Few bested her at five feet, eleven inches. Despite the dirt and soot streaking his face, she noted a blue-eyed, movie star charm, accentuated by a lot of bright, white teeth.
O’Connor stared at her a moment. “I’m glad you’re all right. Remember your ten standard firefighting orders.” He turned to her boss. “Good to see you Jim.” He tugged his hardhat with thumb and forefinger as he strode off across the black.
“I’ll do that,” she hollered to his retreating backside. She rolled her eyes at his subtle reminder of the ten commandments of wildland firefighting she could recite forward and backward. She was well aware of the one she’d violated, attempting to save a life: Base all actions on current and expected behavior of the fire.
“Hey, O’Connor, wait a minute.” Jim glanced at Tara before trotting after O’Connor for a private conversation. He gesticulated as he spoke, the way he always did, then pointed in her direction.
O’Connor looked back at her, nodding. Jim patted his shoulder and O’Connor lifted a hand to her and vanished into the smoke.
“What did you say to him?” She hadn't screwed up deciding to go after the trapped homeowner. She screwed up by not being fast enough.
“I thanked him for helping you.” Jim shot her a grim look. He took off his hard hat, revealing a tousled crop of silver. “Still okay? I know it’s a bummer.” Jim was stuck in a time warp from the 1970s, reminding Tara of her father.
She gave him a mechanical nod. She was anything but okay.
“I told you to fall back. You went anyway.” His steely gray eyes pierced her.
“A life was at stake—”
“Two lives were at stake, dammit!” shouted Jim, slamming his hard hat to the ground. He stared at it a moment, his mouth in a straight line. “We’ll talk later,” he muttered. He bent to pick up his hat and stomped off.
“Missoula Crew, retreat to the safety zone,” Jim called out, leading the crew at a fast clip. Everyone fell into single file, following him through the burnt black.
Shit. Jim was pissed. Tara blinked back the pressure building behind her eyes. No crying in firefighting, Dad always said. And by God she wouldn’t. She wasn’t weak.
Unfortunately, Tara knew the drill. Jim would place her on administrative leave, routine protocol for a line of duty death. She could be terminated for ignoring a direct order, despite the fact she’d risked her life to save another. Not only had she failed, she had landed in deep shit for trying.
She would do it again in a heartbeat.
Tara breathed relief when the crew reached the safety zone, a mile away on a hilltop road, where their vehicles were parked. A panoramic view of the fire stretched out before them. Unable to halt the destruction at the city’s edge, the twenty firefighters surveyed the four-story flames. The pristine, blue-green forest south of the city was now a sullied, smoking disaster. No one spoke. They stood with clenched jaws, surveying the battle they’d lost.
“Dammit!” Tara’s vision of the old man’s outstretched arm flooded into her psyche. Nausea pushed up. Her hand flew to her mouth as she willed her stomach contents to stay put.
Jim approached and offered her his canteen. “Have a sip. The fire devil was a freak event. It happens. You didn’t have time to get him out. It wasn’t your fault.” His brusque tone seemed apologetic, but still sliced her.
The water cooled her parched throat and dribbled down her chin as she gulped. She wiped the droplets away with the back of her gloved hand. “I had to try, Jim.”
“I know you did.”
“How do you know the smokejumper who pulled me back?”
“Ryan O’Connor, a friend of mine. I met him on a fire in Alaska.” Jim spat on the ground again. “He was doing recon for the incident commander when he saw your situation. Good thing he happened by.” Jim cleared his throat, shaking his head.
Her situation. So, this is how it would be labeled. She shouldn’t have had a situation. The homeowner should have evacuated. She shouldn’t have had to run into the fire. The smokejumper shouldn’t have had to drag her back out. Her thoughts muddied and she was too weary to sort them.
Jim backed up to address the Missoula crew. “Everyone load up and head back to camp.”
Tara’s good friend and crewmate, Katy, put an arm around her waist as they walked toward a transport van. “Wish I had a mirror. You look like a friggin’ zebra. Those auburn locks are singed.” Katy tugged a frayed tendril that escaped from Tara’s yellow hardhat.
“And you reek like burnt toast.” Tara gave her a half smile. She appreciated her friend’s attempt to lift her spirits.
“I’m sorry about what happened back there. Glad someone was close enough to help. You okay?” asked Katy.
“Define okay.” Tara shook her head. “I hate this job sometimes. Hell’s fury gorged on another victim. Fire doesn’t know the difference between trees, homes, or humans. It only robs. It only takes.” She stared at a dead tree stump, wanting to punch it. “What good are we if we can’t protect people? You don’t forget a death like that. Ever.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. No point going down that road,” said Katy.
Too late. She’d already gone down Guilt Street and hung a right on Failure Avenue.
Jim sunk into the driver’s seat and keyed his radio. “McGuire, this is Dolan. Missoula crew has fallen back to our safety zone. Recommend hitting Roosevelt Subdivision hard with mud drops. Air attack, do you copy?”
The air tanker pilot replied. “Incoming drop in two minutes.”
“Copy that,” radioed McGuire, sounding relieved.
The low rumble of her ex-fiancé’s voice gut punched Tara. She’d be married to Travis McGuire right now if he would have been faithful. His voice used to ping cupid arrows to her heart. Now, it made her want to level her drip torch and douse him with flame.
“Missoula crew clear for air drops. I’ll report back at zero
