Page 5 of Bronx

4

Over everyone else and the thunderous tunes, I could hear Bulldozer's loud, booming voice. The guy, like his nickname, rolled over everything in his wake. Adam Rafferty had been on the crew for six years. He'd started the gig at twenty-one, younger than most, but he had proven himself physically, outrunning every new recruit, not just by seconds but minutes. Mentally, he could get distracted, mostly due to a bad temper, but he was definitely someone you wanted on your side when facing down ten foot tall flames. We didn't always get along. He was one of those guys who could just rub me the wrong way, but I rubbed him wrong too. It was a mutual put up with each other for the team kind of relationship.

I walked past the kids who had finally managed to clean off their raft, only to have it get dirty again as they dragged it across the gritty parking lot to a blue truck. I followed the sandy path past the copse of trees and stepped into the chaos I was expecting.

Three shade tents with the base camp logoFire Warriors of the Westwere set up along the narrow white beach. Towels, umbrellas, beach chairs and ice chests dotted the sand from one end to the other. Gideon Underhill, or, Topper as we called him for his propensity to land on tree tops, had delivered on his promise to bring out his ski boat. Topper was one of the old-timers, which in smokejumping years meant thirty plus. He was fast in the rough terrain, like a mountain goat—even at his ripe old age. As agile as he was on steep hillsides, he usually hesitated at the jump, the remnants of a fear of heights he'd had to overcome to get the position. Bulldozer and Angus were sitting on the bow of Topper's boat with two women, both slick with suntan oil. I had yet to meet Bulldozer's wife but could only assume that the blonde sitting nearly in his lap was Layla Rafferty.

Axel, the spotter for the crew, was the first to spot me. "Woohee! The last of the rookies has arrived. Hey, Bronx, get yourself a drink." He held up a beer can. "We need to loosen you up for the hazing."

I glanced over to the tent where Kingston was getting mighty familiar with a curvy brunette. King raised his beer and shrugged. "No idea what he means by hazing. No one else seems to know either."

I turned back to Axel. He laughed. "I'm just messing with you. Grab a beer but don't drink too much. Topper's about to take the boat out if you're interested in some wakeboard action." Axel had been a jumper early on, but a motocross accident had shattered his femur. He was so dedicated to smokejumping, he retrained to be a spotter, the person who checks wind velocity and the general direction of the fire. It was a job that meant life and death to the crew, and he was damn good at it.

I nodded. "I could get into some wakeboarding, but first I'm going to take a swim. I need to cool off."

"That's right. We've got a near Olympic swimmer in our midst," Jane said from her chair under a giant umbrella. Two of her kids were busy burying her feet and legs in the sand. Jane was our pilot and the queen of the whole fucking operation.

"I don't think winning medals in high school is the automatic precursor for the Olympics, Jane, but thanks for the ego boost anyhow."

"There you go again, selling yourself short, Bronx." She reached into her beach bag and tossed me a cellophane bag with a big cookie. It was cut into the shape of a parachute and had the words Rookie No More painted across in hard icing.

I lifted it up. "Thanks, Malibu." Jane grew up surfing on a beach in Malibu, and she was tougher than anyone I knew. She was brusque and never held back. When one of us needed to hear shit we didn't want to hear, then Jane had no problem stepping up to plate to deliver it. She'd been married to another pilot, but he cheated on her. She sent him packing before he could even stutter out an apology. She just as quickly changed the tattoo of her husband's face into a pirate by adding an eye patch and a rose between his teeth. She said it was the most therapeutic tattoo session she'd ever sat through.

I headed over to Kingston. He'd conveniently parked himself in front of the ice chests.

"Didn't think you were going to show. How's Vick?" he asked, hesitantly. Vick had always been cool about letting Kingston stay at the ranch, especially as we grew into our teens and King started butting heads with his dad. He loved Vick too.

I shook my head as I searched through the ice chunks for a cola. "They had to take even more than they thought. Cancer was farther than they expected."

"Shit, that sucks," King said, and he meant every word.

The woman standing next to him with dark curls and pale green eyes clucked her tongue. "There's nothing worse than cancer."

"Oh hey, Jack, this is Mixx's cousin, Vera."

"Right." I shook her hand. "You're the Vera going into law school. Congratulations."

"Thanks." She had a bright white smile like her Aunt Atalia.

"Are you going out on the boat?" Kingston asked.

"Nah, think I'll take a swim first. I need to loosen up before I wakeboard. I slept on a chair all night, and I'm feeling about a hundred years old." I popped open the soda and shot it back.

"Are you swimming out to the island?" he called as I headed toward the water. "I'll time you."

"Not going for any records, just a swim," I called back. I pulled off my t-shirt.

Angus let out a whistle that could be heard all the way across the lake. "Look at those pecs and abs," he cooed. "Pretty boy Bronx is showing off his stuff."

I gave him the appropriate finger, waded in a few feet, then dove under. The cool water washed over me, sending me into my water world, a world I knew almost as well as the world inside a horse paddock. At least swimming only gave me earaches. Colt breaking left me battered, bruised and grinning like a fucking jack-o'-lantern.

I surfaced for a breath and broke into a freestyle stroke. The island, the mound of land with overgrown shrubs and a few rustic benches, looked deserted and shady. The perfect landing place to clear my head from the last few days. Watching Carly pack had been as satisfying as it was gut-wrenching. We'd sort of grown up together, spending our early twenties laughing, learning and fucking . . . a lot of fucking. It was probably the sex that had kept us trying to keep things together. And, in the background of her sealing up boxes and making arrangements with her friends to lease a room, Mom had called a hundred times to give me updates on what the doctors were advising. It had been a rough few days, and the news from the operating room only made it worse.

The brisk swim had gotten my heart rate up and my pulse roaring, but the lead weight of the last few days made me feel as if I was moving through the water dragging a block of cement behind me.

I reached the shore of the small island and climbed the rocks to the softer sand. The beating sun had made the dry sand so hot, even wet, my feet couldn't stay in one place. I hiked through the lush shrubbery, growing wild and undisturbed, in the center of the island and found a spot higher up where I could see the lake and the shoreline. I could see everyone partying on the beach and in the water but they couldn't see me behind my cocoon of greenery. I leaned back on my palms and dug my feet into the shade-cooled sand. A slight breeze floated across the island, fluttering the green landscape and briskly drying my wet skin.

"You've invaded my peace and quiet, but I'll forgive you because you look as if you need it more than me." A pair of long, tanned legs pulled up next to me. She sat down, gently, gracefully like someone who did ballet for a living. Her bikini looked snow white next to her bronze skin, perfectly sun kissed and smooth as silk. Her long fingers tucked her shoulder length, slightly wet hair, tawny or dark gold, depending on where the light was hitting it, behind her ears. Even her ears looked as if some artist had set out to the paint the perfect woman from head to toe and had paid special attention to every detail, even her ears. And all the perfection was nearly forgotten when one looked into her large brown eyes.

---