Light My Fire: Christian romantic suspense (Summer of the Burning Sky Book 1)

  Light My Fire

  Summer of the Burning Sky Book 1

  Susan May Warren

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Continue the epic adventure with: The Heat Is On

  Dear Reader

  Soli Deo Gloria

  One

  His knee had turned into a melon, achy and soft, and Tucker Newman’s entire body throbbed, right down to the marrow. Please, just give him one night without trouble.

  Without ash in his hair, smoke gritting his eyes.

  Without the lurking sense of danger that tonight, someone might die.

  Sheesh, he was getting morbid.

  He was just angry, mostly at himself, the kind of fury that settled into his bones and simmered, a quiet frustration that he couldn’t burn away.

  It was quite possible he’d lost his edge.

  Tucker leaned against the bar and tried to get his head back into the now, the black, the fact that they’d all lived. Hello.

  “C’mon, pal, it shouldn’t be that hard.”

  Tucker stared at Vic, the bartender for the Midnight Sun Saloon, her hair pulled back into a thinning blonde ponytail, her lips pursed, annoyance in her eyes. She fisted a bar cloth on her beefy hip.

  “Right.” She’d offered him plenty of choices—three on-tap brews, the standard bottled beers.

  Behind him, shouts rose. Which meant he should probably order his wings to go. Because a glance in the mirror behind the bar at his exhausted but wired teammates—eight hardy smokejumpers who’d just stepped off the line with him—told him the night was only going to get rowdier.

  “Ginger ale and a basket of wings.”

  Vic grabbed a glass and reached for the bar hose.

  The Midnight Sun Saloon reminded Tucker of the Ember Hotline back home in Montana. Pictures of local heroes on the walls, neon beer lights reflecting against a long, mirrored wall that held bottles and glasses. Tables covered in red vinyl cloths, a scuffed wooden floor, and a television mounted in one corner that played a satellite-beamed replay of the Super Bowl, already forgotten in the Lower 48.

  This Alaskan version of the local grub joint, however, hosted an unfair share of elk and reindeer antlers, a moose head, and two grizzlies with their incisors bared. Half-lit Christmas lights still hung from the polished wooden beams overhead, and dark, smoky logs held up the low ceiling embedded with decades of smoke, grease, and raucous music.

  Home sweet home up here in the wilds of the last frontier, one hundred miles north of Anchorage.

  Tucker turned around, leaned against the bar, and cast a babysitter gaze on his team.

  The Jude County Smoke Jumpers. Seven men and one woman—sloughing off a ten-day firefight in high decibel laughter bouncing off the collection of amber-colored bottles and not a few take-to-their feet callouts over the rerun football game playing on the flat screen.

  A tired, edgy, courageous bunch that he loved more than family.

  Because, well, they were his only family, weren’t they? Tucker glanced at Riley down at the end of the bar, leaning on his elbow, chatting up a blonde with her back to the room. Riley held a brown bottle of something in his grip, gesturing, brown eyes alight, probably telling a whopper about the fire they’d just climbed out of.

  Across the room, Reuben, their big sawyer, and petite jump pilot Gilly were huddled together in a booth in the front of the saloon, sharing a pizza.

  Gilly and Reuben, Riley, Jed and himself were all that remained from their restart three years ago, after a tragedy wiped out seven members and decimated the team. Three years shouldn’t count as seasoned in the world of firefighting, but when you started with more than half the team as rookies every year, it had fallen to Tucker to step up and help train.

  Lead.

  Babysit.

  And tonight, he might have his hands full.

  Riley walked over to an ancient jukebox and popped in a quarter. “The Boys Are Back in Town” hit the speakers and with it, some karaoke from the patrons.

  “It’s going to get loud tonight.”

  Tucker turned—he hadn’t noticed Jed join him at the bar. He slid onto a stool beside Tucker.

  “Probably.”

  Jed glanced over at the congregation of smokejumpers—heroes with eager, formerly smoke-smudged faces, many with beards, bearing scrapes and sunburns and a cockiness that came from winning this round of the war on fire.

