Fire at Gray Wolf Lookout (Firehawks Book 8) Page 2

  “What brings you to Gray Wolf Summit?” That was safe enough, wasn’t it?

  “Exactly,” she mumbled as she sucked in cool pine air over a hot mouthful of oatmeal. She didn’t elaborate.

  “You came for the summit?”

  “No, the gray wolf part.”

  Was she naturally prickly or was she just teasing him? He decided to wait her out. After all, he’d felt plenty lonely last night—not knowing that an attractive woman was camped just a shout away—and it was only his first day in the wilderness. He didn’t want to scare off what might be his only visitor for the entire summer.

  “Wildlife biologist. I’m here to monitor the gray wolf dens off either side of the trail,” she hooked a thumb back over her shoulder.

  “They’re here?” He spun to look, feeling as if one was about to attack him from behind. Nothing but the rolling line of the ridge, the narrow alpine meadow of grass and wildflowers with his wooden outhouse perched a few hundred feet downslope. Beyond that, the short scrub trees that eked out a living high on the granite, though their spareness quickly developed into a thick forest.

  “Sure,” she said, continuing to pay attention to her oatmeal and the distant mountains. “Plenty of trail sign if you’d known what to look for on your way up.”

  He could hear all of the points he’d just lost by missing the “shit signs.” Like how was he supposed to know. Though drawings did fill the tiny safety handbook the Forest Service had given him during training.

  “There are two known dens and we think they’re both occupied. I’m going to watch, record, set camera traps…all of the fun stuff.” She’d finished off her breakfast and returned to her coffee.

  “You don’t look like a lunatic.”

  “Don’t ask my former commander.”

  “Deal.” Ex-military, which made the “lunatic” assessment even less likely. This was a woman with skills and a lack of fear because of those skills.

  Whereas he had a complete lack of wilderness skills, which totally explained last night. Well, he wouldn’t be letting himself go there again. From now on his fears would only be real ones.

  “I’ll just call you Wolfgirl.”

  “You’re saying I’m not a woman?” No sense of offense, as if she was just asking.

  “Wolfwoman doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Besides, if I’m Fireboy, you’re stuck with Wolfgirl.”

  “As long as you aren’t calling me a bitch.”

  Female wolf. Bitch. “Don’t know you well enough to decide one way or another.”

  “I’ll be around. By the end of the summer, you’ll know for sure that I am.”

  She’d be around.

  He’d spent much of last night wondering if there was any way he could cut and run. Fire tower, isolation, howling wolves, the whole bit. Now, no more imaginary fears and, maybe, he wouldn’t be so alone all summer.

  A regular visitor.

  He could deal with that.

  6

  Tom had settled into a semblance of routine after the first couple weeks. Up with the sun—he’d never been an early riser—but there wasn’t much to do up here at night except watch the stars. First scan of the horizon for the day, then a couple-hour hike up and down the trail. Eventually, he’d branched off the trail for longer and longer forays through the pine and fir forest. He started seeing the “shit signs” but decided that unless they were still steaming he wasn’t going to worry, too much. The one time he saw bear scat—freaking gigantic—he actually pulled his pepper spray can from his hip holster for the rest of that hike.

  At first, he’d been hoping to run into Wolfgirl, but then he’d started noticing the wildlife and the plants changed with elevation along the trail. The Forest Service safety guide let him identify the basics, but he’d get a better guidebook on his first break back in town.

  He was on duty from nine a.m. til six in the evening. He sent a morning radio report of weather readings and the fact that he was “in service.” Every fifteen minutes, scan the horizon for “a smoke”—the little wisp of white that promised fire close behind. It was a little dizzying at times sweeping the binoculars up and down the hills—they went on forever. Once he got disoriented enough he couldn’t remember where he’d started and had to go around a second time. After that he started and ended with due north.

  Due north was the trail that Wolfgirl had walked down two weeks ago, swinging her monstrous backpack on as if it weighed nothing at all.

