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  Inferno

  Bearpaw Ridge Firefighters Book 10

  By Ophelia Sexton

  Published by Philtata Press

  Text copyright 2019 by Ophelia Sexton. All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Jacqueline Sweet

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Excerpt

  The awful tumult outside began gradually die down, and the rain of debris tapered off.

  "Looks like we made it," Pete said, and rolled over to hug her.

  His breath was hot against her cheek and her ear, and the sensation sent a pleasant jolt through her. Her breasts pressed against his hard chest, and she felt his heart pounding despite the layers of clothing that separated them.

  Kayla reached up blindly, trying to find his face. Her fingertips encountered hot skin and the light prickle of stubble. She turned her face from his chest and stretched up to kiss him.

  His mouth was firm, his lips slightly chapped.

  He stiffened with surprise at the contact, and she drew back. "I'm sor—" she began.

  His mouth returned to cover hers in a hard, passionate kiss, cutting off her apology and driving all rational thought out of her head in a rush of heat and pure animal desire.

  Dedication and Author's Note

  Special thanks to the CalFire Butte County firefighters in Oroville for patiently (and good-humoredly) answering my questions about fire shelter deployment and whether two people can fit into a fire shelter.

  In the course of researching this book, I watched hours of interviews with firefighters talking about their experiences fighting huge and deadly wildfires, and what they did to survive when trapped by the flames. I came away with a sense of deep awe and respect for these dedicated firefighting professionals.

  A number of states have inmate firefighting programs, where nonviolent offenders are given the opportunity to train as wildland firefighters and to work as firefighting crews where they are most needed.

  While writing this story, I stuck as closely as possible to the facts about wildland firefighting and inmate firefighters, with one major exception: Pete Langlais would not actually qualify as an inmate volunteer firefighter in a minimum-security environment like a fire camp. Most inmate firefighters were convicted of nonviolent offenses like DUI, burglary, drug possession, etc. You can find more information about inmate firefighters here:

  California

  New Mexico

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Into the Black

  Chapter 2 – Firestorm

  Chapter 3 – Heat of the Moment

  Chapter 4 – Unwelcome Revelations

  Chapter 5 – Ghosts of the Past

  Chapter 6 – Unlikely Hero

  Chapter 7 – Smells Like Trouble

  Chapter 8 – Breaking Up

  Chapter 9 – Quandary

  Chapter 10 – Moment of Grace

  Chapter 11 – Freedom

  Chapter 12 – Reunion

  Chapter 13 – Better to Ask Forgiveness

  Chapter 14 – Clearing the Air

  Chapter 15 – Going Public

  Chapter 16 – Sparking a Fire

  Chapter 17 – Afternoon Delight

  Chapter 18 – Defending His Mate

  Chapter 19 – In the Bear's Den

  Chapter 20 – Divided Loyalties

  Chapter 21 – Ghost of the Past

  Chapter 22 – Decision Point

  Chapter 23 – Coming Home

  Epilogue

  Books by Ophelia Sexton

  Chapter 1

  Into the Black

  San Juan Mountains, Northern New Mexico

  August 9

  "If anything goes bad, you guys get your asses into the black!" Pete Langlais shouted at his crew of inmate firefighters.

  The roar of the wildfire devouring a densely wooded ridge nearby all but drowned him out.

  A wall of deep orange flames two hundred feet high chewed through stands of beetle-killed ponderosa pines, devouring the dead, dry wood from base to crown. The trees blazed like gargantuan torches, and the sound of the destruction was almost indescribable, like a thousand enraged grizzly bears charging down on you.

  It was only 9:00 a.m. on this summer morning, but the wind coming off the fire hit Pete like a dragon's breath.

  Sweat trickled down his skin under his heavy fire-resistant pants and long-sleeved shirt. His close-cropped hair itched under his helmet. Add eye protection, gloves, and his sturdy, Velcro-fastened leather work boots, and he would have been perfectly comfortable tromping through a blizzard.

  In fact, he would have welcomed a fucking blizzard right about now. Because it sure as hell wasn't going to get any cooler today.

  He pointed at a charred clearing a hundred yards away, surrounded by the smoldering remains of tree trunks. "You see that? That's a decent patch of black."

  His crew of inmate firefighters, eighteen men clad in bright orange jumpsuits, leather work boots, helmets, and sunglasses, all of them wearing backpacks and carrying hand tools, mostly looked in the right direction.

  "Williams!" Pete yelled at the lone exception. "Eyes on the fucking black!"

  Eric Williams, who'd been staring, transfixed, at a deer fleeing the fire, jumped and looked wildly around. His fellow crew members laughed good-naturedly at him.

  Like most of the inmates on Pete's crew, Williams was a city boy. At nineteen, he was also the youngest member of the crew, and he had a tendency to get distracted by the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the wilderness around them.