  “We’re attracting attention,” Tucker said. He nodded to a few flannel-clad locals.

  “Let them eat, then head back to the ranch. Make sure they get a good night’s sleep.”

  Tucker had never respected someone more than Jed Ransom, seasoned smokejumper, his trainer, boss, and frankly, a guy he would follow anywhere. However, the three weeks on the line had stripped some of the vim from Jed’s expression, added whiskers and length to his dark brown hair, turning it nearly unruly. He’d showered back at the ranch where the team bunked and now wore a black Jude County Smokejumpers T-shirt and a jean jacket, a pair of hiking boots.

  “Here you go,” Vic said, and Tucker turned as she set down a basket of wings, a plastic cup of blue cheese, and some celery. His glass of ginger ale sweated on a napkin.

  “Thanks.”

  Jed reached for one of his wings. “Skye okay?”

  Tucker took a sip of his drink. “Seems like it. Wish I could get the shot of her standing in the middle of that fire out of my head.”

  “What happened, exactly?”

  “I don’t know—one second she’s lighting the burn with the drip torch, the next she’s completely frozen, letting it drip fire around her. She said it wouldn’t turn off—she could have burned alive.” He blew out a breath, wanting to shake from his brain the image of Riley grabbing her, throwing the torch, tackling her out of the flames.

  “Riley has—” Jed started.

  “Crazy. Riley is crazy,” Tucker said, picking up a wing. “He could have gotten both of them killed.”

  Jed raised an eyebrow, set down the bones of his wing on a napkin, and grabbed another. “Riley acted fast. She could have been seriously hurt.”

  Yeah, maybe Jed was right. While Tucker had been shouting instructions at her as to how to turn it off, Riley reacted.

  Tucker used to be the guy who reacted.

  Jed’s mouth tightened, but he gave a shallow nod. And had the grace not to suggest that Riley had probably saved Skye’s life.

  Truth was, wildland firefighting was one of the world’s most dangerous occupations. Add in leaping from a plane from 3,000 feet into the mouth of a dragon, well…yeah, if they all made it home alive, it wouldn’t be without divine intervention. So maybe he should cut them all a little grace.

  Tucker well remembered his own rookie year as a smokejumper. Worse, that year someone had been trying to kill their team. Had nearly succeeded, at least twice.

  “Skye’s smart,” Jed said. “But we all hit the wall at some point. Keep an eye on her while I’m gone.”

  Tucker looked over at him. “While you’re—where’re you going?”

  “So, bad news.” Jed set his cell phone on the counter. “That was Kate. She’s…well, she’s still a month out from her due date, but she thinks she might be in labor. She’s going into the hospital and wants me to come home.”

  Tucker used one of the many packets of wet wipes piled next t
o his basket to clean his fingers. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Yeah. I think… I don’t know.” Jed ran a scarred hand around the back of his neck, kneaded a muscle there.

  “Good thing we’re headed out tomorrow.”

  “That’s the thing. The Bureau of Land Management wants us to stick around for another forty-eight hours at least. The Alaskan jump team had to deploy to another start north of Fairbanks, so we’re the only ones holding the line down here if the Chelatna Lake fire wants to wake up.”

  “We put it to bed pretty well—”

  “I’m leaving you in charge, Tuck.”

  Tucker blinked at him. Couldn’t help but glance past him to Gilly and Reuben, now rising from their corner booth. “What about—?”

  “Yeah, I know, but Reuben hates leading—always has. And Riley, well—” Jed shot a glance over his shoulder, and Tucker could guess to what he referred.

  Riley was probably using his brown eyes and charming prep-school smile to hone in on the poor blonde, probably wooing her with a story of peril, suggesting this night might be his last. The Chicago boy had littered the small town of Ember with heartbreak and apparently was attempting a small debris field here too.

  Still, despite his recklessness, on the line he was tough, the kind of guy you wanted beside you because Riley simply didn’t know the word quit.

