The Heat is On: Christian romantic suspense (Summer of the Burning Sky Book 2)

  The Heat is On

  Summer of the Burning Sky Book 2

  Susan May Warren

  Soli Deo Gloria

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Continue the epic adventure with: Some Like it Hot

  Dear Reader

  One

  Skye Doyle was going to get everyone killed.

  Including herself, but that would be small consolation to the horrific burning death of her smokejumping teammates.

  Throw it, Skye! Throw it!

  She could still smell it...the acrid smoke, the growl of the fire, the whoosh of flames as they splashed into the brush around her. Riley’s gloved hand around hers, grabbing the drip torch…

  “Skye, what are you doing? Throw the dart!”

  She stood frozen, her hand poised at the dart board. Shaking.

  Oh wow. Talk about killing her teammate. Handsome, dark-blond-haired Romeo stood a mere foot from the target.

  Around her, the crowd of smokejumpers unwound in the Midnight Sun Saloon, a local Copper Mountain, Alaska, grill and pub, drinking beer, consuming wings and pizza, and generally trying to slough off the residue of ten days of a back-breaking, grimy, firefighting battle alongside the Midnight Sun smokejumpers out of Fairbanks. Victory. The blaze had tried—and failed—to consume a resort nestled near Chelatna Lake, some fifty miles west of town.

  “I think I’m done for the night,” Skye said, handing her darts to Seth, their blond, Norwegian lumberjack. She went over to her booth and slid in, her hands shaking around her sweaty glass of Coke.

  If she wasn’t more careful, she—and maybe the rest of her team—would be shipped home in body bags back to their home base of Ember, Montana.

  She fisted her hands. Blew out a breath. Let in the beat of the song on the juke box—“The Boys Are Back in Town”—and stirred her Coke, one eye on her waitress now carrying chili fries to—shoot. Not her booth.

  She nearly followed the fries to the table of flannel-clad locals. Her gaze fell on Tucker, her trainer, seated alone at the bar with a glass of what looked like ginger ale and a basket of wings. At the other end of the bar, Riley, one of the only other seasoned jumpers at the bar, flirted shamelessly with pretty blonde Larke Kingston from Sky King ranch. Their current base camp was a sprawling hunting and bush pilot headquarters where the team was hunkering down during their callout to Alaska.

  If Riley hadn’t taken the defective fire torch from her hand and thrown it into the fire…

  Skye had panicked. Just an all-out, frozen, What-do-I-do-now reaction to having her drip torch flare over, turn into a freakin’ rocket in her hand.

  Not that Riley—or any of her team—had mentioned the fiasco. In fact, they’d invited her to sit with them at least twice. Good guys, all of them. Seth and Romeo from Minnesota and a couple Zulies—Hanes and Eric—who’d transferred from the Missoula team.

  She scrubbed her hands—still grimy despite repeated washings—down her sunburned face. The edges of her blonde hair were curled and fried off and maybe her nose hairs too, given the acrid odor of creosote that had her gut churning.

  She just wanted to sleep. She would have been happy staying home tonight, collapsing in her bunk at Sky King ranch. Not terrible digs for the team—she was used to sleeping in a grubby tent.

  Or under the stars. Except there were no stars out here in Alaska. Not this time of year, at least. The sky was on fire twenty-four/seven which meant her adrenaline never died. She never stopped feeling on edge, never shut down the sense that something was going to go horribly, terribly wrong. And it would be her fault.

  Because she’d frozen at the moment when she needed to think. To act.

  But that was what she did when life got overwhelming. Froze. Denied. Ignored. Sometimes ran the other direction, toward the next great adventure.

  Except now, here in the backwoods of Alaska, she had nowhere to run.

  She leaned against the booth, drank in the smells of fried food, beer, and not a little Alaskan history—and conceded that she might be in over her head.

  “Ease back there, bro. Give her some room.”

  Her head popped up, and she glanced over at Tucker at the bar.

