Beautiful Burn (Maddox Brothers #4) Page 10

  “Are you finished stuffing your face? It’s making me nauseous,” I said.

  He stood, put a few bills on the table, and helped me up. He held me to his side, supporting my weight with ease and looking fairly sympathetic. “You okay?”

  I blew an errant long bang from my face, even more pissed at myself than I already was, and if I was honest, pissed at Paige. She didn’t know how hard I’d been working, though. She wasn’t responsible for my new path; that was all me.

  Tyler guided me to his truck and helped me inside. I tried to face forward and keep my eyes on the road, because riding in the back of the Audi on the way to Winona’s an hour before was rather brutal.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, we turned onto Mills Drive. His truck bounced over the uneven asphalt and ice as he parked in a lot south of the station.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We’ve got a short walk.”

  A vent was bleeding white mist out of the side of the brown building, and I stepped down and looked across the street, squinting my eyes to try to see if the lights were on yet at the MountainEar.

  “If you need to throw up, now is the time,” Tyler said, walking around the front to stand next to me. His thick arm hooked around my shoulders, but I shrugged away.

  “I’m fine. Don’t baby me. I did this to myself.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did.” Tyler stepped through the blanket of snow covering the broad gap between his truck and the station. We reached the back door, and with a quick twist of the knob, it was open. Tyler swept his arm toward the hallway ahead. “After you.”

  I crossed my arms to ward off the cold as I walked inside. It was much harder to keep warm when I was hungover for some reason—another thing to be pissed about.

  Tyler stomped his boots on a large industrial mat, and I did the same. He gestured for me to follow him down a hallway lined with cheap frames holding pictures of former superintendents and a few fallen fire fighters. The last picture was from the late nineties, and the guy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. I paused, staring at his freckles and sweet smile.

  We passed an open doorway that led to a brightly lit garage full of pumper trucks, engines, and equipment. Packs and helmets hung from hooks on the walls, and extra hoses were squared away on large shelves.

  “I’ll let you get some shots in here after we get the okay from the superintendent,” Tyler said. “My squad boss said he’s in today, sorting through applications.”

  After a few closed doors, we crossed the threshold of another doorway. Tyler pointed behind us. “That’s the squad boss’s office. The superintendent is in there now, cussing at the computer. His name is Chief.”

  “Is he the chief or superintendent?”

  “His name is Chief. His position is superintendent. He’s the one who has to clear you to stay at the dorms.”

  “Gotcha. Wait. I’m staying at the dorms? Where are the dorms?”

  “Farther into Rocky Mountain National Park. If you’re going to follow us around, we can’t come into town to get you every time we get a call.”

  “Holy shit. So I’m going to have to, like … pack?”

  “Yep. These,” he said, nodding forward, “are our quarters. TV room,” he said, pointing left. Two sofas and four recliners sat in front of a large television. It was a widescreen, but seemed to be its own unit, older than most of the guys watching it. Tyler waved, and they waved back, curious but not enough to move from their chairs. “Another office,” he said, pointing to a room farther down on the left. “We do our reports on that computer. And there,” he said, pointing right, “is the kitchen.”

  I walked through the doorway, seeing a rectangular table that seated eight on one side, and a modest cooking area with cabinets on each side, a refrigerator, and a stove. Next to the sink sat a toaster and a microwave. They seemed to have everything they needed, although it was the size of a closet to serve eight or so men.

  Tyler continued through a second doorway. “These are the sleeping quarters.”

  “Seriously?” The room looked like an infirmary, with beds set almost side-by-side, separated only by individual, square, armoire-like pieces. “What are those?”

  “They hold our personal belongings—extra clothes, coats, stuff like that. There are two on each side, sort of like lockers.”

  “You sleep like this? In one big room with a bunch of guys?”

  “Sometimes. Yes, some of them snore.”

  I made a face, and Tyler laughed. “C’mon. Let’s go see the superintendent.”

  We walked back through the kitchen, passing the guys in the TV room. They were just beginning to stir, standing up and stretching.