  He felt better when he noticed that she too carried the bear spray rather than a gun. She was a wildlife biologist, so he’d guess that she knew what was best. And being a soldier meant that she had a handgun skill set that he didn’t.

  When she’d stood up, she’d been smaller than he’d expected. Somehow a person who tracked over the wilderness fearlessly seeking a massive four-legged predator should stand more than five-foot six. His final view of her had been a single pair of slender, camo-clad legs sticking out from below her pack and a battered blue baseball cap with a Montana State University bobcat logo above.

  After two weeks—and still no sign of Wolfgirl—he’d had his first two days “down.” A lookout relief had hiked in and continued the firewatch while he got off the mountain and went into town—a four-hour hike out and another hour skidding his car down muddy logging roads and then the bland pavement of the highway to Missoula. A night at the bar and crashing in a cheap motel. Alone.

  There’d been a couple of potentials at the bar, but he wasn’t into it. He’d had his fair share of cheap sex—it usually cost a couple beers, some nachos, and a little dancing. It had always bothered him that the dancing was often better than the cheap sex.

  He hadn’t felt that way at first, of course. Women in bars had started happening for him as he’d shifted from geeky academic to muscled mechanic from wrenching on crumpled car frames all day. It was true, macho guys got the hot women and he’d certainly enjoyed the benefits of that at first. But now, his ego didn’t need the boost and he just didn’t care for the hollow feeling morning-afters always left.

  Technically, he had another day down. Instead, he hit the bookstore for a wilderness guide. Flora and Fauna of the Lolo Forest was perfect. Then he spotted a title on wolves and grabbed it too. It had become clear that Wolfgirl was gone from his life, but he wanted to read up on them anyway. Tom went through the grocery store, loaded up his pack to a ridiculous weight, and struggled back up to the summit.

  And Wolfgirl had left him a note with the substitute lookout.

  Hi! and a line-drawing of what he now recognized as a wolf’s paw print for a signature. Later that afternoon, he’d been idly doodling between lookout duties, and had drawn wind-blown hair around the paw print as if it was a face.

  He didn’t know why it mattered, but it did.

  Shit!

  7

  It was late afternoon and Patty should have headed down the trail and into town. She hated to be away from the mountain and her wolf dens. There were two packs. One pack of six had a dozen pups just starting to peek their noses out of the dens. The other was a threesome led by a great, black-furred male; the smaller pack had just five pups as far as she could tell. The two groups had very little to do with each other except for the older female of the threesome, gray in the muzzle, who hunted across the range. It was her tracks that crossed the trail back and forth. All the other wolves hunted down the valleys on their own sides of the ridge.

  Patty had spent three intense weeks trying to track that lone female and discover what she was doing on both sides, but hadn’t found out yet. Patty monitored the packs nonstop, except for an afternoon, going up to the lookout tower, only to discover that was Fireboy’s day off the mountain.

  Quite what had drawn her up the mountain that day was unclear. She’d only shared a cup of coffee and a few jokes, but he’d stuck in her mind. One thing she’d learned in the Army was to pay attention to those little things. In Iraq, wondering about that unexplained cardboard box along the roadsid
e, could be someone’s groceries, could be an IED. Don’t remember that pile of cut wheat stalks off the side of the road at the junction? Turns out to be perfect cover for a shooter.

  Now she was back again, to find out what had stuck in her mind about Fireboy. She thought about kicking the timber at ground-level a couple of times to announce she was coming. Then she remembered his seriously cute, “Holy crap!” when he’d discovered he wasn’t wearing anything but very tight briefs and binoculars.

  Patty kept her gait light on the stairs and moved upward silently despite her heavy pack which had become like a second skin. On the way up, she could only marvel at the view after having her head down in the woods for three weeks. She so loved being out here.

  Up at the catwalk level, she could see through the broad windows into the cabin—it was a very fine view indeed. He was wearing shorts, but that was all. It was June 21st according to her observations log book, mid-summer’s eve, and the late afternoon sun was warm.

