Something Sacred Read online

  Something Sacred

  S. Massery

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sara Massery

  Independently published

  Cover Design by S. Massery

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To those who have risen after life knocked them down.

  Also by S. Massery

  Fallen Royals Series (Dark High School Bully Romance)

  Wicked Dreams

  Wicked Games

  Broken Mercenaries Series (Romantic Suspense)

  Blood Sky

  Angel of Death

  Morning Star

  Something Special Series (Contemporary Romance)

  Something Special

  Something Sacred

  Contents

  Introduction

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part II

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part III

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Also by S. Massery

  Also by S. Massery

  Also by S. Massery

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Interagency Hotshot Crews are the first line of ground defense against wildfires. They often trek through dangerous back country to get to these fires. In Something Sacred, Jared is a hotshot working on a crew of twenty. (The standard hand crew size is 20-22.)

  Firefighting in general, but wildfires specifically, have always been fascinating to me. My first true “lesson” in what hotshots—and other wildland firefighting crews, such as smokejumpers, helitack, type 2 hand crews, on and on—was a memoir called Smokejumper by Jason A. Ramos. It convinced me that, had I known about this career when I was fifteen, I probably would’ve turned my life in that direction. Alas, I veered in a more creative direction. This new interest took me down a rabbit hole learning about this exciting field.

  I give you this information as a caveat: I’ve done a lot of research into hotshot crews, and some of the things you will read in Something Sacred may not be 100% accurate to the job. Details on rank, exact job description, and on may have been altered to fit the storyline.

  Something Sacred touches on real life issues that may be difficult for some readers.

  Part I

  I accept chaos, I’m not sure whether it accepts me.

  Bob Dylan

  1

  Deo volente. God willing.

  I rub at my chest as I get off the plane. The mountains hit me first, and then the air. Everything is bigger out here. Everything seems thinner, lighter, colder. Sharper. I am in the best shape of my life, and yet I still find myself gasping for air as I walk up the stairs into the airport. No matter. I read that altitude affects the lungs, but over time, they’ll adjust. I will adapt, just like I’ve adapted to every other sudden change in my life.

  My mother’s voice telling me that Latin phrase.

  Blood on the bathroom floor.

  Get a grip, I tell myself. I grab my bag and step outside. A pickup truck pulls up in front of me, and the passenger window rolls down.

  “You Jared?” the girl asks. She has long dark hair and pretty green eyes. I try not to analyze her beyond those two details.

  I nod, wary, but she just leans over and shoves the door open.

  “Let’s go, hotshot,” she snaps. Once I toss my bag in the bed of the truck and climb in, she gives me a tight smile. “I’m Cora Fletcher. Office manager and assistant to the superintendent. We’re gonna go meet him and then get you settled into your temporary housing for the next five months.” Her smile turns more wicked as she adds, “If you can last that long.”

  “God willing,” I find myself answering.

  “You religious, Jared?”

  I shrug. God has always been a touchy subject.

  She pulls away from the curb. “Well, some think God doesn’t exist out here. How can God let millions of acres burn every year?” Her fingers tap on the steering wheel. “Some swear they see God in the flames themselves. Retribution for sin. Cleansing holy fire.”

  I shake my head. “Which are you?”

  Cora starts laughing. “You just broke the first rule of fire camp—don’t ask where people put their faith.”

  When I booked my plane ticket for Washington—replacing the district with the state, irony at its finest—I knew I was actively running away from my personal horrors in D.C. I loved going to school there and working as a firefighter to defend the city, even if it was only for a few short years. I loved the rush of running into a building that was unsafe for everyone else. That thrill wore off, and I needed something more. Here, I’m about to run into some of the largest fires in the country.

  Cora clears her throat. “For the record, I didn’t want to come pick you up.” Her hands flex and relax on the steering wheel over and over. “But I’m the lackey nowadays. The boys have started training.” She glances over at me again.

  I turn toward her, not one to back down from a challenge.

  “What does your mother think about you being out here?” she asks.

  I blink. “Um—”

  She waves her hand in the air as if that will erase her words. “Never mind. I hate talking sometimes.”

  I reach for the car radio, but the button doesn’t work. I click it again, flip through stations, switch to satellite radio, CD, AUX. I’m getting almost desperate in the need to fill this awkward silence. Nothing happens, not even static. I sit back in my seat and turn my attention to the mountains. They’re in the distance now, but we’re heading in that direction.

  “What’s it like here?” Damn it, I can’t keep quiet.

