Page 20 of Light My Fire

The front had rallied, edged closer to the ridge. Good. It would meet their burn and find that it was out of fuel. He got on the radio to Barry. “Can you get me another load along the northern flank, just to shut down any spurs that might try and escape?”

“It’ll take me a bit, but hang on,” came the reply.

Tucker turned to hike back toward his line when his foot slipped on a scree of rocks.

He let out a word as his ankle turned, and he fell back, his knee twisting, pain spiking up his leg. He landed on his backside, rolled, and lay face up for a moment, the wind knocked out of him.

Cinders fell on his face, bandanna, the fire hungry as it lapped up the moss and willow, chewing its way to the top of the ridge. He rolled over to his hands and good knee.

The fire had seen his fall, gotten ambitious.

He pushed to his feet and bit back another word. Of course it would be his left knee, nearly blinding him as pain ground into his bones. He grabbed his Pulaski, used it as a crutch, his eyes watering as the smoke turned the world black.

Uphill was the wrong way to run, but he just had to get on top of the ridge, then down into the rocky, unburnable, recently doused terrain.

Except tongues of fire burned at his neck, landing on his shirt. He batted away the ash, trying not to cough.

Trying not to panic. But when he looked over his shoulder, the flames roared only twenty feet away.

He bit down on his pain and took off at an awkward run.

His knee buckled.

He fell again and didn’t bother holding in a grunt. And when he scrambled back to his feet, his shout contained more anger than pain.

How had this turned into a fight for his life so quickly?

He stumbled forward, tripped again—and fell into someone’s strong embrace. He hadn’t a clue who, but his rescuer grabbed him hard around the waist and pulled him up to the top of the ridge, nearly running.

At the top, his hero pulled his arm around his shoulder, held on, and scrambled into the wettened, bouldered escape area.

“Get down!” Tucker said, and they hunkered behind a tumble of boulders.

The fire crested over the ridge, an inferno on their tail, thirty feet away.

“You okay?”

Tucker stared at Rio, not a little stymied. The man wore the exertion of the afternoon on his skin—dirt, sweat, and the scum of ash. “What—how—?”

“I was on this end of the burn and saw you go over the ridge.” Rio peeked over the edge of the boulder, watching the fire burn. “That was close.”

“Mmmhmm,” Tucker said, not finding any other words.

“I think it’s working—your plan.” Rio glanced down at Tucker. Then he offered a small, one-sided smile.

Huh. “Yeah. The fires should collide, collapse in on themselves as all the fuel is consumed, and if we can hold this right flank, we’ll get to spend tomorrow mopping up.”

Tucker finally let out a breath, aware of how close he’d come to not even deploying his shelter but burning to death right in front of his team. He turned around, sitting with his back to the boulder, reaching to knead his knee. “Thanks,” he said.

Rio nodded, also turning his back to the fire. “Feels good.”

“What?”

“To win. I haven’t gotten a win for a long time.”

Tucker didn’t know what to say to that, but before he could respond, a voice lifted from beyond the boulder, from the bottom of the hill.

“I know you’re up there, and I just want you to know that if you try anything, I’m a federal marshal.”

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