Brandon's Bride

  The landscape had been surreal. He remembered rocky slopes so hot they steamed as the water dripped from his canteens. The ground was painted black, shrubs and grass annihilated, hundred-year-old trees reduced to macabre, blackened scarecrows that seemed to howl as he passed. A deer bounded by him, running from flames that had already caught him. Later, Brandon saw the deer standing by a sooty stream, drinking ravenously, the condition that preceded death. The hair had been seared from its body. In places, flaps of skin curled back, charred.

  The deer suffered, and Brandon had no gun to shoot it. He kept moving toward the fire as the air grew louder with the sounds of crackling twigs and roaring flames. He went into the fire, feeling his flesh beginning to bubble, and all he could think of was Julia and goddamn Max Ferringer, and how could anyone have taken his wife from him?

  And then he’d been so angry, he hadn’t noticed the flames or the heat or the acrid smoke that stung his throat. He’d plunged ahead like a madman, sparks flying, burning branches falling, and he’d run, run through the furnace, looking for the hikers. He would find the hikers. He would take on Mother Nature and snatch the hikers from her grasp. He would save two anonymous hikers because he’d failed the woman he’d loved.

  He’d done it. He’d found the two hikers in the bewildering inferno and led them to camp. He’d tended their burns and given them water before passing out from smoke inhalation and exhaustion. It had taken three weeks to get his voice back. He’d assumed it was damage from the fumes. Later, Kyle, one of the teenagers, told him he’d come bursting out of the flames screaming Julia’s name like a madman. That’s how the teenagers had found him through the smoke. His rage had roared above the flames.

  The plane began to descend. For the first time, the hotshots could see the thick, black haze of the wildfire moving across southern Idaho.

  “Slow-moving creeper,” Woody said, having been briefed. “Good warm-up fire.”

  Everyone exchanged glances.

  Brandon was thinking of that deer again, that poor burned deer so desperately thirsty.

  “What’s wrong, rich Brit? Having second thoughts?” Coleton peered from the front seat, his scarred face grinning, his dark eyes bright. The fire was coming, and like a long-lost lover, Coleton was eager to resume the dance.

  “I’m fine,” Brandon said.

  “Not nervous?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Don’t forget your team. One fries, we all fry.”

  Brandon looked him in the eye. “I won’t forget my team.”

  Coleton grinned, his left cheek twisting. “All right, gather up. I want us on the site first. Time to deal.”

  And Brandon turned toward Coleton as if in a dream, hearing the words again and again. Max standing at the doorway in his black suit. Gotta go, son. Time to deal. Time to deal.

  He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He stared at that scarred, misshapen face. Time to deal, time to deal.

  No, it couldn’t be. Eye color was wrong. And a son ought to recognize his own father.

  But the memory wouldn’t get out of his head. He followed Charlie blankly off the plane, and his hands were trembling.

  In front of them, the fire beckoned.

  “Have you heard anything?” Victoria asked her mother breathlessly.

  “No, dear, I swear I haven’t. It’s only been three days.”

  “What about the status of the fire? Is it a big one, a small one?”

  “I’m sorry, Vic. I just don’t know. I’m sure they’re all right.”

  “Yeah, of course. Of course.” Victoria planted a bright smile on her face. “Oh, well, that’s fine.”

  Randy shook his head behind her. “You’re a bad liar, Mom.”

  “Hey, don’t you have chores to do?”

  Randy grinned. “I like Mr. Ferringer. I think you should marry him and then he can stay here forever.”

  Victoria shook her head hastily. “This has nothing to do with you, young man. Now go do your chores!”

  * * *

  The third day found them tired and exhausted. The first day they’d worked twenty hours straight, ringing the fire with a tight, quick fire line. Trapping a fire was what hotshots and Smokejumpers did best—no one could dig faster, and they took a great deal of pride in their speed. Once the fire was contained, however, adrenaline had dropped off and a different set of incentives kicked in. You wanted to dig a fire line quickly to contain the fire and preserve the woods. You wanted mop-up to go slowly because the real money came from hazard pay and overtime. And behind a deep appreciation for trees came a deep appreciation for dollars.

