At first, she hesitated. But he seemed back to his old self after she drew her line in the sand. She took his hand and rested the other one on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she imagined he was Ryan; wishing it were so.
“Cutting in, dude,” slurred Hudson, as he pried Tara away from Silva. Hudson grabbed her waist and before she could react, he yanked her into him so hard, he stumbled and nearly took both of them to the floor. He reeked of booze and she was surprised at how sloppy drunk he was. Then again, she wasn’t.
“Stop it, you jerk.” Tara put her hands to his chest and shoved him as hard as she could.
Hudson stumbled back and came at her again with rheumy eyes. “Not until you blow me.” He grabbed her around the waist again and squeezed her breast. That did it.
Instinct kicked in. Tara thrust her forearms up—breaking his hold on her—and curled her fist to give him a powerful upper cut under his chin, knocking him backward. He sprawled against several chairs, knocking them over.
Everyone in the bar stopped to see what had caused the ruckus. Tara stood, rubbing the knuckles of her right hand, surprised at her strength.
“For the love of all things manly, Mike. You let a woman do this to you?” Rego shook his head as he dragged Hudson to a chair and plunked him in it. Hudson’s head lolled back, and he passed out, drunk.
Rego looked up at an imposing bull moose head with a massive antler rack. “Keep an eye on him, Bullwinkle.” He turned to Tara. “Mike damn near polished off a fifth of tequila. He’ll be out for a while.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Nice right hook you got there.”
“Thanks. My dad taught me.” Tara looked over at Hudson’s snoring form.
Tupa fist-bumped her upper arm. “Toa malosi. Fierce warrior.”
“Wow,” said Silva with an astonished expression. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Tara shook her head at Hudson’s limp frame. “That was too weird.”
“He’s so drunk he won’t even remember it. Don’t let it ruin your night.” Silva winked at her and wandered to the pool table to join Tupa for a game.
The rest of the bar resumed business as usual, as if this were a common occurrence. Maybe in Alaska, it was. Around midnight the Roadhouse emptied, except for the women, two holdouts at the bar, and the bartender, who urged everyone toward the door. Most of the crew had trickled back to the fire station, including Silva. She headed for the door.
“Whoa, Nellie! Where do you think you’re going?” slurred Angela, throwing her arm around Tara. “No, you’re staying here, I have a job for you.” She pointed to Hudson passed out in a chair. “Hang ‘em high, Clint. On Bullwinkle.” Angela grinned, pointing her thumb up at the imposing bull moose head with ubiquitous antlers, mounted high on the wall above.
“You’re not serious. We can’t reach that.” Tara squinted up at the moose head, swaying. She grabbed hold of a table edge and clung to it to steady herself.
“Yes, we can. Help me.” Angela tried lifting Hudson, then gave up, letting him slide back on the chair. She snapped one of his red suspenders. “Go hang with Bullwinkle,” she slurred.
“Okay, let’s all three lift him.” Liz moved toward Hudson.
Angela straddled two chairs, then grabbed one of his arms. Liz struggled to push him up to her, but to no avail. Tara tried, but her muscles were liquid. The harder they tried, the harder they laughed. Hudson was dead to the world.
A door slammed. Tupa appeared from the men’s john.
“Tupa, we’re making a sacrifice to the moose gods.” Liz waved him over. “Lift this sorry POS and wrap his suspenders around those antlers.”
“Why you want to do that?” asked Tupa, as he stood blinking at the women.
“He groped Tara. Plus, we think he put extra weight in my pack, so I’d flunk my fitness test.” Angela proclaimed it as fact.
“That’s some bullshit. Anything for you ladies.” Tupa picked Hudson up as if he were made of feathers.
“Suspenders,” slurred Angela, pointing. “Hang them on the antlers.”
Tupa stood on a chair and Liz braced it. Tara and Angela took hold of Hudson under each arm and lifted him high enough that Tupa could grab hold and hoisted him high enough to stretch Hudson’s suspenders around a massive antler. He dwarfed the smaller man, making it seem effortless. Tupa jumped off the chair to view his handiwork.
Hudson dangled like a smokejumper hung up in a tree.
“Time to go, y’all,” Angela zigzagged toward the door.
Liz and Tara followed, giggling. Tupa brought up the rear, and the three made their way on the short, gravel road to the fire station in the rosy twilight.
Tupa stopped abruptly and held up his hand. “Ladies. Be like Samoan warriors. Do the Haka so people won’t mess with you.” He demonstrated. Grunting and thrusting out his tongue, Tupa bulged his eyes. He squatted, beating both hands on his chest, and stomping his feet. “Learn from a master. Do what I do.”
Angela, Tara, and Liz did their best, all the while giggling. Angela slapped her hands against her well-endowed chest. “Ow, hurts to pound my girls.”
“Slap your thighs instead,” instructed Tupa, walloping his so hard it sounded like the crack of a bat on a ball.
“This is how you scare the knickers off your enemies?” Angela drawled, circling Tupa.
Tupa grunted words Tara didn’t recognize. She’d seen the New Zealand All Blacks rugby team do the Haka on TV, but she’d never seen someone do it in the flesh. It was quite intimidating.
They gave up trying to follow along with the grunting, slapping, and tongue protrusions, so Tupa gave them each a piggyback ride on the road back to the fire station. Tara knew the price they would pay in the morning. Thank goodness for the next two days off after their twenty-one days of fire duty.
Once they reached
