought caught him off guard, and he frowned. He’d figured she understood his world and what he did. But what if she really hadn’t?
He thought about what she’d said before. That they hadn’t talked much when they were married. She was right. They hadn’t explained themselves. He hadn’t thought it mattered.
But apparently, he’d been wrong. And suddenly, he needed to redeem himself, to make her understand. Even after all this time.
He stopped. Her dark eyes rose to meet his. “Look, Jordan.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “I like my job. I always have. But just so you know, I didn’t want to leave you back then. I wasn’t trying to get away.”
“I know.” Her dark gaze softened. And suddenly, he saw the vulnerability in those beautiful eyes, the doubt.
And he felt like the worst kind of fool. She hadn’t understood. Not enough. And that explained so much. Her loneliness. The tears. The fights.
Feeling guilty, he reached out and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I felt lonely, too,” he admitted, his voice gruff. “I thought about you all the time. And I always wanted to come home to you.”
“Cade, I…” Her voice trembled. Her dark eyes stayed on his. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I guess I needed to hear that.”
“Yeah.” And suddenly, deep in his gut, the tension eased. And the long years of bitterness began to unfurl.
He should have told her back then. It might have made a difference. Or maybe not. He would never know.
And it didn’t change anything now. She still didn’t want a smokejumper, and he wouldn’t give up his job. But at least they’d settled something, put some closure on the past. And maybe regained some trust.
His throat felt thick, his head dizzy. Then a whiff of smoke drifted past on the breeze and he pulled his gaze away. “We need to keep moving.”
“I know. Come on, Dusty,” she cooed to the dog, her voice lilting. Her gaze met his again as they started hiking. “I’m sorry I’m so slow. I know I’m holding you up.”
“You’re doing fine, really.”
“You’d be farther ahead without me.”
He couldn’t deny that. “I don’t mind the company, though.” In fact, there was no one he’d rather be with.
