Wildfire Smokejumper Trilogy

Chapter 5-2

Macy had to admit that she was enjoying screwing with Tim’s head. He’d never had a single bone of sneaky in his body. Maybe that’s how he swept up the bar babes so easily, by being so forthright about wanting them.

He wrapped those big hands of his around her helicopter’s controls and she did her best to repress the warm shiver that slid up from where her hands rested on the matching set in front of her.

Oddly, it was his hands that had been the biggest change about him. That and the sadness. Both of those were new. He’d always been lean and athletic. Even now, bulked up with the work of smokejumping he was still lean, just powerful. But his hands, which had always been his most delicate feature, were now well callused and solid with muscle. As solid as his gut.

He tentatively moved the cyclic right and left, forward and back. She let her right hand ride along on the matching joystick that curved up to be positioned over her lap.

“Lighter feel than a Black Hawk.”

“I’ve never flown one,” and found herself a little ticked that he had.

Black Hawks were masterful Type I machines that could heave a thousand gallons per load, over four tons of water or retardant. Her Bell 206 LongRanger, despite the L-4 modification of a larger engine, was classed as a Type III, and could heft only a few hundred gallons.

“Emily’s Firehawk feels like a tank by comparison. I flew the MD500 with Jeannie a couple times before she graduated to the Firehawk. That’s a delicate craft.”

Jeannie or the MD500? Macy did her best to ignore the stab of jealousy. Was it at his flying the Firehawk or had he also flown Emily and Jeannie as a part of the “training”?

“I always felt as if I was going to break her little helicopter. This just feels right, a nice place between the two others.”

She wasn’t going to ask. She wasn’t. She wasn’t!

Tim checked all around, and eased up on the collective with his left hand.

Macy could place his skill level instantly. None of the beginner flail, but no practiced smoothness either. He could fly basic patterns under perfect conditions and that would be about all. Still, he had no obvious bad habits—other than collecting women like bright pennies.

Tim climbed steadily and when she pointed a finger north, he managed a reasonable turn in that direction, though his rudder work needed some definite practice.

“So, does my baby fly as smooth as Emily or Jeannie?” Oh s**t! She hadn’t been going to say that. She really hadn’t. Crap like that always just came out.

Tim burst out laughing.

Not quite the response she’d expected.

“Oh god. You’d have to meet them to know just how ludicrous that question is.”

“Ugly hags?” she only wished.

“No, both stunning.”

That would teach her. He continued apparently unaware of the level of s**t he’d just left her to stew in. She wouldn’t be jealous. There was nothing to be jealous of. Tim lived in the Lower Forty-eight. Women down there were all—

“Emily Beale is about the most terrifying woman you’d ever meet. She’s a former Army Major.”

“Couldn’t cut it, huh?”

“Former Night Stalker.”

Well, that finally put the shut up on Macy’s whirling thoughts. The Night Stalkers were the baddest helicopter pilots on the planet. She eased the collective up for the climb over Liga Pass. Tim wouldn’t know that even on a calm day the winds aloft could still rip through the pass. Outside it was near perfect flying weather, the kind of day she always loved being aloft.

Baxter stuck his nose through the gap between the cockpit and main cabin over her shoulder and rested his muzzle there. She cooed in his ear and he let out a small contented noise.

“Emily had a kid with another Night Stalker. And the only reason Mark isn’t more terrifying is because there’s his wife to compare him to. He’s our Incident Commander Air for all of Mount Hood Aviation, Emily is the lead pilot.”

“And Jeannie?” she hated herself for asking.

“Jeannie…” Tim’s voice sounded a little drifty.

Macy glanced over and decided she didn’t like that look one bit. He was smiling in a way that—

“…is intense. She doesn’t take crap from anybody. Hair about your color, with this wildfire red streak down the back. Flies like she’s dancing across the sky. Jeannie and her husband—”

Okay, now Macy was feeling even stupider.

“—are the kind that you think are going to be the wild ones, but really they’re two people used to being on their own. He’s our photographer.”

“You have your own photographer?”

Macy called the Ladd Airfield control tower at Fort Wainwright for clearance. She could feel Tim continuing to ride his hands on the controls, but letting her take the lead. It was an intimate connection, every little motion echoed, delayed by just an instant of backpressure on the controls.

“Jeannie married Cal Jackson.”

“The National Geographic cover guy?”

“Yeah, that’s him. If you saw his article on smokejumpers, Akbar and I are on one of the main spreads. Just our backs, but it’s us.”

She remembered the article. Had known it was Tim’s outfit. She’d have to dig out the issue from under her bed and look at it again. How had she not recognized Tim?

“Where are we going anyway? Isn’t this the Army base?”

Jeannie chatted with Jake in the control tower for a moment before entering the pattern and flying down to her usual spot by the service terminal.

“Weekly mail run,” she rolled the throttle from Flight down to Idle, hit the release and rolled it to Off, then began shutting down the various systems.

The mail truck wasn’t here yet—she checked her watch—nor would it be for another half hour.

“Be glad it isn’t the monthly run. That’s when I take the supplies out to the really remote villages. Makes for a long day. We’re early. Why don’t you let Baxter out?” For one thing, Baxter would want to stretch his legs. For another, she needed a little distance from Tim. He liked and respected the people he worked with, and they were among the best in the business. She’d never even met a Night Stalker and he flew with a pair of them? As a helicopter pilot she was having a bit of a fan-girl moment.

Tim had Baxter out, and the dog had dug out an old tennis ball from some corner of the passenger cabin. Tim began lofting it in high, effortless throws that sent the husky-lab mix galloping across the tarmac.

How in the hell was she supposed to survive a week of Tim being here? So close she could touch him, and so far away that he might as well be a character in…a magazine story.

She checked her watch again and cursed. Macy hadn’t really expected Tim to come with her. She’d left early for her pickup to escape him. What the hell was she supposed to do with Tim Harada for half an hour?