  Uh oh. She caught the whiff of trouble happening at his end. Tucker had gotten off his stool and stood in front of a brunette, apparently appointing himself as her keeper. The woman stood a foot shorter than Tucker, with shimmery dark brown hair, dressed in a leather jacket, black T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots and glanced at Tucker as if surprised at his intervention.

  Yeah, well, Tucker pretty much thought the entire world was under his watch.

  The “bro” in question was an oversized Alaskan tough guy who bore a little make-me in his expression as he stepped up, eye to eye with Tucker.

  Skye glanced at the table of smokejumping teammates. Yes, they were watching, the room’s conversation dying just a little. Enough for her to hear Tucker add, “Hey, man, just…give the woman some respect.”

  And Tucker was all about respect. Following the rules of society. Which was a little weird since she’d seen him on the slopes—he was a rule breaker to the core on a snowboard, taking the hill with a speed and skill, balanced on the fine edge of reckless, that stole her breath. Fact was, she was drawn to the bold, the strong, the brave.

  The guy must have muttered something, because Tucker held up his hands as if I don’t want any trouble.

  And probably, he didn’t. Because Tucker wasn’t a brawler. But she’d also seen him swing a Pulaski. For hours and days on end. The man had shoulders, grit and a get ’er done about him that meant Alaskan Tough Guy didn’t have a chance.

  More, given the mood in the bar, Tucker wouldn’t be the only one diving into the simmering brawl. Everyone on the team seemed restless, the burning sky pouring a faux energy into their exhausted bones like a shot of Red Bull that ignited a humming under their skin, ready to flash over.

  Until this moment, they’d found it playing darts and talking trash about some football team playing in a rerun on the flat screen below the moose head.

  Now, the table of teammates stilled, poised.

  Skye cast her gaze over the others in the room. The lucky guys with the chili fries at the table nearby also watched the conversation, a couple of them moose sized. But at the bar, a big guy wearing a denim shirt ignored the entire thing, his cowboy boot hooked onto the rail.

  But Riley had turned, setting his beer on the bar.

  Then, a chair scooted out and Romeo and Seth rose.

  One of the moose men at the table of flannel slipped out of his chair.

  “I just want to make sure—” Tucker said.

  Tough Guy sent Tucker into the rail with a right hook.

  The entire bar erupted. Flannels against firefighters. Tucker tackled Tough Guy so fast that Skye lost him in the crowd. Riley leaped on one of the moose men.

  Grunting, the skid of chairs and overturned furniture, shouts, and the beefy woman bartender went over the bar wielding a baseball bat and yelling.

  Skye pushed out of the booth, not sure where—or how—to start. Because she’d never been in a fight, but her heart told her she had to do something.

  Except, watching men grapple, hearing shouts and curses and grunts—she froze.

  A gun shot punched through the chaos. Sharp an
d stinging, it jerked everyone to a halt.

  The brunette, fire in her eyes, held a gun over her head. “Stop it!”

  Skye’s heart thundered.

  Then the bartender unleashed enough bar room language to make even the flannels blush. “Every one of you, get out! Unless you’re willing to behave yourselves.”

  Apparently, no one wanted to surrender their dinner. Or their night off. Her team began to pick up the chairs, a couple of the flannels helped, slinking back to their table, a couple more to a nearby booth.

  Tucker got up and ran his gaze across his guys, then her, as if checking in. “Let it go, guys.” Then he turned to the bar.

  Tough Guy slammed his way outside.

  Skye slid back into her booth and took a full breath, her pulse in her ears. Maybe that was it—the flame out, the drama for the night spent.

  Across the room, Riley was getting a little medical treatment from Larke, who picked up a napkin and dotted some blood at the corner of his mouth.

  Oh brother. That Riley McCord was a heartbreaker—she’d seen the damage he’d done in Ember over the past few summers. He’d even made a few moves on her back in the early days. He might not wear any big arm tattoos, but behind those charming brown eyes, the rakish smile, the unruly golden brown hair was trouble.