  "This is no joke, assholes!" bellowed Pete. "If things go bad, knowing your safety zone could save your fucking lives!"

  They'd all completed weeks of training at fire camp, but the first time on a fire line was usually overwhelming for the newbies. Pete was currently the most experienced inmate firefighter on the crew, and the equivalent of the foreman.

  That meant he was in charge of his fellow inmates and responsible for their safety. He reported to Captain Gary Gutierrez, the New Mexico Forestry Service firefighter who supervised the crew and relayed orders from Operations.

  "Remember your training!" he continued at the top of his lungs. "Clear everything on the line. And for fuck's sake, don't let the fire sneak up behind you. Look up! Look around! And look out for your buddies. Understood?"

  A ragged chorus of "Yeahs" and nods responded, with one smart-ass—Hernandez—snapping out a salute and a "Sir! Yes, sir!"

  "Thanks, Pete," Gutierrez mouthed with a friendly nod. He stepped forward to address the crew with the day's line briefing.

  Gutierrez was one of NMFS's senior firefighters, a stocky Latino man who looked fifty-something, with a round, cheerful face and a silver-threaded mustache. He wore the same protective gear as the crew, but in bright yellow instead of convict orange.

  "Morning, guys. Weather report for today is: sunny, high of 87 degrees, 18 percent humidity. Gusty winds from the east up to 60 miles an hour—"

  As if to underscore his point, a blast of wind hit them, surrounding them in choking smoke. Pete's surroundings abruptly vanished in a dense brown haze, and Gutierrez became a fuzzy silhouette. Each breath suddenly stung like acid in Pete's throat. His eyes burned and watered, and his nose began to run.

  "Fuck me," he managed between coughing spells, fumbling for the bottle of water in his PG bag.

  Then the wind shifted again, and the dense smoke cleared within a minute or two.

  "Not gonna lie to you," Gutierrez croaked. "That wind is our biggest enemy today. Operations told me that the fire is advancing at 80 acres a minute. We need to keep an eye out, or we're going to be in deep shit." He coughed, took a swig of water from his own bottle, and continued with the weather report and Operations' work assignment.

  He kept it short and sweet. Pete liked that about Gutierrez. He was a no-bullshit kind of guy, who gave respect when earned and kicked ass when needed.

  When Gutierrez was finished speaking, the inmates grabbed their tools off the rack fastened to the side of the transport van.

  Each firefighter carried either a Pulaski, which was a versatile long-handled tool that looked like a combination of ax and adze, used to dig soil and chop wood, or a McLeod, which combined a sturdy rake with a wide-bladed hoe for cutting branches and sod. There were also four chainsaws assigned to the crew's sawyers.

  Gutierrez led the way down the trail to their assigned position, where they would spend the day clearing a fire break. Pete brought up the rear of the line.

  Despite the hellish conditions and knowing that he faced long hours of hard physical labor, Pete was overjoyed to find himself outside, under open skies and in the middle of a forest and mountains. And he enjoyed working with his crew. These were all guys that he trusted with his life.

  Before Philippe Bertrand came along, Pete had been a respected police officer with the Albuquerque Police Department.

  He'd spent most of the last twelve years inside the Penitentiary of New Mexico, living in a cage away from fresh air and sunlight, unable to shift to his sabertooth cat shape without betraying the secret that he'd sacrificed so much to keep.

  Prison had been hell at first.

&nbs
p; Not only because he was a shifter locked into his human shape for years on end. Pete had known that was coming and had tried his best to prepare himself for the ordeal.

  What he hadn't counted on was the complete loss of control over every aspect of life. What he wore. What he ate. Where he went. Even when he slept. In prison, someone else decided all these things for him. They gave orders, and he was expected to obey without question.

  He didn't think he'd make it past that first endless year. But somehow, he did.

  That year turned into another year, and then another. Pete coped by consciously letting go of any plans and hope for the future. No matter what happened, he was fucked. He'd never be a cop again. He'd be lucky to get any kind of job once he got out.

  Pete kept his head down and doggedly persisted, taking one day at a time.

  Then, seven years into his sentence, the warden unexpectedly summoned Pete to his office and offered him an amazing, unexpected gift for having been a model prisoner during his incarceration. Pete was given the chance to volunteer for an inmate fire crew and to attend a training camp for firefighters.

  Pete hadn't expected that, not in a million fucking years.

  Fire crew was a privilege usually reserved for prisoners who were serving time for nonviolent offenses like DUI or burglary.

  Pete, on the other hand, was currently serving time for killing Philippe Bertrand, the man who had been the leader of Pete's sabertooth cat shifter pride, for the attempted murder of a journalist who had threatened to expose the pride's leader, and for a number of other charges stemming from the first two crimes.

