Mountain Fire
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Mountain Fire
by
Brenda Margriet
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Mountain Fire
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Brenda Margriet Clotildes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Tamra Westbury
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-675-8
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my husband, Mike,
for believing I could do this.
You are my Happy Ever After.
Chapter One
The massive, humpbacked grizzly threw its black snout in the air and snuffled loudly. It rocked back and forth on its powerful forelegs, pushed itself up to a menacing two-legged stance, and raised its huge head.
June Brandt cowered, breathless, flat on her stomach, doing her best to be invisible.
The bear’s maw gaped open, and saliva dripped off lips hanging loosely from sharp-edged teeth. Its head swung back and forth, small, thick-lashed eyes half shut, glistening black nose twitching and moist nostrils flaring as it searched for what had disturbed it.
She held her position. The whisper of a breeze poked a long strand of hair into her eye. She didn’t dare move to brush it away. A bead of sweat trailed down between her breasts.
The wild silence stretched out intolerably.
Another breath of air raced through the long grasses of the alpine meadow, bringing relief from the heat. The grizzly’s distinct scent—an acrid, wildly woolly cologne, salty and dusty—wafted to her. Above the trees edging this high altitude pasture, a hawk wheeled in the currents. Two smaller forms shot out of the tip of a pine, harried the larger bird until it soared out of their space, then returned to their watchtower.
The grizzly dropped to all fours, lowered his head and shook like a dog climbing out of a pond, the thick pelt moving loosely over taut muscles. It was early May, and this large male still had a long way to go to replenish the stores of fat used up surviving last winter. Finally satisfied that what had alarmed him was no threat, he returned to munching dandelions and clover, casually moving away with every scything bite.
When she’d first seen the grizzly in the high mountain field, she’d crept on top of a tumbled pile of boulders at the edge of the trees to get a better look. It was barely four feet high and the scrubby bush surrounding it provided only an illusion of protection. She’d lain there for ages, mesmerized by the majestic animal before her. When she ever so slightly shifted her cramping legs, a small heap of gravel had rattled over the edge, spooking the grizzly.
After a couple of cleansing breaths to settle her pulse, she carefully raised her arms into position. This time, nothing bothered the now placidly chewing bear as she pressed the shutter button on her camera.
She took a number of photos until the huge beast shuffled a safe—well, safer—distance away, then slipped down the far side of the rocky outcrop, bent at the waist and scuttled deeper into the cover of the forest. Without stopping, she tucked her camera into her backpack and continued through the thinning forest as she slung the straps over her shoulders. She pumped uphill, following a narrow track with fewer roots and loose rocks on which to twist an ankle. A couple of minutes later, she broke through the tree line. Several metres further up, she stopped and sat down on a sun-warmed rock.
The spiky tips of the trees through which she had hiked spread out below her. Uncountable shades and hues of green rolled up and down into the distance, blending to purple at the farthest reaches before fading into a soft indigo edge against the sky. Rising away from the curve of the earth, violet lightened to a true sky-blue in which the globe of the sun burned. The air was so clear she could count individual needles on the pines and spruce. Far away, sunlight sparked off water as it struck the silt-laden, swift-flowing Fraser River and glittered off the aluminum roof of a house in the tiny village of Longworth, nestled at the foot of the mountain.
She rose and began toiling uphill once more.
Her feet, cushioned by thick socks inside hiking boots, ached, as did her calves and thighs. Frequent runs while in town kept her in good shape, but nothing prepared muscles for this kind of hike. By the time she reached the relatively flat top of the mountain she was puffing.
Bald mountaintops jutting up above the tree line pierced the green coniferous blanket covering much of the northern half of British Columbia. On strategically chosen peaks, thinly scattered across this enormous landmass, were lookouts where men and women, unafraid of isolation and possessed of great stamina, stood guard during the summer fire season, using eyes and experience to discover and track potentially devastating wildfires. Modern technology had not yet superseded this vital service, but over the years, many of the structures had been abandoned, and were now inhabited only by squirrels, birds and other resourceful creatures. She was headed to one of these deserted structures.
It faintly resembled the top layers of a decrepit wedding cake. The bottom level was sided with vertical wooden planks, once painted blue, now weathered to a dull grey that camouflaged the tower against the rocks. The door was set in the south side of the building, with square windows on each of the other walls. The slightly smaller upper level, where the equipment would have been mounted during fire spotting days, was walled in glass, with a steeply pitched shingle roof.
June pushed the warped and battered door and propped it open with a stick jammed into the gap on the hinge side. Swinging her pack off her shoulders, she tossed it on the table, unclipped her canteen and poured warm and faintly dusty water down her dry throat. Swiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she sank onto one of two rickety chairs and bent to undo the laces of her hiking boots.