  “Are you sure?” Tucker said just as Reuben walked past them, the big man lifting his chin to Tucker. Jed turned and raised a hand to the departing couple, Gilly offering a smile. She just might be the most fearless among them—she not only flew them right over the flames but had started flying bombers a few summers ago, saving their lives more than once with the perfectly placed wave of water.

  “Yeah. Listen, if there’s another start, just work with the local BLM incident commander to fight it. I trust you and your instincts, Tucker.”

  Tucker didn’t know how to process those words, landing the way they did in the center of his chest.

  Yeah, he used to have instincts. The kind that had destroyed his career, his future. He simply couldn’t trust instinct. Which is why he had rules. Obeyed them.

  Jed pocketed his phone. “Gilly and Reuben are flying me down first thing in the morning.” He glanced at the teams. “Make sure these yahoos get back to the ranch in one piece. It’s nights like tonight that can wreck more lives than fire.”

  “Roger,” Tucker said. “Standard Firefighting Order number two: Know what your fire is doing at all times.”

  Jed laughed. “Clearly they’re in the right hands. Just…don’t do anything stupid with my team.”

  Jed meant it as a joke—Tucker knew it. But the words still burrowed deep, found the raw, unhealed places where his shame sat, and stirred it. He forced a smile, nodded.

  His gaze followed Jed out. He was reaching for a wing when his attention fell hard on a brunette with sable hair who eased into the bar, closing the door behind her as if she might be on the lookout for an ambush. She wore a leather jacket, jeans, cowboy boots, and a black T-shirt, and flashed a glance at Vic as she came in, taking off a pair of aviator sunglasses and setting them on the bar.

  “Oh boy,” Vic said, her voice dropping. “Here comes trouble.”

  Huh.

  And maybe Vic was right, because the brunette definitely seemed to expect trouble the way she slid up to the bar, two stools down from Tucker, put her car keys on the bar, and looked into the mirror.

  He’d seen it before—an almost “come-at-me” expression that had his instincts firing.

  He knew that look. Had worn that look, once upon a time.

  Apparently, he and Vic weren’t the only ones who noticed her because the conversation hum dipped. Just a moment, but enough for her to lift her chin, offer a dangerous, half hitch of a smile.

  Tucker took a bite of one of his wings, then grabbed a napkin. Messy things. “What’s her story?”

  “Local girl. Used to be a cop. Let’s just say that last time she was here, someone died.”

  What? He frowned even as Vic headed over to the woman.

  Striking, really. Beautiful, glossy sable hair. High, regal cheekbones, pale green eyes that seemed to read the room before they settled on Vic. Not necessarily petite, but not big-boned, either. Toned, capable. She put her booted foot on the bar rail.

  “You got nerve,” Vic said as she put a napkin on the bar. “I don’t want trouble. Whatya have?”

  “The usual,” the woman said, and Tucker’s interest piqued.

  “Stevie Mills.”

  The name carried across the room, attached to a big man—tall, wide shoulders, flannel shirt, and a baseball cap on backward over his dark, short-clipped hair. He emanated attitude in the way he walked over.

  She got off the stool, meeting him. “Nate.” Despite standing a good foot shorter, she didn’t shrink back. Instead, her chin lifted a little, her eyes narrowing.

  Nate leaned in and whispered in her ear, his six-something frame shadowing her, his voice low under the song on the jukebox.

  Tucker saw her draw in her breath, and something inside him bristled. He didn’t care how tough a woman was—he didn’t like seeing anyone threatened. And Flannel Nate definitely had menace in his eyes.

  Tucker reached for a napkin and started drying his hands. Kept her in his periphery.

  When he heard an under-the-breath curse word, he glanced up. Vic was wiping a glass, shaking her head. “I knew it wouldn’t take long.”

  He frowned, a question forming—

  “Back off, Nate.”

  The tone, more than the volume, made him look over again. Stevie stood her ground, but despite her tone, her warning, Nate wasn’t moving. If anything, he took another step toward the woman, and Tucker looked back at Vic.

