LITMIR.BIZ

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in New Mexico, at Piedras Coloradas.

      But ready to go back there? He could hardly believe he was thinking it. Only two weeks ago, when this interagency crew was assembled in the rush to find crews, the assignment had felt somehow safer. Only the few from Piedras Coloradas National Park knew him. The others didn’t. They knew nothing about the reassignment to Piedras Coloradas, the controversies in Montana, and the local big shots who had wanted him made into an example, and who made good on their threats through connections with a U.S. Senator.

      Jack dropped his eyes. Surely they all knew by now. He couldn’t rule it out, and he couldn’t keep himself from starting to put up the same barriers and the same strong face he did at Piedras Coloradas.

      Might as well be at home, inside four walls. There he could drop the charade—even if it meant being alone. Even if Courtney wasn’t there to turn to.

      Why had she chosen to stay in Montana? Why had she refused the agency’s offer of reassignment when it imposed one on him? Injury added to insult. When he needed someone most, why had she ended things without explanation? “Just wasn’t meant to be,” he said aloud to himself. It tired him hearing it.

      He tore his mind away, and watched a BLM firefighter stop and lean on her shovel.

      “You people who’ve done this for years, I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “It’s just not worth it to me. I didn’t go to college to do this kind of thing.”

      “Me neither,” came another voice.

      They’re tired. He’d felt that way himself, on other fires, in other years. When the callouts came, he went. They would, too, he figured.

      “Found one!” the BLMer called out, sounding almost surprised. She knelt down and felt through the ashes. “I think it’s out.”

      At least she’s paying attention. “Put a line around it,” Jack shouted. “Just in case.”

      She scratched out a line and moved on.

      “Good eyes, even if it isn’t why you went to college,” Jack said, trying to tease her.

      “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant that I’d rather be at home, doing my real job.”

      “Understood. We all would.”

      She stood and looked his way. “What do you do back at the park? You a ranger?”

      “Kind of, but not exactly,” Jack said, not wanting to get into it.

      “What then, exactly?”

      He sighed. “I’m a resource manager, a biologist.”

      “Cool.” She stared across the drainage, waiting for details, holding up the others behind her.

      Jack held his tongue.

      She moved on.

      Cool. Maybe it was cool. It once was—or almost always had been. Until Montana. It always seemed such important work. It had seemed important to the public. Until Montana.

      Forget Montana. You’re dealing with New Mexico now.

      But would it be any different? It was too early to tell. Piedras Coloradas wasn’t a bad place, really. Nice park. Beautiful canyons. Beautiful sunsets.

      Give it a chance.

      Paul Yazzi stopped at his position high on the slope and probed at the ground with his shovel. Without comment, he scratched out a line.

      The night before he’d misjudged Paul. Paul was just a practical guy, from a different culture. He owed Paul an apology, or a compliment—or a medal for keeping them all from being lumped into the same group as that damned arsonist.

      Jack looked up at the ridge, above the crew, at blackened trunks of standing dead trees, wisping smoke into the wind. What a thing to do, he thought.

      Why would someone do that? For the thrill? Because he was a pyromaniac? Or because he wanted to pick up a few bucks fighting fire?

      Or was he disillusioned? Could it be that? Did something happen to him? Something like Montana?

      He shook his head. Don’t go there.

      The memories came on their own. Montana. Snowmobiles and wildlife. Public battles. Times when everything seemed under control. Controversial but under control. Then, out of nowhere, a lost cause.

      Sure, there had always been people stirring things up, and others demanding they be heard more than their fellow citizens, but he’d tried keeping his eyes focused on the agency mission and the needs of all, thinking that if he avoided being manipulated more by the noisy ones pushing only their own agendas—their own damned petty, little self-interests—then everything would work out okay.

      Wrong, wrong, wrong. On all counts. The first cracks, the warring factions, the fighting over principles that seemed to have little to do with the real issues. How could he have been so naïve? About those who demanded preference, and proved themselves to be influential, and those who were supposedly on his side, especially the young staffer Clint Foss, who lacked experience, but showed in time that in some things he was already an expert. Like the tried and true path to success—seeking the lime-light, schmoozing the big wigs, helping them get everything they wanted, and telling the bosses everything they wanted to hear.

      Jack could almost see the newspaper accounts. The subtle shifts in direction—shifts that eventually gave the big shots everything they wanted. Control, so they could champion anything that suited their agenda. Places where elk and wolf wanted to winter became noisy playgrounds, despite pleas from others. As for Foss, if the word on the agency grapevine was true, he had landed a promotion—superintendent of a park somewhere back east. The snake had already capitalized.

      Jack tightened his fingers around his shovel handle and twisted.

      Was it worth it? Were the games worth enduring? At one time, they had been.

      He laughed self-consciously, remembering how idealistic he once had been. Nothing could have made him turn his back on the things to which he had devoted himself— the wild places, the wild things, even public service. Sure, there had been hard days, but when the job was worth it, it was really worth it. Until Montana. Would it ever be the same? The passion? Would it ever return?

      A firefighter stepped below another. Jack reached for his radio. “Johnny, slow your squad.”

      They stopped in their tracks. The one firefighter stepped back. They started moving again as a unit. The man in the rear cupped his hands and shouted across the draw, “Hey boss. Some of the guys tell me you worked up in Montana.”

      Jack took in a deep breath and let it out. “Yes,” he shouted back.

      “Nice country?”

      “Yes.” He froze as the firefighter raised his hands again to his mouth.

      A crack echoed across the gorge, then a crash, muffled by the breezes beginning to whip through the trees.

      “What was that?” Jack shouted.

      Noise came flowing down from above.

      A log rolled out of the black, and careened off a rock. Firefighters scrambled out of its path.

      “It’s burning,” one of them shouted. “Damned thing’s burning.”

      It rolled and bounced, all the way to the bottom, disappearing into the brush.

      Jack strained to see where it landed. It was somewhere below him. If fire came out the drainage, it would be heading his way.

      “Hurry, put it out,” someone shouted.

      Crackling rose up from below.

      Another noise. Jack looked up. Two firefighters raced down the hill. Loose soils gave way at the feet of one, controlling his speed. The other bounced with the changes in terrain. They held their shovels high on the handles, out to their sides. One slipped and slid on his rear. He jumped

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