  She heaves a sigh and scratches at her head. “The land? Or the people?”

  “Both.”

  “It’s a lot different than Texas,” she answers.

  I squint at her. “I’m not—”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  We lapse into silence again. As the highway slants upward, and mountains loom before us, I start to wonder if I haven’t made a mistake. I should’ve just run home—but my home burned down when I was nine, and I haven’t been able to let anything go since that day. Every imperfect moment is burned into my brain.

  Maybe Cora is right and the flames are God’s retribution, and we have to pay for our sins through his holy fire. Or maybe he’s abandoned us all.

  Randall McNally, the superintendent of the Boulder Mountain Hotshot Crew—one of only a handful of Interagency Ho
tshot Crews in Washington—looks at me like I am a bug. I’m used to it—all fire captains tend to have the same look to them. He’s a tall man with short, military-cut steel grey hair and dark, glaring eyes. He stands behind his desk and evaluates me. “We received your physical and mental exam from your doctor in D.C. last week. You’ve got the job, but you’re on probation for thirty days. One wrong step and you’re out.” He squints at me. “You’ll be at a disadvantage, coming from close to sea level. Be prepared to work for it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Come back here at eight. One minute late, you’re out. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I repeat. Sweat slides down my spine, but anticipation hums in my veins.

  “Cora!” McNally shouts. She cracks the door to his office open. “He’s all yours.”

  She nods and motions for me to follow her. “I read your file,” she says as we exit the main building. “You worked structure fires in D.C.? That’s…”

  I wait for her to say something like, cool or impressive. Instead, she settles on, “Uppity, don’t you think?”

  I look over at her. “How?”

  “How? Mr. Fire Science degree, waving that around like it’s worth something.” She rolls her eyes.

  My mouth drops open. “I didn’t—”

  She crosses her arms. “You did,” she says. She turns so she’s in front of me, glaring. “You come in here all high and mighty, where the other guys have had to work for this. They have put their blood, sweat, and tears into this job. For this job. So, yeah, you’re the fucking outsider with his shiny degree from GWU.”

  I can see her point, even as it stings. I worked structures at a volunteer fire department in D.C., so this is a big jump. Out here, I’m a rookie, and maybe I’m out of my depth.

  “You seem to have done a one-eighty from the car ride,” I say carefully. “Are you saying I’m the only one who has made a transition from structural fires to wildfires?” I don’t run away from a challenge, but this makes me wary. If she won’t accept me, will the rest of the crew? I don’t know anyone. I don’t have a car. I have scraps in my savings account. And suddenly, my life will be in their hands.

  She shrugs. “You’re in the minority, Fire Science. I figured the superintendent wouldn’t let you in after getting a look at you. But, hey!” She perks up. “You could always flunk out during probation.”

  I sigh and follow her to a concrete building across the dirt lot. It was probably grassy at one point. Maybe it was burned away on purpose. “These are the barracks. You’ll sleep here if you make it to active fire season—if there’s a fire or potential fire close to our location and they need bodies on standby. The guys aren’t here right now. They don’t live here yet, anyway. They’re up the mountain doing drills.”

  She cracks the door and lets me peek in, then pulls it closed in my face. She grins at me. “Stop gaping and keep up, Fire Science.”

  I shake my head. I won’t regret this, I promise myself.

  After a tour around the rest of the small facility—there are the trucks, here is the equipment, there is the gym, on and on—Cora and I get in her truck, and she shows me the off site housing. It’s contracted through the Forest Service, which means I get to lease it for a fair price while working. The off-season—usually November until mid-March—means no work, no housing. Some migrate and follow the fires down south, to California, Arizona, Nevada, while others have jobs or families to whom they return. I don’t know what I’ll do if I make it until November. It seems a long way away, and I have nowhere to go.

  In the morning, McNally is waiting for me. He wears sweatpants and sneakers, the same as me, and says, “Ready, Brown?”

  I nod, and he starts jogging. Once we reach the fence, he picks up his pace. I follow.

  Unsurprisingly—given the warning about the altitude—my breathing becomes labored faster than I’m used to. Something sits on my chest. And yet, I push on. There’s nothing else for me except this. So, I lose myself in the sound of my feet hitting the dirt, the blood thundering in my ears, my potential boss just ahead of me. It hurts to keep moving, but it is replaced by tingling numbness in my legs at some point.