  “Are they going somewhere?” I asked.

  “They eat breakfast and watch the news. Then they go down and do chores unless we get a call. In off-season, we work a typical forty-hour week, five AM to four PM or four PM to ten PM.”

  “No fires at night?”

  “Yeah, for the full-time engine guys.”

  “Chores?”

  “Yep. Wash the vehicles, sweep and mop floors, dishes … whatever. We don’t have maids here.”

  I snarled at him, knowing it was a dig at me.

  “Downtime—if we get any—is a lot different at the hotshot duty station. We dig new trails and fix fence and signage, run drills…”

  “So, not really downtime,” I said.

  Tyler knocked on the door across from the quarters, and a deep voice growled from the other side.

  “Come in, damn it!”

  Tyler winked at me and opened the door. The superintendent sat behind his desk, partially hidden by several file folders and an ancient, boxy computer, looking frustrated.

  “Hey, Chief. I have a journalist here who—”

  “Do you know anything about Twitter?” Chief asked, his black eyes targeting me.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “The Twitter. Do you know anything about it? Someone with a lot more time and who makes a lot more money than me decided we needed to have a Twitter account, and I haven’t the slightest fucking clue how to … what is it called?”

  “Tweet,” Tyler said, trying not to laugh.

  He pounded his fist on the desk. “Goddamn it! Tweet!”

  “Yes. I could probably help,” I said, “but I’m here on an assignment, Mister…”

  He looked at me only briefly before shaking his head and returning his attention to the computer. “It’s just Chief. What assignment?”

  “I’m a … photographer for the MountainEar.” Even though it was the truth, I felt like I was lying. “I’ve been assigned to the Alpine Hotshots. Mr. Wick would like to share with the community what you guys do.”

  “We tweet,” he grumbled.

  Tyler breathed out a laugh. “Chief, c’mon. Miss Edson would like to—”

  “Edson?” Chief said, finally deciding I was worth more of his consideration than Twitter.

  Shit.

  Chief narrowed his eyes at me. “As in Edson Tech?”

  “Uh…” I began, not sure which was the right answer. My father had just as many enemies as he had friends. Probably more.

  “She’s just a photographer,” Tyler said. “Quit busting her balls and tell her yes or no. I’m in here on my day off.”

  “Yeah, and why is that?” Chief asked.

  “I owe her a favor,” Tyler said.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. Can she shadow the crew and take pics or not?”

  “Did she get her red card?”

  “Chief,” Tyler said, exasperated.

  “If she can show me how to send a twit, then yes.”

  I took off my coat, handed it to Tyler, and walked around the desk, kneeling next to the superintendent. “Tweet, Chief. You tweet on Twitter. And you have to have an account to tweet. Fill this out.”

  He tapped on the keyboard, following the steps to create an account.

  “Click on that button,” I said, pointing. “Here, you can upload a photo.
I bet you have your logo in your Pictures folder.” I clicked a few times, and like I’d thought, the Alpine Hotshot logo was in a file folder. One of their snapshots from the field made for a nice header photo, and then I stood. “All set.”

  “All set for what?” Chief asked.

  “Click on that icon, and type whatever you want.”

  “Not whatever you want, Chief,” Tyler specified. “Type something associated with the hotshots, but no cuss words. And keep it under a hundred and forty characters.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “A hundred and forty what?”

  “Just write about that cleanup we helped with the other day. Or the food drive we’re doing this weekend. Tell them we’re ready for the upcoming fire season and post the group photo. Short and sweet.”

  “Cleanups and food drives? You guys do stuff like that?” I asked.

  “Yeah. All the time.” Tyler said the words as if I should have known.

  After a knock on the door, a familiar voice began to speak. “Who’s the skirt?”

  I turned to see Taylor standing in the doorway. It was downright unsettling how identical he was to Tyler.

  I glared at him. “I’m not wearing a skirt, nor am I a skirt. And you know perfectly well who I am.”

