Getting Married Again

As Jackson drove by the gas station, the attendant nodded in greeting while pumping gas into Marguerite’s shiny new Cadillac. Marguerite Sterling, his mother’s friend, craned her neck far enough in the direction of his passing truck that Jackson feared she’d knock her spine out of alignment again.

Jackson waved, somewhat comforted by the familiarity of it all.

Smiley Peterson tottered out of his client chair in the barbershop and pressed his bulbous nose to the glass when Jackson parked his truck on Main Street in front of his shop. The old man shuffled to the front door, opening it with a clang of the bell that Jackson had helped him install.

“Hey, Jackson, that you?” he called.

Jackson climbed out of his truck, working the kinks out of his body after sitting for so long. It took him a bit to answer, but Silver Bend was a quiet town where slow wasn’t necessarily considered stupid.

“Yeah, Smiley. It’s me.” Jackson slung his backpack over one shoulder.

“Seen Lexie?” Smiley asked, not smiling. Jackson couldn’t remember when he’d seen Smiley without his trademark toothless grin.

Ignoring the feeling of emptiness that hearing Lexie’s name gave him, Jackson shook his head, pushing off his unease. Lexie was fine, he was sure.

Jackson gestured to Smiley’s candy-striped barbershop pole listing dangerously to one side of the door. “How long has that sign been broken? Some fool will smack into it if they aren’t watching where they’re going.”

“Blew loose in a summer storm a week or so ago.”

“Got a screwdriver handy?” It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to fix it.

Now Smiley grinned. “’Course I do.”

The old barber leaned against the door frame while Jackson tightened the pole back into place. “Wanna shave that beard?”

“Naw.” Jackson stroked the thick growth covering his cheeks and jaw. He hadn’t shaved since he left home, hadn’t had a haircut in months either. Besides, no one let Smiley near their hair anymore. He’d nearly taken off a little kid’s ear a couple of years back because his eyesight was atrocious and his hands were too shaky. Now, he employed younger hairstylists in the afternoons and on weekends, but he still hung out all day in the shop.

“Shame. Goin’ back soon?”

“I start back in two weeks.” The Department of Forestry hadn’t expected him to return for another five months, so there weren’t any immediate job openings for a Hot Shot leader. His slot as superintendent of the Silver Bend Hot Shots had been filled for the year by Logan. He’d been assured they’d find something for him in two weeks. In the meantime, they had granted his vacation request.

Bureaucrats may talk about budget cuts and downsizing, but when push came to shove, the Department of Forestry found the approvals and moneys necessary to keep valuable assets like Jackson on the ground where he could make the most difference.

An asset. That’s how his boss at the Department of Forestry in Boise had referred to him this morning when Jackson explained that he was thinking about giving up firefighting.

There were fewer than one hundred Hot Shot superintendents in the United States, employed by various government agencies including the Department of Forestry. There were less than fifty with Jackson’s tenure of service, and fewer than twenty who had served overseas. The Department of Forestry wanted Jackson back on the first line of defense against wildland fires—not exactly the ideal situation for a guy who broke into a sweat just remembering the feel of heat on his skin.

Jackson hadn’t wanted to listen to his boss’s protests, but he couldn’t help himself. He was a second-generation Hot Shot. Fighting fires was in his blood. The last thing he wanted to do was quit. But what choice did a coward like him have?

Despite his boss’s protests, he’d applied for two different desk jobs, one as a fire specialist—to predict the path of destruction a fire might take—and one as a member of the Incident Command team—an on-site group that managed the various crews and support personnel needed to combat a fire. Both jobs were with the National Interagency Fire Center, which monitored fires in the nation, processed requests for assistance with fires burning on government land and recommended deployment of resources, which included everything from fire engines to portable showers to fire fighters. The DOF and NIFC were both located within the Boise airport.

Jackson handed the screwdriver back to Smiley and accepted the old man’s “Welcome home” before continuing on his way.

Jackson walked down the empty sidewalk to the Painted Pony, noticing the vast number of cars and trucks parked in the lot beside the life-size plastic horse that was the restaurant’s icon. He recognized many of the vehicles as being owned by his Hot Shots. In this part of Idaho, forestry and firefighting jobs were a big part of the community. A few tourists came for the rafting on the Payette River, but Silver Bend, with its ranger station and Hot Shot base, was considered by locals to be a fire town.

He entered the town’s lone restaurant and local hangout, then paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, letting the familiar smells and sounds envelop him.

Almost immediately, the door opened behind him and another of his mother’s friends, Birdie Lowell, local busy-body and grocery store owner, came in on his heels. Jackson had thought Birdie was old and cranky when he was a kid. Today, she looked ancient and cranky. The last time he’d seen the old woman, she’d told him the one way to get Lexie back was to take her camping. As if roasting marshmallows over an open fire would win her back.

