Read Online Flaming Desire - Part 3 (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) by Helen Grey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Helen Grey
Ads: Link
I crashed into Matt. As he tried to catch his balance, and to keep myself from falling to the ground, I grabbed at his belt. He twisted around, trying to grab me. Before I knew it, the side of my face was pressed into his groin. It all happened so quickly. I tried to laugh off my embarrassment as he reached his arms beneath mine and lifted me upward. He glanced down at me with a lifted eyebrow. I felt my face flush with heat, especially when the guys walking behind us had seen what happened.
“Sorry, Matt,” I mumbled. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He said nothing, but gazed down at me, a slight grin turning up the corner of his mouth. “What were you watching, Jesse?” He asked the question low under his breath. Without waiting for an answer, he turned around and continued up the slope.
It wasn’t long before my calf muscles definitely began to feel the climb. I carried a long-handled ax in one hand. A shovel was tied to my backpack, which we all wore today. I carried a nearly half-gallon sized canteen strapped to my belt.
This area of the fire was under the management of the Bureau of Land Management. I had already heard so many jokes and nicknames given to this group that I soon found myself smiling. Bureau of Loose Money; Bastards, Liars, and Morons; Bureau of Lots of Meetings… and it went on. We all had nicknames, some not so nice, even the Hotshots. For me, I had a great deal of respect for most of the organizations that oversaw natural lands, national parks, and wildlife areas, but as always, there were always a few bad apples in every bunch.
As we continually walked upward, I spotted large chunks of debris known as bone piles—piles of tree limbs, chunks of tree trunks and so forth that had been tossed there by previous crews for the clean-up crew to gather. Along the way, we did some cold trailing along the same paths where firefighters had been working the last couple of days, making sure that areas blackened by fire were devoid of hotspots. Occasionally, one of us bent down and placed our hand on the ground to feel for heat. If something seemed suspicious, we dug it out with a shovel or pick.
What we were trying to do with this fire line was strengthen it so that any flare-up that occurred within the perimeter of the fire line wouldn’t break through. We seemed to be having some success on this side of the slope, but I had no idea what it would look like farther up. To say it was a long hike up from our work area to the upward edges of the slopes was an understatement. The dozers couldn’t get up here. The brush was too thick, the slopes too steep. It was impossible even for entire Hotshot crews to clear a path.
I don’t know how long it took us to reach the tip of a ridge along the northern slope, probably a few hours. By that time, I felt sweat dripping down my shirt. The air here was choked with smoke—the smell of burnt wood, charred underbrush, and occasionally, the scent of death, a burnt animal carcass. We halted at the top of the ridge, all of us lining up side by side, staring down at dismay at the fire burning below, which seemed to encompass the entire eastern range of not only this mountain, but also several other mountains to the north. Huge black clouds of smoke billowed upward, the flames sometimes reaching twenty feet or more in height.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. And we were supposed to fight that? I felt a niggling of fear. Forest fires were different from desert fires and prairie fires. Each was unique in the way it behaved and in the way it moved. This sight, though incredibly awesome, was also terribly frightening.
Thank God it was a wilderness area and away from any towns or cities. From what I had heard, evacuations of local camps and resorts had already occurred. Horses and cattle had already been evacuated as well down slope.
Yes, there would be some damage to existing structures—vacation homes, camping cabins, and other structures that belong to the
“Sorry, Matt,” I mumbled. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He said nothing, but gazed down at me, a slight grin turning up the corner of his mouth. “What were you watching, Jesse?” He asked the question low under his breath. Without waiting for an answer, he turned around and continued up the slope.
It wasn’t long before my calf muscles definitely began to feel the climb. I carried a long-handled ax in one hand. A shovel was tied to my backpack, which we all wore today. I carried a nearly half-gallon sized canteen strapped to my belt.
This area of the fire was under the management of the Bureau of Land Management. I had already heard so many jokes and nicknames given to this group that I soon found myself smiling. Bureau of Loose Money; Bastards, Liars, and Morons; Bureau of Lots of Meetings… and it went on. We all had nicknames, some not so nice, even the Hotshots. For me, I had a great deal of respect for most of the organizations that oversaw natural lands, national parks, and wildlife areas, but as always, there were always a few bad apples in every bunch.
As we continually walked upward, I spotted large chunks of debris known as bone piles—piles of tree limbs, chunks of tree trunks and so forth that had been tossed there by previous crews for the clean-up crew to gather. Along the way, we did some cold trailing along the same paths where firefighters had been working the last couple of days, making sure that areas blackened by fire were devoid of hotspots. Occasionally, one of us bent down and placed our hand on the ground to feel for heat. If something seemed suspicious, we dug it out with a shovel or pick.
What we were trying to do with this fire line was strengthen it so that any flare-up that occurred within the perimeter of the fire line wouldn’t break through. We seemed to be having some success on this side of the slope, but I had no idea what it would look like farther up. To say it was a long hike up from our work area to the upward edges of the slopes was an understatement. The dozers couldn’t get up here. The brush was too thick, the slopes too steep. It was impossible even for entire Hotshot crews to clear a path.
I don’t know how long it took us to reach the tip of a ridge along the northern slope, probably a few hours. By that time, I felt sweat dripping down my shirt. The air here was choked with smoke—the smell of burnt wood, charred underbrush, and occasionally, the scent of death, a burnt animal carcass. We halted at the top of the ridge, all of us lining up side by side, staring down at dismay at the fire burning below, which seemed to encompass the entire eastern range of not only this mountain, but also several other mountains to the north. Huge black clouds of smoke billowed upward, the flames sometimes reaching twenty feet or more in height.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. And we were supposed to fight that? I felt a niggling of fear. Forest fires were different from desert fires and prairie fires. Each was unique in the way it behaved and in the way it moved. This sight, though incredibly awesome, was also terribly frightening.
Thank God it was a wilderness area and away from any towns or cities. From what I had heard, evacuations of local camps and resorts had already occurred. Horses and cattle had already been evacuated as well down slope.
Yes, there would be some damage to existing structures—vacation homes, camping cabins, and other structures that belong to the
Similar Books
