“Libby.” The blonde rested her bloody hands on her knees, palms up. “Libby Rydor.”

“Anybody who can climb up a rope when her hands are bleeding did better than not bad.” Rowan opened the first-aid kit. “Let’s fix them up. If anybody else got any boo-boos, tend to them, then head in, get your gear. Full gear,” she added, “for practice landings. You got thirty.”

Gull watched her apply salve to Libby’s palms, competently bandage them. She said something that made Libby—and those hands had to hurt—laugh.

She’d pushed the group through the course, hitting the right combination of callous insult and nagging. And she’d zeroed in on a few as they’d had trouble, found the right thing to say at the right time.

That was an impressive skill, one he admired.

He could add it to his admiration of the rest of her.

That blonde was built, all maybe five feet ten inches of her. His uncle would have dubbed her statuesque, Gull mused. Himself? He just had to say that body was a killer. Add big, heavy-lidded blue eyes and a face that made a man want to look twice, then maybe linger a little longer for a third time, and you had a hell of a package.

A package with attitude. And God, he had a hard time resisting attitude. So he stalled until she crossed the field, then fell into step beside her.

“How are Libby’s hands?”

“She’ll be okay. Everybody loses a little skin on the playground.”

“Did you?”

“If you don’t bleed, how do they know you’ve been there?” She angled her head, studied him with eyes that made him think of stunning arctic ice. “Where are you out of, Shakespeare? I’ve read Henry the Fifth.”

“Monterey, mostly.”

“They’ve got a fine smoke-jumper unit in Northern California.”

“They do. I know most of them. I worked Redding IHC, five years.”

“I figured you for a hotshot. So, you’re wanted in California so you headed to Missoula?”

“The charges were dropped,” he said, and made her smile. “I’m in Missoula because of Iron Man Tripp.” He stopped when she did. “I’m figuring he must be your father.”

“That’s right. Do you know him?”

“Of course. Lucas ‘Iron Man’ Tripp’s a legend. You had a bad one out here in 2000.”

“Yeah.”

“I was in college. It was all over the news, and I caught this interview with Iron Man, right here on base, after he and his unit got back from four days in the mouth of it.”

Gull thought back, brought it into the now in his head. “His face is covered with soot, his hair’s layered with ash, his eyes are red. He looks like he’s been to war, which is accurate enough. The reporter’s asking the usual idiot questions. ‘How did it feel in there? Were you afraid?’ And he’s being patient. You can tell he’s exhausted, but he’s answering. And finally he says to the guy, ‘Boy, the simplest way to put it is the bitch tried to eat us, and we kicked her ass.’ And he walks away.”

She remembered it as clearly as he did—and remembered a lot more. “And that’s why you’re in Missoula looking to jump fire?”

“Consider it a springboard. I could give you the rest of it over a beer.”

“You’re going to be too busy for beer and life stories. Better get your gear on. You’ve got a long way to go yet.”

“Offer of beer’s always open. Life story optional.”

She gave him that look again, the slight angle of the head, the little smirk on the mouth that he found sexily bottom-heavy. “You don’t want to hit on me, hotshot. I don’t hook up with rookies, snookies or other smoke jumpers. When I’ve got the time and inclination for... entertainment, I look for a civilian. One I can play with when I’m in the mood over the long winter nights and forget about during the season.”

Oh, yeah, he did like attitude. “You might be due for a change of pace.”

“You’re wasting your time, rook.”

When she strolled off with her clipboard, he let himself grin. He figured it was his time to waste. And she struck him as a truly unique experience.


Gull survived being dragged up in the air by a cable, then dropped down to earth again. The not altogether fondly dubbed slam-ulator did a damn good job of simulating the body-jarring, ankle-and-knee-shocking slam of a parachute landing.

He slapped, tucked, dropped and rolled, and he took his lumps, bumps and bruises. He learned how to protect his head, how to use his body to preserve his body. And how to think when the ground was hurtling up toward him at a fast clip.

He faced the tower, climbing its fifty feet of murderous red with his jump partner for the drill.

“How ya doing?” he asked Libby.

“I feel like I fell off a mountain, so not too bad. You?”

