Page 69 of Burnin' For You

He could still feel her kiss on his mouth, her small compact body nestled against his.

Yes, he would definitely take her up on that dance when they got off this mountain.

The trail had turned nearly vertical, and his breath razored in his chest as he climbed from one boulder to the next, up the trail dissected by lean, towering spruce, mossy boulders, and tufts of red paintbrush.

It led to a log cabin, the original lookout now squatty and dilapidated, the front porch sagging in on itself. A few yards away, the lookout tower, a square building with a 360-degree view of the Cabinet Mountains, sat on stilts at the apex of the mountain. A set of stairs zig-zagged up to the top, and Reuben stopped for a moment, breathing hard, his head pounding, the rush of blood in his brain thumping with his heartbeat.

He looked around, getting his bearings. To the east was the ripple of mountains in Glacier National Park, hazy purple along a cloudless blue sky.

To the north and west, the forested hills dropped off, fell hundreds of feet to the creek, a view filled with thick Fraser fir, white pine, and rolling foothills.

And above it all, a roiling cloud of gray smoke filled the sky. He tried to calculate Gilly’s position.

He’d thought the smoke was from the Davis Canyon fire. But if he read the sky and the terrain correctly, smoke scarred the sky from two wildfires.

One in the distance, due west.

And one closer, larger, straight down Garver Mountain, over the creek, and headed right for Gilly.

The Brownings’ cabin had ignited the entire forest.

And Gilly, sitting in the grove of pine trees, facing east toward the creek, had no idea an inferno bore down on her.

Reuben’s hands slicked with sweat as he opened the door to the lookout.

Get help. Get back down the mountain.

Over the years, the place had turned into a bivouac for campers, an overnight nest for rental. Still, the old fire-lookout equipment remained, including the old Osborne Fire Finder, a type of turning board over a map that helped pinpoint the fires, along with a table, chairs, and a bunk large enough for two. Someone had stocked the shelves with toilet paper, kindling for the wood stove, and water.

Please, God, let there be a radio.

The prayer felt wrenched from deep inside and left him hollow a long moment.

He searched the cupboards, the desk, and the square table under the fire finder. Nothing. He tore apart the bed, searched through the meager supplies, a keen eye on the blackening cloud.

No radio. He sat on the bed, breathing out hard, his head in his hands. How could the lookout tower not have a radio?

He picked up the lantern, threw it across the room where it shattered, and gripped his knees, the world spinning.

He fell and landed on all fours, nearly banging his head on the fire finder table. Sat back against the bed, breathing hard.

So much for trusting God.

Because guess what—Gilly was down there by herself in the middle of a firestorm, and he’d hiked up the mountain for nothing. Reuben should have known that he was on his own here.

He couldn’t breathe as he pushed himself to his feet, one thought carrying him.

Get back to Gilly.

Voices. Laughter. They trickled up to him, carried on the breeze. He stepped out onto the balcony and looked over the balcony. Down below, two bicyclers, their mountain bikes perched on their shoulders, stared at the black smoke.

He wanted to weep with relief. Or at least hope.

“Hello!” It hurt to yell, but he pulled himself to the edge. “Hello!”

A man and a woman, early thirties. They wore biking clothing, helmets and backpacks.

The man looked up at him. Waved.