The building was dry and clean, other than the mice and squirrel droppings she’d found in the bare cabinets. In the far corner, a plywood sheet attached to two walls with a four-by-six post supporting the outside edge made a rudimentary bed. It would be plenty comfortable once cushioned by the thin foam pad she’d brought. A small wood stove, where she could cook simple meals, squatted a few feet from the wall, opposite the door, and a trapdoor in the ceiling gave access to the lookout on the roof.
Just outside, a simple gutter system led to an old wooden cask, three-quarters full of rainwater. When she had arrived earlier that day, she had cautiously poked the water with a branch, stirring it up in order to discover any drowned creatures. When none floated to the surface, she had covered the barrel with an old piece of plywood discarded against the side of the shack and weighted it down with a couple of rocks. Padding across the floor in her sock feet, she pushed the makeshift lid off to the side. She rinsed her hands in the cool water, then ran her fingers through the long, blond strands of her hair, casually untangling knots. Removing the bandanna from around her neck, she dipped it into the water and used it to wipe the sweat of fear and exertion from her face, neck, and arms.
A brisk breeze swirled through the doorway. Up this high, there was never really a chance to get too hot. Right now the heat beat down with pleasant strength, but it was an illusion that would vanish quickly when the sun faded below the horizon. She pulled her shirt over her head and let the wind ruffle goose bumps across her midriff and back. Stepping inside, she spread her foam mat and sleeping bag on the plywood bed and lay down in her bra and shorts.
In today’s world, finding a place free of mankind’s sounds was difficult, if not impossible. Even high on a mountain, she sometimes heard voices from the few homes below, floating up on mysterious drafts of air. The rail line was still in regular use, and the whistles of trains as they glided past Longworth echoed eerily many times throughout the day and night. But right now, all was peace.
She fell asleep.
****
Chuka-chuka-chuka. She woke abruptly, took a moment to register the noise, then stumbled to a window. The helicopter pilot was delicately positioning the small machine a safe distance from the tower. Two fast strides brought her to the table where she had thrown her T-shirt. She pulled it on as she headed for the door. Waiting as the rotor blades whirled slower and slower, she shielded her eyes from the sun as it set stunningly, directly behind the aircraft. All she could see was the outline of the pilot silhouetted inside. He pulled off his headphones, reached up to open the door, and slid out, turning back immediately to lean into the cockpit.
“Hello!” she called over the ticking of the engine and the humming of the blades.
The pilot spun on his heel, ducking adroitly to avoid banging his head on the door frame. “Good Lord!” he choked. “Where’d you come from?”
June made soothing motions with her hands. “Sorry to startle you.” She was relieved to see his shoulders relax and the fierce glare he’d given her smooth out. “I was in the lookout. I hiked up earlier. Planning to spend a few days.” She pointed with her chin at the helicopter. “Nice ride.”
He smiled. The skin crinkling around his rich brown eyes was a shade lighter than the rest of his face, probably caused by wearing the dark sunglasses now tucked into the open neck of his light green shirt. “Yeah, well, I’m here on business.” She noticed the emblem on the chest pocket, and therefore wasn’t surprised when he introduced himself. “Alex Weaver. Conservation officer, Ministry of the Environment—Fish and Wildlife. I didn’t expect anyone to be up here.”
“I could tell.” She approached the machine, peering curiously through the plexiglass, then offered her hand. “June Brandt. Sorry again.”
“Hey, no problem.” He released her hand and reached a long arm into the helicopter to pull out a large pack similar to hers. “We had a report of poachers in the area, so I came to check it out. How long have you been here?”
“Since this morning. My truck’s parked down in Longworth. I haven’t seen anyone all day.”
“A couple of hikers phoned it in. They’d seen a bear carcass, maybe a grizzly, somewhere on the north slope. Trouble is they were here last Saturday, and only decided to call today.” He shook his head at the delay. Dark brown, almost black, hair fell into his eyes, and he flicked it away with the back of his wrist. “Plus, their directions are kind of vague. They know they followed the main trail up here, and then went over the crest to the other side. Have you been that way?”
“No, not yet.” She gestured toward the lookout, and they headed inside. “Once I brought my gear up here, I backtracked a bit down the trail to a meadow on the tree-line.” They sat in the shaky chairs. “I saw a grizzly there, but it certainly wasn’t dead.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “How close were you? See any cubs?”
“Close enough. No cubs. I’m fairly sure it was a male, based on the size of him. Here, I’ve got photos.”
While she dug her camera out of her pack and turned it on, Alex pulled out a water bottle and tilted his head back to take a drink. His neck was darkly tanned, with a hint of paler skin showing at the collar.
“There he is,” she said, handing him the camera.
He studied the shots closely, agreed with her assessment of the bear being male, then looked at her oddly. “This camera doesn’t have much of a zoom on it.” It was a tiny point-and-shoot she found handier to bring camping than the larger, fancier SLR she also owned.
“It doesn’t,” she said cheerfully.
His eyes narrowed. “Exactly how close were you?”