The Smoke Jumper
NICHOLAS EVANS
Hachette Digital
Table of Contents
Nicholas Evans was born and grew up in Worcestershire. Before writing his first novel,
The Horse Whisperer
– later made into a film directed by Robert Redford – he worked as a journalist, film producer and screenwriter. His latest novel is
The Divide
. Nicholas Evans lives in Devon.
‘Evans captures the grit and splendour of the contemporary American West with compelling realism. His rhythm and observation are key and he demonstrates impeccable timing as he alternates between sweeping atmospheric overviews and intensely detailed character portraits’
The Times
‘His storytelling powers are some of the most compelling in print . . . a totally satisfying blend of action-filled drama and anguished love story’
Glamour
‘Evans is not only a cracking storyteller - he has the rare ability to tell his tale with great vividness and simplicity, and descriptions of such neck-grabbing power that you feel you are sitting through a Hollywood blockbuster . . . the reader is swept along by the sheer vigour of the narrative’
Daily Mail
‘Evans has the ability to generate a wide, rich canvas, moving his story from the wilds of the American Rockies to the killing fields of war-torn Africa and creating graphic, memorable images in both settings. He is extremely sensitive to nature, which is reflected in his beautifully detailed and loving descriptions of landscape or animals’
Time Out
‘An epic journey detailing the complex emotions of the human heart played out against a vast landscape . . . Heroic, adventurous, compelling, insightful, this is an unforgettable love story written from the heart. A fantastic read. Highly recommended’
Irish Independent
Also by Nicholas Evans
The Horse Whisperer
The Loop
The Divide
The Smoke Jumper
NICHOLAS EVANS
Hachette Digital
Published by Hachette Digital 2009
Copyright © Nicholas Evans 2001
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication, other than
those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 7481 1229 6
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
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For Harry, Max and Lauren
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to those who helped in the research: Priscilla Robinson, Rob Whitty, Huw Alban Davies, Suzanne Laverty, Dave Mills, Bruce Weide, Pat Tucker, Jeanette Ingold, Jim Marks, Bob Maffit, Dan Pletscher, Dave Friend, Chris Thomas, Jeremy Mossop, Janey King, Sam Davis, Geoffrey Kalebbo, Philip Jones Griffiths, Charles Glass, Gavin Smith, Larry Stednitz and Garrett Munson of Alternative Youth Adventures. For their support and encouragement and much more besides, thanks to Linda Shaughnessy, Larry Finlay, Sally Gaminara, Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Tracy Devine, Caradoc King and Charlotte Gordon Cumming.
Finally, for help and patience far beyond the call of duty, special thanks to two fine Missoula smoke jumpers, Wayne Williams and Tim Eldridge.
No man may earn his heart’s desire
Lest first he brave the smoke and fire.
PART ONE
1
T
he important things in life always happened by accident. At fifteen she didn’t know much, in fact, with each passing year she was a lot less clear about most things. But this much she did know. You could worry yourself sick trying to be a better person, spend a thousand sleepless nights figuring out how to live clean and decent and honest, you could make a plan and bolt it in place, kneel by your bed every night and swear to God you’d stick to it, hell, you could go to church and promise properly. You could cross your heart seven times with your eyes tight shut, cut your thumb and squeeze it and pen solemn vows on a rock with your own blood then throw it in the river at the stroke of midnight. And then, out of the black beyond, like a hawk on a rat, some nameless catastrophe would swoop into your life and turn everything upside down and inside out forever.
Skye later reckoned that on the night in question that old hawk must have been outside sitting up on the roof biding his time and watching the rat have a little fun, because it all started in a real low-key kind of way when those two women came sashaying into the bar.
She didn’t know who they were but what they were was plain for all the world. They were wearing more make-up than clothes and she could tell from the way they swayed on their high heels that they were already hazed with drink. They both wore tight little tops, one red, one silver and fringed, and the woman in front, who had long black hair and breasts propped up like melons on a shelf, had a skirt so short she needn’t have bothered. The music in the bar was thumping loud and the black-haired woman tried a little shimmy to it as she walked and almost fell.
The men they were with were close behind them and obscured, steering them through the crowd. Both wore cowboy hats and from the corner booth across the room where Skye and her friends were sitting, she couldn’t make out their faces. Not that she was remotely interested. She was more than a little hazed with drink herself. The lights were dimmed to a dull red glow and through the hanging curl of smoke all she registered was a couple of sad forty-something-year-old guys chasing their youth and doubtless cheating on their wives. Skye looked away. She picked up her beer and drank, then lit another cigarette.
She watched them mostly because she was bored, which was kind of sad too, considering it was her birthday. Jed and Calvin were slumped stoned and speechless beside her, Roxy was still crying into her hands at something Craig had said to her, and Craig was still cussing on and on about his goddamn heap of a car breaking down. Another great night in fun city, Skye said to herself and took another swig. Happy birthday to me.
