Page 192 of Her Reluctant Hero
Hot Shot
MJ Fredrick
Chapter One
So this was Gabe Cooper.
Peyton Michaels stood at the edge of the group in front of the mess tent to watch the legendary firefighter step up to brief his crew.
Stories about Gabe Cooper and the Bear Claws, the best Hot Shot crew in Montana, had abounded during Peyton’s training to become a wildland firefighter. Most of the stories had been cautionary tales from the instructors, but even some of the trainees had heard about this crew. And when Peyton had been assigned to the Bear Claws, well, nervousness didn’t touch her jitters. Cooper didn’t take rookies, and he didn’t take to reporters. She was both, and would have to work hard to prove herself.
Was she ready?
Scratching her arm beneath the brand-new itchy Nomex shirt, she turned her attention back to the crew leader.
Movie-star handsome, with a long jaw, lean cheeks, deep-set brown eyes framed by long lashes and broad shoulders hugged by a black T-shirt. She’d forgotten how the sight of a handsome, confident man could kick up her pulse.
Cooper’s posture defined self-assurance. The lines that fanned from his eyes and the silver flecking his brutally short hair spoke of his years of experience. His tires-over-gravel voice conveyed his weariness, though it was only July, not quite the middle of the fire season.
The topographical maps on the bulletin board behind him were veined with different colored lines, and Cooper had marked their route in black Sharpie. He traced over it for emphasis, his hand square but oddly graceful as he dragged his finger down the line. The path appeared pretty darn straight, and with all the brush and gullies and boulders, that couldn’t be the easiest way.
Part of his legend was that he didn’t do things the easy way.
Peyton scanned his crew, most of whom cast curious glances in her direction. She could learn a lot about the man by his crew.
A young redheaded woman stood at his shoulder and faced the rest, arms folded, a white bandage on one hand. She wasn’t quite one of them, but also wasn’t in charge. Every time the young woman glanced at Cooper, admiration glowed in her eyes. Cooper didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps he was accustomed to it.
Peyton was a little surprised to see almost a third of the crew were women. Five women besides the redhead, all mid-twenties, not unattractive, proved he had nothing against women.
The men who rounded out the crew ranged from farm boys to rock-band rejects, teenagers to men near her age, some with tattoos and earrings and others with wire-rimmed glasses. All gave Cooper their full attention. He was without question the stuff legends were made of.
Peyton had had her fill of mythical creatures.
“Any questions?” Cooper asked, directing the question at her, sending her nerves skittering. When none were forthcoming, he dismissed them to get their gear, and moved straight toward her.
The skittering nerves started a mambo, and it took everything in her not to step back. The rest of the crew moved slowly as they gathered their gear, watching Cooper.
Not taking her eyes from him, she reached down and hefted her pack onto one shoulder. “There’s been a mistake.” He flicked his gaze to the freshly stenciled name on the pocket of her fire shirt. “Michaels.” His tone had softened a bit from when he was addressing his crew, but still had a take-no-crap edge to it. “I don’t take rookies on my crew.”
She straightened. “I’m not. I mean, I am. A rookie. But I’m Peyton Michaels from Up to the Minute magazine. I’ve been assigned to your crew.”
A reporter. Gabe scowled. That explained everything but the fire shirt that bore no crew insignia. Maybe she’d borrowed it to get into camp. What the hell was she talking about, though, assigned to his crew? He glanced toward the media tent. “I beg your pardon?”
His harsh tone made her draw back, but only a little. “I’m going out with the Bear Claw Hot Shots. Jen Sheridan said you were the best.”
Jen Sheridan. The name kicked him in the chest.
He studied the reporter in front of him. Her elegant features, slender nose, high cheekbones, pale skin, hinted at a privileged upbringing. Her cleanliness pegged her as a rookie. The odd thing was, she was no young girl. Her sharp eyes, the slight creases near them and also around her mouth, made him think she was in her thirties. What kind of job did she think she was walking into?
“The last thing I need is some reporter following me all over the mountain asking stupid questions and getting in the way,” he said.
“I assure you, I’ve done my research and gone through the necessary training.”
“I assure you, I could give less than a damn,” he drawled. “I’m here to get a job done, and I don’t intend to let anyone slow me down.”
“I’m here to get a job done as well,” Peyton said, shifting her pack. “I have my fire card. I can pull my weight.”
He expelled a doubtful snort. “Pulling your weight on my crew isn’t the same as making it through the Forest Service’s sorry course. The Bear Claw Hot Shots are the best of the best, and they’re that way because I don’t tolerate slackers.”