Jackson stepped aside to let Birdie pass. He wasn’t in the mood for her brand of advice today, but Birdie stopped in front of him anyway.

“Have you seen Lexie yet?” Birdie asked, forehead crinkling as she craned her neck to look him in the eye.

Jackson’s jaw tensed. It was clear that everyone knew about the divorce, which was damn irritating when Jackson was trying to figure out how not to be divorced. “Not yet, Birdie. How’re you?”

Birdie pursed her pale, thin lips while she studied his face. After about thirty seconds, she huffed “Fine,” and then strutted out with an ungainly, jolting gait similar to a pigeon’s.

Obviously, something funny had been added to the water in Silver Bend, because everyone was acting as if Jackson needed to run straight to Lexie. Sure, he’d just returned from Russia, but it wasn’t as if Lexie was anxiously awaiting his return.

That was the problem—she was too damn good at taking care of herself.

Jackson took a moment to reacquaint himself with his mother’s restaurant. He’d grown up cooking, bussing tables and doing dishes at the Pony, idolizing the Hot Shots that treated the place as a second home. There was nothing like the combined aromas of yeasty beer and seasoned curly fries to make him feel like he was back where he belonged.

Nothing had changed here, thank you very much—from the retro blue-green and chrome chairs to the faux white marble countertops to the mural of a rearing black-and-white pony. The scarred pool table still stood to his right, a small video game section to his left. Three rows of oblong tables cascaded back to the bar.

One of the tables near the kitchen was overflowing with familiar faces. Most of his Silver Bend Hot Shots were congregated for a late breakfast. In their fire-resistant Nomex green pants and yellow shirts, they looked ready for battle. The group glanced at him curiously, at first not recognizing him behind his beard.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Logan McCall, who had been the best man at Jackson’s wedding, kicked his chair back and strode across the room “Slummin’, Golden? Or did they kick your lazy butt out of Russia?”

Jackson grinned and took two steps before receiving a bone-crunching hug with much backslapping. “I heard the fires were raging back home, so I took the first plane out, Tin Man.” Jackson used Logan’s nickname, bestowed after one particularly disappointed woman publicly proclaimed Logan to be lacking a heart. Logan was a confirmed bachelor who enjoyed women as long as they didn’t expect more from him than a night or two of his company.

“Just in time,” Logan said. “We’re shipping out today. Got us a nice runaway in Wyoming over at Bighorn.”

Like most Hot Shot teams, Silver Bend fought fires anywhere they were needed, from Alaska to Florida. It was dirty, exhausting, dangerous work fighting fires from the ground with little more than a shovel and a Pulaski—a combination ax and hoe. The physical job requirements were so tough, only the strongest passed the arduous work-capacity test. And only the most courageous lasted more than a few seasons.

His gut clenching at the thought of facing flames again, Jackson concentrated on holding on to his smile.

“Have you eaten? The guys would love to hear some stories.” Logan pointed to the table and walked back as if assuming Jackson wanted nothing more than to join them.

Jackson recognized many of the faces there, had trained most of these men. Those who he didn’t know watched him with the eager expressions of novices. Jackson quickly looked away from their curious stares.

Logan introduced Jackson to the newest Hot Shot members, and slid him into a chair facing the kitchen. “Best view in the house,” Logan said with a private grin, as if he, and he alone, were privy to some inside joke.

Someone poured Jackson a cup of coffee.

“Did you teach the Russians how we fight fires…Golden…sir?” This from a fresh-faced boy, introduced as Rookie, who didn’t look old enough to drive, much less shave, although he had the broad shoulders and beefy arms of a seasoned firefighter.

Most Hot Shots kept in shape, but the Silver Bend Hot Shots trained like fiends—lifting weights and running miles across the mountainous ranges in the area to increase their strength and endurance. They had a reputation for the ability to build more fire lines than any other crew, and generally considered themselves the best of the best. Up until last year, Jackson had believed leading the Silver Bend Hot Shots was a job he’d been born for.

“I did teach my Russian crew something.” Jackson only half smiled, trying to ignore the hero worship in Rookie’s eyes as he remembered another eager, young recruit. Unwilling to elaborate, he felt his easy grin slip away as his mind flashed upon that face, filled with terror.

Why did you run, Alek?

The table was oddly silent as everyone waited for Jackson to say more. He took another sip of coffee, unable to talk about what had happened over there. The goofy grin on Logan’s face was starting to wear on his nerves.

He could hear his mother in the kitchen, banging pans and talking to herself. Now would be a good time to excuse himself, greet his mom and ask her what she thought he should do about Lexie.

“They spoke English, did they?” Chainsaw Hudson asked after a bit. Chainsaw carried his namesake into battle. One of the shorter crew members at only six feet tall, Chainsaw was a burly man who was a terror to trees standing in the way of a firebreak.