  The stairs had landed her at the north side, close beside the door. Fireboy was facing away from her doing a slow methodical scan of the hills to the south. Now only ten feet away, she could see the definition of his shoulder muscles put on display by his raised arms.

  Clean, no tats, like a canvas not yet written upon. Beneath her shirt she wore a lone she-wolf face on her left shoulder blade. Eyes closed, howling a song of purest joy.

  He slowly turned in her direction as he inspected his way around the hills. The abs definition from the side was just as nice.

  Then facing her…and finally the fat end of the binocs lined up on her face and she smiled.

  “Holy crap!” just like the first time. He jerked down the glasses and looked at her blankly.

  She didn’t know what response she wanted or expected from him. But it was a good one when it came—

  “Wolfgirl!” His smile was huge and welcoming. Then he raised the binoculars again and got points for not aiming them at her breasts. “My, what big teeth you have.”

  Patty laughed. It was something she hadn’t done in a long time. Not since before her commander had almost succeeded in raping her—“because deep down she really wanted it”—before she succeeded in breaking his face—“because deep down he really wanted it.” Not since…she didn’t know when.

  8

  Tom was glad it was the end of the afternoon watch, his last scan of the peaks and valleys for the day. She was actually here, standing in his doorway as if that was somehow completely normal. Only habit reminded him to call in an end-of-day report of “no smokes, no fire activity, Gray Wolf Summit out of service.”

  He thought about all of the clichés. “You’re here!” “Wasn’t expecting you!” Really wasn’t.

  He also hadn’t known quite how beautiful she was. He’d seen her face before, clear skin, dark eyes of unfathomable depth. Even in the three weeks since he’d last seen her, her hair had grown and now looking just a little out of control, a touch wild. She was what the guys at the shop would have called a “solid gal.” Not heavy—there was not an ounce of heavy anywhere on Wolfgirl—but not slender or model frail either. She was the kind of woman who had the strength to do something other than look good in clothes. The chest and waist belts of her pack stretched her thin cotton T-shirt tight over her breasts. Very nice.

  Say something you idiot!

  “Was that you I heard howling at the moon last night?”

  “Might have,” that grin lit up her face even brighter.

  Forget pretty, plug in gorgeous with that smile.

  “Catch any fires yet?” she asked.

  He slapped a hand tragically to his chest, and realized that once again he was mostly unclothed in front of her. Go with it. “Not so much as a firefly,” he moaned like a player in a Shakespearean drama.

  “Not much of a Fireboy, are you?”

  He tried to sigh tragically.

  Must have worked; that surprising, musical laugh reemerged.

  “How goes the wolf hunt?” he wanted to keep her talking.

  “Fucking awesome!”

  “Drop your pack…” please stay awhile, “…and tell me.”

  She did, dropping it with a heavy thunk that seemed to shake the cab with its weight. She pulled out a water bottle and turned to point north.

  Then she cursed, “Do you have a map?”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. There was the drawing around the whole top of the wall. There was the wide area map mounted on the Osborne finder that gave him the area for fifty miles in every direction. And on the main desk he kept a 7-1/2-minute quadrangle map rolled out. It showed the area for seven-and-a-half miles north of Cougar Peak—the area he’d known she was tramping.

  “Do you have the fifteen?”

  He pulled out the larger area 15-minute map.

  For the next half hour she led him on a tour of a vast range of hills and valleys, amazing him with the amount of territory she and the wolves covered. Her hard-bitten nails tracing the lines of brutal climbs that had nothing to do with fire-tower trails or logging roads. She’d been hiking straight through brush. The excitement in her voice was so true and pure and it evoked a whole series of emotions.

  At first, awe that anyone could care so much about…anything. She was pulling out her log book to trace the wolves’ movements more accurately over the terrain of the map.

  Then it was discomfort and finally a shame that had him shuffling foot to foot. He cared about nothing this much; the past few years he’d mostly felt…just blank.