  He had jumped at the offer. Volunteering for this hard, dangerous work would show the parole board that he was serious about turning over a new leaf if he was released.

  He quickly discovered that wildland firefighting was a brotherhood that replaced the brotherhood of law enforcement that he'd lost through his stupidity and arrogance.

  You worked your ass off in dangerous, dirty conditions on twenty-four-hour shifts, but you were part of a team. And at the end of your shift, you collapsed on your cot, knowing that you'd accomplished something important.

  Pete remembered the first time he'd returned from three exhausting days of fighting a wildfire threatening a small town in the middle of nowhere. He and the other crew members crowded together in the inmate transport van had all been filthy, reeking of smoke and stale sweat, and craving ice water and cold showers like addicts craving a fix.

  At the edge of the town that had been in the path of the flames, Gutierrez had unexpectedly pulled the van over to the shoulder of the highway.

  He'd parked and ordered the crew out of the van.

  Puzzled, they had obeyed, standing in a ragged, weary-looking line on the gravel shoulder. Then Gutierrez had pointed at a large hand-painted sign posted on the side of the nearest house ahead. It read:

  THANK YOU FIREFIGHTERS! WE LOVE YOU!!! ♥♥♥

  "I wanted you all to see that. And I hear there's a place in town that's offering free ice cream to firefighters," Gutierrez said. "I'm gonna ignore the rules and stop there for a break. You guys kicked ass out there, and I couldn't be prouder. These folks don't give a shit whether you're wearing orange or yellow. All they care about is that you saved their lives and their homes. Think about that."

  Pete looked at the sign again. A huge painful knot of regret and guilt and shame suddenly loosened deep inside him.

  His vision blurred, and he found himself crying like a baby. And he wasn't the only one.

  * * *

  Things went to hell after lunch.

  Pete and his crew were making steady progress down the control line, hoeing and hacking away all combustible materials. The morning section of the line had been on extremely hilly terrain covered in pines, many of them brown and dead from bark beetle infestations.

  It had been harder work than usual, chopping and hoeing away at tenacious bushes and clumps of grass wedged between rocks while loose dirt and pebbles skidded beneath their boots and sent some of the firefighters to their knees or onto their asses.

  There was another fire crew working on the hillside about a quarter of a mile away. Pete caught glimpses of them throughout the morning. They were wearing yellows, which meant that they were regular firefighters, possibly from the Rio de los Alces volunteer brigade.

  One of them, a tall woman, waved at the inmate crew in friendly greeting, and Pete waved back. He found himself grinning. Yeah, we're all firefighters, and in this together.

  After their lunch break, Pete's crew finally worked their way down to a valley.

  It was easier going on flat land, even if there was a shit-ton more vegetation to clear down here.

  The valley forest was dotted with meadows. The knee-high grass in these clearings was starting to turn from lush green to dry gold, ornamented with scattered yellow, purple, and red wildflowers.

  Underneath the ever-present acrid smoke, Pete's keen nose caught a hint of mud and stagnant water from a pond or lake somewhere nearby.

  Pete fell into the repetitive rhythm of hack and pull, hack and pull with his McLeod. He found himself in a peaceful, almost trance-like state as he cleared away every bush and blade of grass along the line while Williams, working next to him, raked up the loosened materials and cleared them away from the bare soil.

  When the wind picked up two hours later, the first furnace-like blast burned the sweat right off Pete's face and jolted him out of his trance. He glanced up.

  The breath caught in his throat as he spotted a solid wall of orange flames racing through the towering pines towards his crew. The sound it made was indescribable, like the bellow of an enraged grizzly as it charged you. "Holy shit."

  Williams straightened up, alerted by Pete's reaction. "Oh my God."

  All the way down the line, the crew stopped what they were doing to stare at the spectacle of two-hundred-foot-tall pines igniting like gargantuan torches. Some of the guys crossed themselves.

  "Stay here!" Pete ordered, shouting to be heard over the din of the flames. He sprinted to the other end of the line, heading for Gutierrez.

  "Captain!" he shouted, clapping Gutierrez on the shoulder and pointing.

  "Shit." Like everyone else on the crew, Gutierrez had been lulled into a false sense of security and had stopped paying attention to his surroundings. "Evac!"

  He waved his arms frantically to catch the crew's attention and pointed at a narrow dirt trail leading uphill to the Forest Service road where the engines and vans were parked.

  Then Gutierrez grabbed the radio from his chest harness and began shouting into it, trying to alert the other fire crews in the area about the danger.

  But even with his enhanced shifter hearing, Pete barely heard Gutierrez's shouts. It was impossible to tell whether anyone on the radio responded to his warnings.

  Pete ran back down the line, shouting as he went. "Drop your packs and tools! Grab your fire shelters! Go! Go! Go!"