  And the last thing Skye wanted in her life was a bad boy, thank you.

  Not that she had any room in her life for any sort of relationship, but if she did, she’d pick, say, the clean-cut blond tourist, maybe a little older than herself, in the blue Life is Good T-shirt and hiking boots, watching the action from the bar. He sat on a stool, leaning against the rail, holding what looked like a lemonade. A nice guy, probably in town to do some hiking.

  Riley walked over and put a quarter in the jukebox.

  Come and get your love…

  When he held out his hand, Larke drifted into his arms.

  Skye shook her head. The guy was smooth, no doubt.

  The music soothed the tenor in the room. The Zulies enticed a couple of pretty tourist twins onto the floor. Probably just by flexing their smokejumper muscles.

  And wow, she’d turned cynical.

  Her chili fries came, finally, and she watched the flirting on the dance floor. She wasn’t immune to the fine cut of her teammates, but she’d drawn a line years ago between work and romance.

  Although in truth, she’d sort of forgotten what romance looked like.

  Felt like.

  She did remember that romance was messy and complicated and meant a guy would eventually look beyond the exterior. She might look tough and capable and fierce, but inside lived a mess she spent most of the time trying to ignore. And sure, God had helped untangle a lot of it—enough for her to forgive herself, most of the time. But she wasn’t taking any chances letting someone close enough to see her darkness. Her secrets.

  No, romance wasn’t worth the cost.

  Abba’s “Dancing Queen” came over the jukebox. What, didn’t they have anything from this century?

  She finished her fries, wiped her mouth, her hands, and was finishing off her Coke when Life Is Good came up to her table. He smiled at her as she stared up at him.

  “So, are you with these guys?” He nodded toward her Jude County Smoke Jumpers T-shirt emblem. “Smokejumpers?”

  “Mmmhmm,” she said, stirring the ice in her Coke, trying to catch his vibe.

  The Zulies were cutting it up with the twin tourists.

  Up close, the man looked like an English teacher or a public defender from the Lower 48. Clean-cut, hair just behind his ears, the smattering of a five o’clock shadow. Built, lean body, honed by a gym but suited to the outdoors. He smiled, and it was sweet, and not at all creepy. “Cool. Wanna dance?”

  Oh. Deer in the headlights.

  “C’mon, Pope, let’s get out of here.”

  The voice came from behind the man, over his shoulder, and Skye’s gaze landed on the big man in denim from the bar, and particularly on a scar that ran down his cheek, just below his eye, and dissected his upper lip. As if he’d been clawed by Wolverine. A tincture of red along the scar betrayed either the heat of the bar or a wound not quite healed to white.

  Pope—Mr. Life Is Good—turned at the voice. And for a second, Skye thought she saw his eyes narrow, his jaw tighten. Something about it ran a cold finger down her spine.

  Then, he smiled, and clamped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Yep, you’re probably right.”

  He turned back to Skye. “Sorry. We’ll have to take a rain check on that dance.”

  She offered him a half smile and watched him go.

  “Hey, Skye.” Romeo slid into her booth. He set his Coke on the table.

  “I’m not dancing.”

  He held up his hands. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”

  Oh. With his sweet brown eyes, tousled dark blond hair, lithe and toned body, Romeo probably could live up to his name. Except he seemed a little shy around the ladies—she hadn’t seen him with even one girl since they started rookie smokejumping camp together.

  Which meant, given his ease with talking to her, he probably didn’t see her that way. Good.

  Still, she’d stuck her foot in her mouth. “Sorry. I’m just in a bad mood.” Her gaze flashed to Riley, back in the corner now with Larke, one hand braced over her shoulder as he leaned against the wall. With the other, he ran his finger across her cheek, tucking her white-blonde hair behind her ear. Definite leaning happening at eleven o’clock.

  Skye shook her head.