The bar was a godforsaken dump so close to the railroad that the bottles shook and clinked whenever a train went by.
For reasons that weren’t too hard to fathom, the cops left the place alone and so long as you weren’t in diapers, the staff turned a blind eye to underage drinking. Consequently much of the clientele was around the same age as Skye. A lot younger for sure than the four who had just walked in. They were at the bar now and stood waiting to be served. They had their backs to her and Skye again found herself staring at them.
She watched the tall man’s hands moving on the black-haired woman’s hips and on her ass and up her spine to her bare shoulders and saw him lean in close, nuzzling her neck. God, he was
licking
her. How gross some guys were. What was it with women? How could they stand being slobbered over by jerks like him? The whole sex trip was something Skye still didn’t get and doubted she ever would. Oh sure, she
did
it. Everybody did. But she still couldn’t figure out why it was cracked up to be such a big deal.
The man must have whispered something dirty because the woman suddenly threw back her head, laughed raucously and made a playful attempt to slap him. The man laughed too and swiveled to avoid her and his hat fell off and for the first time Skye could see his face.
It was her stepfather.
In those few moments before his eyes met hers she glimpsed in his face a look she had never seen before, a kind of inner face that was still just a boy’s, loose and joyful and strangely frail. Then she saw him recognize her and saw the boy vanish as swiftly as he had appeared. His face clouded and clenched and became again the one she knew and feared and loathed, the one she saw when he came back in the early hours to the trailer seething with drink and fury and called her mother a squaw bitch and beat her until she howled for mercy and then turned his foul attention upon Skye.
He straightened up and put his hat on the bar and said something to the woman who turned to consider Skye with a look that lay somewhere between disdain and disinterest. Now he was heading toward the booth. Skye squashed out her cigarette, hoping he hadn’t seen it. She stood up.
‘Let’s go,’ she said quietly.
But she was trapped in the booth. On one side Roxy was sobbing into Craig’s shoulder and hadn’t heard and on the other Calvin and Jed were still out of it. Her stepfather reached the table, his eyes taking in the evidence: the beer bottles, the brimming ashtrays, the comatose bums she chose to hang out with.
‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’
‘Come on, it’s my birthday.’ It was pathetic but worth a try. She even thought of calling him ‘Dad’ as she briefly had when he and her mom married, before he revealed just what a mean, disgusting sonofabitch he really was. But she couldn’t bring herself to utter the word.
‘Don’t give me that shit. You’re just fifteen years old! What the fuck do you think you’re at?’
‘Aw, give her a break, man. We’re only having a little fun.’ It was Jed, who had resurfaced. Skye’s stepfather leaned across and grabbed him by the throat, hauling him halfway across the table.
‘You dare talk to me like that, you little slice of shit.’
Jed’s weight made the table tilt and everything on it except for him slid off onto the floor in an avalanche of breaking glass. Craig was on his feet now and he tried to grab Skye’s stepfather by the arm but her stepfather twisted himself around and with the hand that wasn’t throttling Jed punched the boy full in the face. Roxy screamed.
‘For godsake,’ Skye shouted. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’
She was aware that everyone in the bar was staring at them. One of the waiters was coming over along with the man her stepfather had arrived with.
‘Hey folks, let’s cool it here, shall we?’ the waiter said.
Skye’s stepfather shoved Jed back into his seat so hard his head slammed against the back of the booth. Craig was on his knees bleeding from the mouth and Roxy was sobbing over him, trying to help him. Skye’s stepfather’s chest was heaving and his eyes were narrowed and dark and he turned them on the waiter.
‘Did you serve alcohol to these kids?’
The waiter held up his hands. ‘Sir, let’s keep things calm now, please.’
He was slightly built and about a foot shorter than Skye’s stepfather. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail.
‘Did you? Did you serve them alcohol?’
‘They said they were twenty-one.’
‘And you believed that? Did you ask for their I.D.?’
‘Sir, could we talk about this—’
‘Did you?’
Skye stood up and pushed her way out of the booth.
‘Look, we’re going, okay? We’re going!’
Her stepfather spun around and lifted his hand to hit her and although all her instincts told her to cower, somehow she managed not to and instead stood her ground, glaring at him. She could smell his cologne and it was so cloying and the memories it stirred so foul that it almost made her gag.
‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me.’
It was little more than a whisper. But it stopped him or maybe it was all the eyes upon him that did it. Whatever it was, he lowered his hand.
‘Get your ass home, you little Indian whore. I’ll see to you later.’
‘The only whores in here are the two you came in with.’
He made a lunge for her but she ducked out of his reach and ran for the door. Over her shoulder she saw that his friend and the waiter had grabbed his arms to stop him coming after her. She burst into the night and started to run.