“I’m not sure if I fell off the mountain or on it.” When he reached the platform, he grinned at Rowan. “Is this as much fun as it looks?”

“Oh, more.” Sarcasm dripped as she hooked him to the pully. “There’s your jump spot.” She gestured to a hill of sawdust across the training field. “There’s going to be some speed on the swing over, so you’re going to feel it when you hit. Tuck, protect your head, roll.”

He studied the view of the hill. It looked damn small from where he was standing, through the bars of his face mask.

“Got it.”

“Are you ready?” she asked them both.

Libby took a deep breath. “We’re ready.”

“Get in the door.”

Yeah, it had some speed, Gull thought as he flew across the training field. He barely had time to go through his landing list when the sawdust hill filled his vision. He slammed into it, thought fuck!, then tucked and rolled with his hands on either side of his helmet.

Willing his breath back into his lungs, he looked over at Libby. “Okay?”

“Definitely on the mountain that time. But you know what? That was fun. I’ve got to do it again.”

“Day’s young.” He shoved to his feet, held out a hand to pull her to hers.

After the tower came the classroom. His years on a hotshot crew meant most of the books, charts, lectures were refreshers on what he already knew. But there was always more to learn.

After the classroom there was time, at last, to nurse the bumps and bruises, to find a hot meal, to hang out a bit with the other recruits. Down to twenty-two, Gull noted. They’d lost three between the simulator and the tower.

More than half of those still in training turned in for the night, and Gull thought of doing so himself. The poker game currently underway tempted him so he made a bargain with himself. He’d get some air, then if the urge still tickled, he’d sit in on a few hands.

“Pull up a chair, son,” Dobie invited as Gull walked by the table. “I’m looking to add to my retirement account.”

“Land on your head a few more times, you’ll be retiring early.”

Gull kept walking. Outside the rain that had threatened all day fell cool and steady. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked into the wet. He turned toward the distant hangar. Maybe he’d wander over, take a look at the plane he’d soon be jumping out of.

He’d jumped three times before he’d applied for the program, just to make sure he had the stomach for it. Now he was anxious, eager to revisit that sensation, to defy his own instincts and shove himself into the high open air.

He’d studied the planes—the Twin Otter, the DC-9—the most commonly used for smoke jumping. He toyed with the idea of taking flying lessons in the off-season, maybe going for his pilot’s license. It never hurt to know you could take control if control needed to be taken.

Then he saw her striding toward him through the rain. Dark and gloom didn’t blur that body. He slowed his pace. Maybe he didn’t need to play poker for this to be his lucky night.

“Nice night,” he said.

“For otters.” Rain dripped off the bill of Rowan’s cap as she studied him. “Making a run for it?”

“Just taking a walk. But I’ve got a car if there’s somewhere you want to go.”

“I’ve got my own ride, thanks, but I’m not going anywhere. You did okay today.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s too bad about Doggett. Bad landing, and a hairline fracture takes him out of the program. I’m figuring he’ll come back next year.”

“He wants it,” Gull agreed.

“It takes more than want, but you’ve got to want it to get it.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

On a half laugh, Rowan shook her head. “Do women ever say no to you?”

“Sadly, yes. Then again, a man who just gives up never wins the prize.”

“Believe me, I’m no prize.”

“You’ve got hair like a Roman centurion, the body of a goddess and the face of a Nordic queen. That’s a hell of a package.”

“The package isn’t the prize.”

“No, it’s not. But it sure makes me want to open it up and see what’s in there.”

“A mean temper, a low bullshit threshold and a passion for catching fire. Do yourself a favor, hotshot, and pull somebody else’s shiny ribbon.”

“I’ve got this thing, this... focus. Once I focus on something, I just can’t seem to quit until I figure it all the way out.”

She gave a careless shrug, but she watched him, he noted, with care. “Nothing to figure.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said when she started into the dorm. “I got you to take a walk in the rain with me.”

With one hand on the door, she turned, gave him a pitying smile. “Don’t tell me there’s a romantic in there.”

“Might be.”

“Better be careful then. I might use you just because you’re handy, then crush that romantic heart.”