  Taylor winked and smiled. “Be sure to tell all your Tumblr feminists you were offended first,” he said before turning for the TV room.

  Tyler’s jaws pulsed beneath the skin, but then he breathed out slowly.

  The superintendent’s eyes danced between where Taylor stood, Tyler, and me. “What the hell was that about?”

  “Nothing, Chief. Did you tweet?”

  Chief clicked the mouse and sat back in his chair, perching his elbows on the armrests. “It’s tweeting!”

  “Is Ellie clear?”

  “She’s clear. Keep her in the black or in the goddamn safe zone, and get the hell out of my office. I have work to do.”

  “Aye, Chief,” Tyler said, shooing me into the hall.

  “The black?” I whispered from the side of my mouth.

  “The area that’s already been burned to a crisp,” Tyler said, mimicking me.

  I breathed out a sigh of relief. “That was more difficult than I imagined.”

  “He’s a good guy. He gets shit done, makes sure we have all the equipment we need, even when the brass don’t always think we need it.”

  “Brass?”

  “Government higher-ups. It’s a budgeting thing. Constant fight. Not why you’re here. Let’s go meet some of the guys.”

  Tyler led me to the truck bay where the rest of his crew was hard at work. Two of them had the hood up on one of the trucks, two were sweeping and mopping the concrete floor, and a few more were in the corner with the equipment.

  “What are those?” I asked, pointing to the axe/hammer hybrids hanging from the wall.

  “Oh, those are pulaskis. Those,” he said, pointing to a shovel-like tool, “are rhinos. We make those here.”

  “You make those?”

  “Yeah, with the welder, a saw, a sander, and a few other tools. Whatever we can find, really. We have to get creative sometimes.”

  I pulled out my camera, took a few shots of the tools, and then aimed at the crewmembers going about their day. Tyler approached the men tinkering under the hood of a vehicle that looked like an oversized ambulance.

  “This is a crew bus,” Tyler said.

  “When it runs,” one of the men said.

  “The sign outside says Interagency, and you have Interagency equipment here, but also engines, and this is the city fire department?” I asked, confused.

  Tyler shrugged. “Double duty. Just makes things easier, especially since a lot of us do both urban and wildland. It’s closer to town, too, during off-season.”

  I nodded, pulling out my notepad and pen.

  “This,” Tyler said, pointing to a man taller than him, but not as thick, “is Smitty.” The short but solid hotshot wore glasses, and was a sophisticated kind of beautiful, with olive skin and a grease smear on his cheek.

  They both wiped their hands on their pants and greeted me.

  “Lyle Smith,” Smitty said, shaking my hand.

  Tyler pointed to the other one. “This is Taco.”

  “Taco?” I asked. His red hair and freckled skin gave me no hint of a reason for the nickname.

  “Clinton Tucker. My son is two. When he says our last name, it sounds like taco. Unfortunately, it stuck, but it’s not the worst nickname around here.”

  “Does everyone have one? A nickname?” I asked.

  Tyler shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  “What’s yours?”

  Smitty chuckled. “He has one, but no one is brave enough to say it to his face.”

  “You’ll have to let me in on that,” I said with a smirk.

  “No,” Tyler said. “He won’t.”

  I jotted down their names. “Is it hard for you, Taco? Being away from your son for days or weeks at a time?”

  “I guess. We don’t really know another way. It’s what I do,” Taco said, wiping his hands with a rag. “During fire season, it’s months at a time.”

  “How long have you been a hotshot?”

  “This is my fourth season in Colorado.”

  I nodded and let them get back to their jobs, then stood in the corner to snap a few candids of them working.

  “Over there is Watts … Randon Watson,” Tyler said, pausing while Watts waved with one hand, holding a mop in the other. “And that is our squad boss, Jubal Hill. Don’t let the silver hair throw you. He’s an animal.”

  “Jubal?” I asked. “What’s his real name?”

  Jubal dropped the broom and walked over, his light hair setting off his bronze skin and baby-blue eyes. He held out his hand. “Jubal Lee Hill. Nice to meet you.”