  Romeo laughed, turning back from where he’d followed her gaze. “Yeah, Riley knows how to charm them.” He took a sip of his Coke. “Why didn’t you sit with us?”

  She shoved her straw into her ice, like a pick. “I screwed up.”

  Romeo leaned forward, his hands folded on the table. “If you’re talking about the great circle of fire you created, nah. Your torch just malfunctioned. That wasn’t on you.”

  “Riley had to rescue me.”

  “That’s what teammates are for.”

  She eyed Romeo. “I froze—”

  “You nearly pulled a Joan of Arc.”

  “I just… I don’t want everyone thinking I need a babysitter.”

  Romeo held up his hands. “No one here is babysitting you.”

  She shoved her glass away. “Do you know how rare it is for a woman to make a smokejumping team?”

  Romeo nodded. Folded his hands over his chest. “We had bets—”

  “On whether I’d make it?”

  “I had twenty on your success.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. The odds against you were pretty good. I made a pile.”

  She narrowed her eyes and he grinned.

  “C’mon. We’re getting out of here.” He got up and motioned to Riley. “Think we should rescue Larke?”

  Skye put down a twenty on the table, then glanced at Riley, a giggling Larke. “No. Larke can take care of herself.” Anyone who grew up in Alaska, served as an army medic, and knew how to fly a bush plane could probably handle Riley’s charms. Besides, despite his penchant for breaking hearts and his bad boy smile, Riley had a good soul. He knew what no meant when he heard it. She’d heard that firsthand from a few of the gals down at the Ember Hotline Saloon and Grill back home.

  Still, watching Riley lean over and whisper something into Larke’s ear stirred an unfamiliar longing inside her, despite her line in the sand.

  Oh brother. She shook it off and headed outside with her team.

  Tucker was sitting on the back of a pickup with the brunette from the bar. Interesting. He got up when he spotted the team leaving.

  Skye glanced at the woman. Pretty, and she was looking at Skye, too, a little frown on her face.

  Skye climbed into the van from Sky King ranch and leaned back in her bench seat as Tucker slid into the driver’s seat. They headed back to the ranch.

  The hot, red evening sun hovered over the jutted rim of the Denali range,
casting twilight-hued fingers through the black pine and across the tiny platinum lake that edged the ranch property—a main lodge, an airplane hangar, a garage, vacation rentals, and a few other outbuildings. A Piper Cub seaplane floated at the dock, bobbing with the ripples from the mountain winds.

  The ranch encompassed an entire valley rimmed by forest, and on the far southwestern edge, a balding, granite ridge that acted as a wall to the state park to the north. A homestead cabin sat at the far western end of the lake, nestled under the shadow of the ridge.

  On the eastern shore of the lake, a cluster of rental cabins housed the team, and as they got out of the van, Tucker headed down to his digs.

  Skye followed a few of the guys to the massive deck that rimmed the ranch lodge, a beautiful log and timber building, and sat down on one of the Adirondack chairs.

  The entire valley smelled of pine and wildflowers and the finest hint of remaining smoke from the faraway mountain fire.

  A motorcycle pulled up and wouldn’t you know it, Riley and Larke had returned. They cut down the rutted dirt road that led along the lake and out to the homestead cabin at the far end.

  That Riley.

  Yeah, the last thing Skye would let herself do was fall for a bad boy like Riley. No thank you.

  “The problem with Alaskan sunsets in summer is that we don’t have them.”

  She turned, and bush pilot Barry Kingston sat down next to her, handed her a bottle of lemonade. “Which makes watching the sunset a very long date.”

  She laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

  She liked him. The owner of Sky King Ranch was in his mid-sixties, with wise, kind, blue eyes, his white hair shaved down to bristles. He wore a faded cap and a thick white handlebar mustache that brought to mind images of an older Sam Elliott. Barry prayed before meals. She liked that.

  Apparently, he could read minds too, because he spoke, “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.’” He looked at her. “Living out here always makes me think of the twenty-third psalm.”