  It was still hard, tedious work with few breaks. Time rolled together for Brandon, highlighted only by smoke and flames and thoughts of Victoria he couldn’t get out of his mind.

  Victoria smiling, Victoria grinning. Victoria driving a truck like a maniac and Victoria, earthy and honest beneath him.

  Victoria, Victoria, Victoria. After all the years of wanderlust, Brandon sat in the command post during a fifteen-minute break and wondered when he could get home.

  The wind was dying. So was the fire. The job would end probably the next day. Not so long. Too long.

  “Looking tired.” Brandon glanced up to see Coleton Smith standing beside him. The superintendent had been as pleasant as a snarling hound dog for the past three days. Now, however, the older man pulled up another cheap metal chair and took a seat.

  “We all are.” Brandon offered him water. Coleton was too tough to take it.

  “Fire’s doing good,” Coleton announced.

  “It seems under control.”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t over till it’s over.”

  “Of course.” Brandon emptied his canteen. In the distance, Charlie and Woody were playing soccer. Some of the crew were so wired, they were up and about even at night. They wouldn’t sleep again until they were flying home. Then their bodies would crash and they’d sleep around the clock.

  “Head bothering you?” Coleton asked gruffly.

  “When did you come to Beaverville?” Brandon asked. He looked Coleton in the eyes, searching for signs of—of anything.

  “Nineteen seventy-eight. Why?”

  “Were you always a hotshot? Even before Beaverville?”

  Coleton’s eyes narrowed. “You want my damn résumé?”

  “Just curious.”

  “You’re pretty good, rich Brit. Cool. I like that. You look me in the eye. Guys don’t like to look a scarred man in the eyes. Too afraid they’ll see their own reflection.”

  “Did it hurt? The fire that caught you.”

  “Huh. No one’s ever asked me that.”

  “I did.”

  Coleton shrugged. “It hurt. But I won. I got out, and I lived when they thought I would die. That’s all that matters.” He clambered to his feet. “Come on, you kids have had enough. Time to deal.”

  “I used to know someone who said that,” Brandon whispered.

  “Yeah? Well, lucky you.”

  At the end of the driveway, Deputy Eric James yawned. It was close to nine o’clock, and Seinfeld would be on soon. Deputy James liked Seinfeld, especially that loser George. George was a crack-up.

  He glanced at his watch again, then made himself forget it. When Sheriff Meese asked you to watch his only daughter’s house for signs of trouble, you didn’t mess up your shift.

  But James had sat out here for three nights without seeing a sign of anyone. If there had been someone prowling around the ranch causing trouble, he seemed long gone now.

  Higher up the sloping hillside, Ray Bands watched the cop who watched the house. It always amused him to watch the guards watch their charges. Gave him a small thrill when, God knows, the job was boring enough.

  This make-it-look-like-an-accident thing was a real pain. Ray missed the good old d
ays of shooting through the temple with a pillow to muffle the sound. That was fast and efficient.

  This was death by a thousand paper cuts. The fire in the stables had been a bad idea. He should’ve gone with the cabin. But the little boy came to the cabin often, and he couldn’t harm a kid and then go home to Melissa. He just couldn’t do it.

  He was stuck thinking up more accidents that would hurt just Ferringer. And maybe the woman. Sooner or later, it would probably come to that. A woman was still better than a kid, and it would get the point across.

  He needed to bide his time and be patient. He was chafing to get home. He missed Melissa. He sighed. Well, Ferringer would return to the ranch soon. And then Ray would set the next accident in motion and everything would be all right.

  The phone didn’t ring until Friday. Victoria and Randy were just finishing supper. Victoria bounced from the table and snatched the receiver off the hook.

  “Yeah?”

  “I heard,” her mother said. “Fire’s out. The team is coming home.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Smooth as glass, your brother tells me. They’ll be home by midnight. I don’t suppose you’d want me to watch Randy tonight?”

