“You didn’t know the guy was a bonehead,” said Liz in her matter-of-fact tone.
“Wish you could have seen yourself. A drunk bear flat on the pavement like possum roadkill,” joked Angela, spiraling her finger downward.
“Where is Colonel Sanders anyway?” asked Tara.
“He went back to Kentucky Fried Chicken for all we know. We should turn him in to PETA for mistreatment of bears and owls,” wisecracked Liz.
Everyone laughed, including Tara. A cell phone circulated with a video and stills of Smokey suspended in midair. As miserable as she’d been, the images were comical. She couldn’t help laughing at herself.
“This is our last night in Chinook. What’s on the agenda?” Tara surveyed the long table.
“Fourth of July party at Yukon Roadhouse,” said Silva. “I’ll buy the three of you a cold one as a peace offering, to beg your forgiveness.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go.” She grinned and pushed back from the table.
“Me too,” Liz chimed in. Everyone stood and filed out the door.
Seemed like the entire town was partying at the Roadhouse by the time Aurora Crew arrived. The party spilled out onto a back-patio deck bordering a generous lawn, where people threw darts and horseshoes.
Tara stayed inside and played pool with her Afi Slayers squad, while Liz enjoyed her reign as queen of the foos-ball table. The rest of the crew scattered outside to play horseshoes. Tara finished her game of pool and joined Silva at an antique juke box in a corner.
He fed quarters into the coin slot. “This must be the last holdout where needles drop onto vinyl. How about some Johnny Cash with Ring of Fire?” Silva shot his brows up at her.
“Yeah, play it.” Tara lifted her Alaskan Amber and clinked bottles with Silva. “Thanks for helping me today, even though it was partially your fault.”
“I feel bad. Tried to be Mr. Cooperative, so Bing Pickel would give our crew a superior performance rating.” Silva tilted his head. “Had to get you out of the Smokey Bear suit before I could pick you up and get you to your tent.”
“Thanks for leaving my Nomex on.” A corner of her mouth quirked up.
“That part was not my job. I pride myself as a gentleman.” Silva took a long pull on his beer. “Glad you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks to Gatorade.” She sipped her own bottle and grinned. “If the situation were reversed, no way could I lift you to my shoulder with or without a Smokey suit.”
“But wouldn’t it be fun trying?” He pulled on his beer, his dark eyes seriously checking her out.
Heat climbed to her face. She liked and respected Silva, but nothing more. Change the subject. “I saw your coveted Snowy Owl, by the way.” She may as well share it, knowing how much Silva would appreciate it.
“No way! Where?” He drew back with wide eyes.
“When I drove the crew back to Chinook from Tideman Hot Springs a few days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” He seemed genuinely offended.
A twinge of guilt twisted her. “I meant to. It landed on the windshield with its wings spread. I slowed and it stayed there. We had a stare down. Did you know it’s speckled with black on top and its under wings are solid white?”
“Yeah. I did know that.” His face softened. “Snowy Owls are a good omen. You should feel lucky.”
“It’s one of the most stunning birds I’ve ever seen. Why do you suppose it landed on my windshield?”
“They seek beauty.” He moved closer; his gold-flecked brown eyes boring into her.
Silva was a charming, attractive guy, no getting around it. If she were to break her no-flings-with-co-workers rule, she wished it would be with Ryan; but he wasn’t here and she felt like dancing.
Beer in hand, she swayed her hips to the music and Silva joined her, creating their own dance floor. She noted his eyes checking out her lengthy frame, resting on her form-fitting T-shirt. The song changed to Wildfire, by Dan Fogelberg, a slow ballad from the 70s. Silva pulled Tara in close for a slow dance. She hesitated, then placed her hands on his solid shoulders. It was odd seeing him out of his yellows, and hard not to notice how well he filled out his UAF T-shirt.
As they danced, his hand moved slowly around her shoulder blade and it felt good as he lightly massaged it. She almost said, “A little to the right,” but caught herself. He nuzzled her, singing in a low, sexy voice.
The song ended but he didn’t let go of her. Before she turned her head to ease away from him, his lips nearly brushed hers. She gently pushed him away.
“Oh, don’t.” He gave her a puppy dog look with those thick lashes. A lot of it was the beer talking.
Tara rested her hand on his forearm. “Jon, we can’t…you know that.”
He gave her a rueful look. “I know. But I really want to kiss you.”
“Thanks for the dance, Jon.” She took great care to sound polite.
“Sure.” He gave her a disappointed smile. His eyes lingered on her a moment before he turned away to join a game of foos-ball.
Angela and Liz lined up a round of Jell-O shots on the bar, while Tupa, Bateman, and Robin compared scars like Quint and Hooper in Jaws.
“Waters, front and center. Jell-O shots with tequila and rum,” Liz called out to her.
Tara ambled across the room to the bar to study the red, blue, and green shots lined up like containers of Easter-egg dye. They’d all have to roust each other out of bed in the morning, but she rationalized they could sleep on the way to Fairbanks. She downed a red shot and Liz and Angela cheered. The warmth spread, tingling her system. She reached for a green one. And a blue one.
“We’re gonna have sugar hangovers, y’all.” Angela threw back a shot.
Silva swayed toward Tara. “Come on, Waters. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. Don’t worry, I won’t try to kiss you. I’ll be good.” He