  “She can take care of herself,” Vic said, her mouth tight, as if expecting exactly that trouble she’d predicted.

  Huh. Stevie put her hand on Nate’s shoulder, as if to push him away, and when Nate didn’t move, Tucker slid off his stool.

  Because he’d nearly had a woman die in his arms once, at the hands of a man who thought he could bully a woman into submission. And frankly, he didn’t care how capable a woman was.

  There were lines a guy shouldn’t cross.

  “Ease back there, bro. Give her some room.” Tucker kept his voice easy, but the song on the juke had just ended, and his words came out loud, a warning.

  He could nearly feel the eyes in the room on him, burning right through him.

  Nate the aggressor took a step back and frankly, that’s all Tucker wanted. A chance for Stevie to get her ground back. He nodded, then glanced down at Stevie.

  He might have imagined it, but a tiny spur of fear, or surprise, even relief, flickered in her eyes one second before it vanished, replaced with a cool shade of grit.

  A crack in her tough-girl demeanor.

  It was enough to make him hesitate.

  Nate wasn’t stepping back. He turned to Tucker. “Mind your own business, hotshot. This isn’t your fight.” The man stood a good two inches over him, but Tucker had the girth and hard body of a man who swung a Pulaski, who toted 110 pounds of gear on his back for miles, who breathed smoke and stood his ground when fire wanted to chase him down a hill.

  But oh, he didn’t want trouble. “Hey man, just…give the woman some respect.” He held up his hands, a gesture of peace more than surrender.

  Still, he could almost hear the spark ignite as chairs scooted across wooden floors. Tucker didn’t have to look to see his tired, edgy, and not a little jacked-up team of rookies assembling behind him.

  What he didn’t expect was for Nate to size him up and glance over to a table of locals.

  Who’d risen to join him.

  “Nate—” Stevie started.

  “Don’t—” Tucker said at nearly the same time.

  “Too late,” Nate snapped, fire in his eyes.

  Shoot, but Tucker felt it too. The hot rush of adrenaline lighting inside him.<
br />
  No. He wouldn’t let a brawl cut short his—or his team’s—night off. He glanced at Stevie. “I just want to make sure—”

  The punch hit him across the jaw, an explosion of heat and pain and fury that spun him into the bar.

  Screaming, a roar, and by the time he turned back, the bar had erupted.

  His teammates launched themselves at whatever local seemed in on the fight, hopefully one their size, although even as he grabbed Nate around the waist to tackle him back, away from the brawl, he spied Riley jumping on a guy with the girth of a moose.

  Tucker hit the floor on top of Nate, and instinct took hold. He grabbed Nate’s arm and rolled, pinning his head with his legs. Then he twisted Nate’s arm and shoved his fist under his elbow, wrenching it down into an arm bar. Submission, hot and fast, and the fight burned through bones. “Stay down!”

  Nate kicked but Tucker held on. Around him, shouts rose, furniture crashed, and men growled, all behind the fierce anger of Vic who had come around the bar gripping a baseball bat, thick in it, like a bear roused.

  Nate howled, shot off his mouth, and Tucker didn’t dare let him up.

  Riley landed beside Tucker on top of one of the flannels, heat in his eyes.

  Shoot, he’d been left in charge for all of five minutes, and the entire night had flashed over.

  Of course. Because no matter how he tried to hold it all together, to keep everyone safe—

  A shot. Fierce. Piercing. The sound ricocheted off the ceiling.

  For a second, everyone stopped. Found the source.

  Stevie. She stood like a gunslinger from the days of the gold rush, a Glock in her grip, raised. Her voice emerged dark and even. “Stop it!”

  Breathing. Then Vic released a loud, vibrant string of adjectives that had the bracing effect of Stevie’s gunshot.

  “Every one of you, get out!” Vic hauled up one of Tucker’s guys from the floor. He bled from the nose. “Unless you’re willing to behave yourself.”