  “Oh, Mom, you are the greatest!”

  She hung up the phone, her mind already whirling. “Randy, quick, gather your things. You’re going to Grandma’s tonight.”

  “Why am I going to Grandma’s?” He obediently stacked his dishes.

  “’Cause your Grandma loves us both very much!”

  She’d just set down the phone when it rang again.

  “Hi,” Brandon said quietly.

  Her heart stopped. It truly did. And by God, when she finally got her lips to form a word, she sounded breathless. “Ferringer.”

  “Fire’s out. We’re coming home.”

  She heard Coleton’s voice in the background, yelling at the crew to board the plane.

  “I know, I know,” she said hastily. “My mother is taking Randy for the evening.”

  “Really?” Ferringer’s voice missed a beat.

  She smiled. “Really, Ferringer. Now hurry home. And I mean hurry.”

  She hung up the phone, dumped the dishes in the sink and declared it good enough.

  She made a beeline for her closet.

  Tonight, she was wearing her dress.

  Chapter 10

  Brandon got off the plane in Redmond’s tiny airport at ten fifteen. Charlie invited the singles to a local bar while the married crew members headed for home. Brandon went straight to his rental car and turned toward Beaverville.

  He’d been in the field for five days. He was covered with soot, had ash in his hair and needed a shower. He drove faster.

  Five days of heat and sweat. Five days of working next to his crewmates, digging the fire line, telling jokes and keeping one another sane. He’d done all right. Once, he’d taken off his pack to rest, left it a moment and returned only to find it twenty feet up in a tree. He’d gotten to climb up and retrieve it amid the chortling encouragement of the veterans, who’d explained they’d done it to teach him never to take off his pack. A hotshot’s fire shield was in his pack, and you never knew when you would need your fire shield.

  But he’d done it. He’d gone out there. He’d thought of his team. He’d been a real player. And he’d been unbearably conscious of Coleton’s gaze upon his back.

  Time to deal. Time to deal.

  It was just a phrase. Anyone could say it. Coleton Smith was not Maximillian Ferringer. Brandon would know his own father, dammit. And after all these years, wouldn’t his father want to know him?

  He hit the straight stretch of Route 26 and came close to doing a hundred. C.J. would be proud, but Brandon normally had no need for speed. This time, though, he wanted Victoria. Badly. So much, it should scare him. So much, it should hurt.

  The Lady Luck Ranch drive loomed on the left, and he turned in fast enough to make the tires squeal. He sailed over bumps and rattled his bones on the landing. He roared into the yard in a plume of red dust and was out of the vehicle before the smoke cleared. The front door was flying open. Victoria appeared.

  God, she was wearing a dress. A flirty, strapless swirling red dress.

  Their gazes locked and the air burst into flames.

  “I’m dirty and sweaty,” he said matter-of-factly. “I stink to high heaven and need a shower.”

  “Well, then, Ferringer, I’ll just have to scrub your back.”

  She came leaping off the porch, and he caught her in his arms.

  “I missed you, Victoria. I missed you.”

  She covered his mouth with hers, and it was sweet. Her hands wove through his hair, scattering ash and raining pine needles. Her tongue tangled with his, long and slow. He could feel the curve of her breasts and the firm, muscled line of her body. Strong Victoria. Beautiful Victoria. Sexy in jeans, deadly in a dress.

  “The shower,” he murmured, taking a step toward the stables with his arm around her waist and his lips against her neck.

  She tugged him toward the porch. “You can use the house now, Ferringer. And I got bubble bath.”

  “Oh, my, does your mother know about this?”

  “Honey, where do you think I learned it from?”

  She led him to the house, and he wasn’t complaining.

  They started stripping off his clothes in the foyer. His yellow flame-retardant coat fell somewhere in the corner while he was nibbling on her bared shoulder. His jersey knit shirt got left behind in the hallway—he’d discovered the inside of her elbow. The yellow fireproof pants were kicked off by the bathroom door. He brushed aside her hair and nuzzled the back of her neck while she took three tries to twist on the faucets. Goose bumps rippled up her arms and down her spine. He found every last one of them with his lips while she bent over the tub and closed her eyes.