  That’s how I left things with my ex-fiancée, Macie—numb. She was a shell of herself, and I felt like a shell too. Before we broke up, we danced around each other in our sadness, although hers held her far more captive than I ever was. In that way, I felt like an imposter. How could I not be feeling every emotion as intensely as she was? You have no heart, she accused me once. I could only shrug. The scary part was—I couldn’t tell if I was numb or not. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be alive.

  I quicken my pace until my lungs hurt and my heart begs me to stop. Even so, I can’t catch up to the superintendent.

  Eventually, McNally slows to a stop and turns to watch me run the last few yards. “Not bad,” he says. He’s barely winded, and it makes me want to growl. “You know, the thing about structural firefighters is they tend to be too bulky. You guys have to save people from burning buildings. Gotta have the muscle to pull a two-hundred-pound unconscious man from the second story of a home. But us? We run four to six miles every other day. We hike two to three hours straight up mountains, loaded down with our gear, and it ain’t a walk in the park. We have to be fit enough to pack into the fire, fight it under shit awful conditions, and then pack back out. So when I saw you?” The superintendent shakes his head. “You have the muscle tone of a structural firefighter. You’re too bulky. But you just managed to do a mile and a half in just over ten minutes, so maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  He points to the mountain beside us as I’m still trying to inhale the right amount of air. “We’re going to meet the rest of the crew up there.” A truck pulls off the main road and bumps toward us. When it gets closer, I realize it’s Cora’s truck. She pulls up beside us and jerks her thumb toward the bed of the truck. McNally thanks her, grabs a backpack from the bed, and tosses another to me. It’s heavier than I am expecting—maybe twenty pounds.

  “Hey, Fire Science,” Cora calls as I turn away from her. I glance back. “Save your face and wear a hat.” She tosses a baseball cap at me before rolling up her window. I look at the cap, which says Boulder Mountain Hotshots on the front. I smile.

  McNally chuckles. “Hot and cold,” he mutters. “Let’s go, Brown.”

  We get up the mountain, and I think my lungs are going to explode. How is this grey-haired man so fit? Fire captains back home had bellies on them, packed over muscle, but they probably couldn’t run a mile and a half as fast as we just did. Sure, they could ration their breathing and save a tank of air to last five flights of stairs, but that was something everyone knew how to do.

  I focus on breathing in and out, even though it feels like I’m sucking on helium, until we get to the top, and I see the rest of the crew. They are raking, making a path of dirt in the mountainside. It’s a fireline. Hotshots clear the vegetation down to the mineral soil as a way to stop the fire in its tracks, and they’re measured in chains. It’s standard operating procedure for a hotshot crew. They chisel through the brush like a well-oiled machine.

  I stare at them and try to commit everything to memory. There’s a certain transformation I expect myself to go through: I’ll need to get stronger, I’ll need more courage. For the longest time, I had nightmares of being burned alive—my obsession was also my greatest fear.

  In the wake of my childhood home burning down, we moved in with our neighbors: Lydia and Frank Galston, and their nine-year-old daughter, Charlotte. I woke up in the middle of the night, almost every night, expecting to hear the shriek of the smoke detectors.

  Somewhere along the way, that fear turned into a desire to vanquish the flames. Slowly, the dreams went away—they stopped altogether when the fear dissipated.

  McNally puts me to work. I start sweating almost immediately. It’s almost cold up here, with an icy wind coming off of the mountains, but I am so hot I’m practically panting. At
noon, we all take a break. I try to stick close to McNally, per his initial instruction, but now he has disappeared.

  “New guy,” one of the guys calls to me. I turn around and see a tall, lean guy, maybe a few years older than me, walk toward me. “Guys call me Maverick. How you holding up?”

  I look at him warily. He seems friendly, but Cora’s earlier words—that they might pull hazing shit on me—hang in my ears. “Good, thanks.”

  He laughs and slaps my back. “Good, good. Eat up while you can. We’ve only got ten minutes left, and then we’re headed back home. Three mile hike with gear.”

  I nod slowly, unsure if I believe him.

  “Thanks, man,” I answer. I stand up, wiping the dirt from my sweatpants. The rest of them wear durable Nomex pants, the regular uniform. All day, I’ve dealt with the flying branches and dirt scratching my legs through the thin cotton. The rest of them wear work gloves and hiking boots, too. My sneakers aren’t cutting it.

  I hate to admit I feel overwhelmed, underprepared, and out of shape—but here we are. It makes me want to run away with my tail tucked, but that wasn’t how I was raised. It wasn’t how I survived high school and it wasn’t how I survived Macie.