  “Jubilee,” I repeated.

  He looked down and laughed once. “It’s just Jubal. No nickname needed.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. When he walked away, I documented him like I was paparazzi. He needed to be in a calendar, or working for Vogue in New York and wearing designer glasses and a suit, not pushing a broom in a garage.

  “It’s okay,” Tyler said. “Every female who comes through here has a crush on Jubal.”

  “He doesn’t act like it,” I said.

  “That’s because he doesn’t know it.”

  “Right.”

  “Seriously. He’s loved the same woman his entire life. Since, like, the first grade or something. They got married right after high school, and … you should see them. They’re gross.”

  “Gross?”

  “Like newlyweds. They’ve been married thirty years.”

  “That’s gross?”

  “No,” Tyler said. “We just like to give ’em hell. I bet my parents would still be like that, too. It’s kind of cool to see. The rest of them are out.”

  “How many are on your crew? And what do you mean by out? Hurt? Vacation? Out sick?”

  Tyler chuckled. “Crews are typically twenty men and women.”

  “Women?”

  “Not very many, but the toughest hotshots I know are women.”

  I smiled, letting my camera hang from the strap around my neck. “So where are the rest?”

  Tyler led me to a group photo in a frame. “Like I said, in off-season, when we’re not fighting fires, we’re sometimes assigned other jobs like search and rescue or disaster response assistance. We’ll also work to meet resource goals on our home units. Some guys have other part-time jobs or just take unemployment and ski or travel or spend time with family.” He pointed to the faces I didn’t recognize. “Fish, the assistant superintendent. Sage, Bucky, and Slick are squad bosses like Jubal. Sugar. Cat. Scooter. Baggins. Jew. Sancho. Runt. Puddin’. Pup.”

  I arched an eyebrow.

  “I’ll get you a list of full names later.”

  “Real names, please. What are resource goals?”

  “Thinning, prescribed fire implementation
, habitat improvement, trail construction projects … stuff like that. Sometimes we go to the schools and do … you know … Smokey Bear stuff.”

  “Who has to dress up?” I asked.

  Tyler made a face. “That’d be me.”

  I snickered. “Thanks for that,” I said, scribbling on my notepad. “I’d like to get a picture of you in the suit at some point.” He frowned, and I nudged him. “You’re a peach for showing me around and an angel for taking me to see the superintendent.”

  “A peach?”

  “So, how many hours do you work on average?”

  Tyler crossed his arms. “We’re doing this now?”

  I looked up at him from my notepad. “Yeah?”

  “It depends on if it’s fire season or downtime. If we’re fighting a fire, we just sleep, eat, and work. We can work up to eighteen-hour days, but working thirty-two hours a stretch isn’t uncommon. Up to fourteen-day stretches.”

  “Holy shit,” I said under my breath.

  “Used to be twenty-one. Then we get our required days off—a forty-eight hour R & R—and then we’re back out. We travel all over … wherever they need us. Even Alaska, Canada, and Mexico.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “I’m a peach? Really?” he said, amused.

  “Shut up and answer.”

  “I can’t shut up and answer…” He trailed off, recoiling from my glare. “We’re on our third season. We were ground crew before that.”

  “We?” I said, looking up at him again.

  “Taylor and me.”

  “Are you a package deal?”

  “Basically,” he answered matter-of-factly, and I imagined him doing the same in interviews as well.

  I scribbled a few sentences, and then touched the pen to my lip. “I don’t see a lot of older guys on your crew. Why is that?”

  “You won’t see many at all. Wildfire fighting is brutal. If you do it more than five or six seasons, you start seeing some lingering physical issues. The superintendent goes on site, but he’s basically restricted to a desk because of his back, knee, and shoulder surgeries.”

  “Jesus,” I murmured.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You’ve mentioned something about the community. What else do you guys do?”

  “You mean community outreach? During downtime we have AM and PM physical training built in to the schedule, patrolling, drills, chainsaw work, fence building, signage…”