The Family Man. Melinda Curtis
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Tess’s small face with a joyous grin or scrunched up in tickle-induced laughter. She tried to imagine a more outgoing, confident Hannah. Or the two sisters holding hands as they walked home from school, giggling and sharing confidences as siblings were supposed to do.
Much as she tried, Thea couldn’t quite picture them that way. Having buried their mother six months ago and being raised—if you could call it that—by a malingering father, who didn’t seem very interested in his daughters the four or five days he was home every month, it was no wonder the girls were so withdrawn.
Turning them in to the police or some impersonal social agency was out of the question. They’d just be passed from one foster home to another. Tess would continue to refuse to eat more than kept her alive and Hannah would continue to eat to salve her pain. They may have been identical twins, but their grief had taken its toll on their bodies in different ways.
Unfortunately, Thea knew she couldn’t take care of them forever. As it was, she’d have trouble figuring out a way to keep them fed for more than a few days with less than one hundred dollars to her name.
“I want to go home.” Hannah turned back to Thea, fingering the hem of her yellow sundress. “To Idaho.”
“He won’t take us.” Tess shook her head without facing them. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jean shorts.
“Is that where your father is? In Idaho?” Thea asked, her spirits rising. Maybe this was just a huge misunderstanding. Wes could wire them some money and the landlord would let them back into the apartment. She’d spend more time studying and a little less time trying to coax the girls out of their shells.
Tess snorted.
Ignoring her sister, Hannah stepped around a box of Thea’s books, something uncharacteristically bright shining in her eyes. “Uncle Logan lives in Idaho. In Silver Bend. We used to live with him.”
Thea’s spirits deflated as quickly as they’d risen. The twins rarely mentioned their uncle. He hadn’t called since she’d been with them. He hadn’t written to ask about the girls, hadn’t sent them birthday cards. If she had to guess, Thea would say Uncle Logan didn’t care what happened to his nieces.
“Please.” Hannah touched Thea’s hand with one finger before stepping back. The gesture said so much more than the reticent little girl ever would. The twins tolerated Thea’s hugs, but didn’t seek out physical contact.
Why on earth would this uncle in Idaho help them now?
An ant crawled up the side of the box containing the bread, peanut butter and cereal. If Thea didn’t decide to do something soon, the ants would claim the last of their food.
Perhaps the twins’ uncle was the only person they could turn to.
Lifting her gaze to the blue spring sky above, Thea refused to think about the folders filled with notes at her feet, or her looming exams, or the balance on her credit card that was already too high to pay off.
And she would not think about the penalties for taking the girls without their father’s permission. She’d filed a missing persons report on Wes three weeks ago. As far as she was concerned, if Wes Delaney was alive, he’d abandoned his daughters.
“Let’s load the car.” Thea brushed the ant away, picked up the box of food and headed to her car.
She was taking the twins to Idaho.
“THEY’RE DECLARING this fire a runaway,” Golden announced, sliding on a patch of ice as he came down a slope on Hyndman Peak, east of Sun Valley, Idaho.
Logan McCall tensed, reliving his own tumble last year that had snapped his femur. Without thinking, he rubbed his thigh, which still gave him more than an occasional twinge of protest at the physical demands of his work. Then he realized he was drawing attention to his injury and stopped. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness. If you couldn’t keep up, you couldn’t be a Hot Shot.
With a quick sideways glance to see if anyone had noticed, Logan lifted his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the long sleeve of his shirt. It might be less than forty degrees on this sunny spring day in the mountains, but the fire above him had warmed everything here to above ninety sweat-dripping degrees. The Hot Shot fire crew kept perspiration-soaked bandannas and shirtsleeves busy in between flinging dirt and snow on the flames at their feet. Their clothing may have been fire resistant, yet all that coverage didn’t keep them cool.
Logan’s body felt the fire’s heat from head to toe, but the flames could never warm his heart. He couldn’t get over that one regrettable choice he’d made five months ago.
“Did the fire jump the line somewhere else, Golden?” Logan asked his best friend as he flung snow at the flames with a shovel. He wished he could control the pain in his chest with the same straightforward manner he controlled a fire.
Golden nodded, clipping his radio onto the front strap of his pack. “Winds pushed it across the road to the east. It’s heading down the mountain to the ski resort.”
Some of the other Hot Shots stopped tossing dirt and snow at the flames above them to listen. The Silver Bend Hot Shot crew was working with two other fire crews on a prescribed burn above the Sun Valley ski resort. The Department of Forestry had decided they needed to set a controlled burn in a timber area that had been weakened by two years of drought and ravaged by bark beetles. Without water, the pines had been unable to produce enough sap to protect themselves against the hungry insect, which bored into the bark and ate the dry trees from the inside out. The large percentage of dead pines on this side of the mountain was a huge risk for wildfires later in the year. Some bureaucrat seemed to think that the snow and rock farther up the ridge would stop the fire from crossing over to the other side of the mountain.
But they hadn’t figured on winds changing direction and pushing the fire down the mountain, had they?
Gazing up the slope, Logan shaded his eyes against the glaring spring afternoon sun. He saw nothing but orange pine swaying in the wind—orange from the flames consuming dry branches or orange needles indicating the tree had succumbed to the beetle. Succumbed. Given up. Lost.
“Are we being reassigned to the east?” Spider asked. He was a wiry firefighter about Logan’s age. Seeing him in Hot Shot garb—a yellow button-down shirt and forest-green khakis—was always something of a shock. Off duty, Spider preferred the black color usually associated with the creepy crawly that was his namesake.
All the Hot Shots had nicknames—Jackson was Golden because he was lucky; Nick was Steve, short for Stephanapolis; Doc because he went to medical school during the winter; and The Queen, so dubbed because she was a redhead named Victoria. Logan’s nickname was Tin Man, a name he’d earned by being the most confirmed bachelor among his crew. They gave each other monikers to lighten the mood when battling the deadly flames.
Not to say that they weren’t businesslike on the fire line.
“Lots of ski bunnies down that slope at the ski lodge, Tin Man.” Chainsaw nudged Logan with his elbow, his namesake resting on his broad shoulders. He, Steve and a bulldozer had cleared a twenty-foot wide path through the trees that cut across their side of Hyndman Park. “We’ll look like heroes.”
Well, they might not always be businesslike, but they got the job done.
“Send my group out first, Golden, before Tin Man starts breakin’ hearts and makin’ all of mankind look bad.” Spider’s words were baiting, almost itching for a fight.
Logan looked away, heat burning in his gut near as hot as the fire above them. Since losing his twin sister six months ago, Logan’s temper rarely receded. He’d taken to avoiding his friends because he couldn’t escape the cloud that seemed to shadow him everywhere.
Golden shook his head. He was the superintendent of the Silver Bend Hot Shots based in Silver Bend, Idaho, and had the patience of a saint. Logan and Spider were his two assistant superintendents, each in command of a team of nine men and women.
Last year,