  What the hell was he doing with his life?

  A college degree he couldn’t imagine ever using, a career that included wiping blood, vomit, and empty beer bottles out of shattered cars before he could even work on them, and now sitting alone watching a forest that might never catch on fire. Even if it did, the more experienced spotters at Cougar Peak or Old Crag would probably spot it long before he did.

  But finally Wolfgirl overwhelmed his sense of uselessness. Her excitement swept him aboard.

  When she spotted Dutcher and Dutcher’s The Hidden Life of Wolves on his desk, she cried for joy and dragged it onto the map to flip pages searching for pictures that would show him what The Messenger—as she’d dubbed the traveling female—looked like. He’d barely been able to focus on the pictures as they rubbed shoulders and jostled together hip to hip while she told more stories.

  He’d made dinner, that she’d bolted, and they’d made love on his narrow bunk as the sunset filled the fire tower with the colors of fire. She rose over him, feral, powerful, as wild as her wolves. The red-gold light played over her skin as she threw her head back and cried out when he sheathed himself and entered her.

  Tom half expected her to howl, instead she groaned like her heart had been ripped from her chest. He leaned up to bury his lips and his face between her breasts and she pulled him in with a truth, with an honesty of emotion he’d never found in a woman before.

  This was not a woman who revved his engines or fit him like the seat of a Porsche 944 Turbo. She was too primal, too purely herself for that.

  When their climaxes ripped through them he felt every jolt through her body as if it was his own.

  And after their pulses peaked then slowed and their bodies both shuddered until she finally lay still upon his chest, then she wept.

  He held her, stroked her hair, and whispered in her ear that she was okay.

  Okay? She was life-changing amazing, but that wasn’t what she needed to hear right now as the sobs wracked her, as the smell of salt tears washing against his cheek threatened to overpower the scent of the forest that clung to her hair.

  They slept clinging tightly to each other.

  In the middle of the night, she woke him, and by the light of the stars she lay beneath him and they were as gentle with each other as they’d been frantic earlier.

  Tom woke alone with the sunlight streaming over him.

  A note rested on the open page of The Hidden Lives of Wolves.


  I owe you three pounds of oatmeal, a half bottle of maple syrup, and a box of energy bars.

  You’re very pretty when you sleep.

  Again, the paw-print signature.

  This time there was a radio frequency.

  She’d left the note on the picture of the wolf he’d chosen as prettiest in the whole book. It was a close-up of black-furred wolf. Just her face, with her chin resting on the snow, yellow eyes looking right at the camera.

  9

  Patty went back to him whenever she could tear herself away.

  Talked to him by radio on other nights when he wasn’t on fire watch and the wolves weren’t on an active hunt.

  June passed into July.

  Fireboy’s first fire sighting had them talking for hours over their radios. She normally limited herself to fifteen minutes to conserve batteries, but he’d been so excited she couldn’t help herself and let him roll. She’d been very attentive the next day to make sure that her solar battery charger was always aligned to best advantage to the sun.

  Something was changing inside her. Patty had come to the wilderness for her wolves and the silence of nature, but like a bear to a honey trap, she couldn’t resist circling back to the fire tower atop Gray Wolf Summit.

  It wasn’t even the sex.

  Okay. It wasn’t just the sex.

  When they were, nothing else existed. There were visits when they hardly spoke a word. She would track him to his cabin atop the summit, take all he could give her, sleep in his arms, and be gone back to the wolves by daybreak. Such a heavy sleeper, he rarely woke to see her off. But when he did, he always caressed her gently and kissed her sweetly. One of those wordless nights he’d spent hours tracing every line of her wolf tattoo as if stamping its joy onto her soul more deeply than the tattoo artist had.

  Other visits, they might not make love at all. Just watch the sunset, curl up in each other’s arms, and sleep. They talked of nothing and everything, but only about the present. Neither of them had a past or future. Neither of them even had a name.