  Water lapped her arms. It splashed and made his hands wet as he went to work on the wide belt cinching her waist. The zipper rasped tantalizingly. The top of her dress fell forward into the water. They didn’t notice.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, “so beautiful.” Water neared the edge of the tub. She remembered to turn it off in time and added the bubble bath.

  “Too late for suds,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I think we’ll make some.” He pushed her dress onto the floor, shed his briefs and led her into the water as the steam rose around their legs.

  The tub was too small for two of them, but they squeezed together anyway, sucking in their stomachs as they sent torrents of water onto the floor. Her bottom nestled tightly against his groin. Her well-shaped legs pressed against his lean hiker’s limbs. Steam curled her fine hair, sticking it to her cheeks and his chest. He drew blond strands together in a handful, then combed them to the side so he could run his finger down her jaw and chase a bead of moisture off the tip of her nose.

  Her hips were restless against him. The churning was creating a white, floral-scented froth. He scooped up a handful and used it to decorate her breasts.

  “How’s Randy?” he whispered, finding a bar of soap and trailing it up her arm. He soaped the first layer of grime from his chest, then returned to tracing her long, white limbs.

  “Fine.”

  “The ranch?” He slid the soap around her neck, down to her high, curved breast and over her hard, pebbled nipple.

  “Just dandy,” she gasped.

  “Any trouble?”

  “None at all. We’re fine. Everything is fine. Oh, yes . . . do that.” Her eyes drifted shut.

  His fingers had strayed down her torso, between her legs. Long, callused digits pressed against her, finding the nub of her desire and rubbing lightly. She squirmed and he picked up the tempo.

  Her breathing became sporadic. He watched her chest rise and fall unevenly, memorized the soft, delicate
sounds of her breath. His body was hard, so damn hard, and yet he made no move to turn her. He moved his hand lower, pressed the heal of his palm against her and slid the first finger inside.

  She almost came out of the tub. Water sloshed and splashed. Bubbles bloomed to life. She exhaled in a shuddering moan, and he wrapped his free arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him while he plundered her folds.

  “Victoria . . . sweet Victoria.”

  She came with a low cry and a snaking tremor. Her feet were braced against the head of the tub, and her strong legs pushed her back, rubbing her against him. He was almost undone.

  He turned her and scooped her up in a spray of water. The floor was sopping and padded with clothing. He gave up on it and set her on the edge of the counter. Immediately her legs wrapped around his waist and her hand bracketed his collarbone.

  She looked him in the eye, her cheeks flushed, her hair wild, her lips swollen.

  “Now,” she said. He entered her in a single plunge.

  Her head fell back. His head fell forward. It had been so long and he was so close. Frantically his feet dug into the floor. Muscles, corded and defined by four years of hard living, leapt to life and levered him forward. He heard her ragged breath and he heard her low moan. He felt her teeth sink into his shoulder. He felt her body grasping him, pulling him in, claiming him.

  And he gave himself over to the experience. He shut off his mind and trusted Victoria.

  He thrust, the world shattered, she screamed and the water sloshed. . . .

  And it was perfect.

  * * *

  Sometime later, they found themselves curled up on her bed, the quilt on the floor, the sheets tangled around them. Her fingers stroked his chest, then lifted to trace his cheeks. In the shadows after midnight, she kissed him gently and he returned it. They made love slowly, the way lovers did on the brink of the precipice.

  Afterward, he opened his mouth, but she lay a finger over it.

  “Not tonight,” she said. “Give us tonight.”

  He did.

  * * *

  “How do you like your eggs?”

  Brandon opened his eyes slowly, slumber still weighting the lids. Sunlight streamed through the cracked blinds, illuminating a clear blue sky and a sun that had almost hit stride. Vaguely he became aware of the worn cotton sheet with little purple flowers tangled around his flanks. Most of the covers appeared to be on the floor. He was cradling a pillow against his stomach.