Page 51 of Some Like It Hot
“Okay. Good. How about any reinforcements?”
More silence and she glanced again beyond him to the flames shooting now and again, bright tongues through the canopy of black. The fire seemed caught in a valley maybe a mile or two from the ranch, but as she turned onto her road, it appeared perilously close. The cloud rose at least a mile into the sky, blotting out any view of the mountains, and the air thickened, sooty and redolent with an acrid odor.
She pulled up beside the Sky King ranch van.
Riley tucked the phone against his shoulder and got out.
Larke cupped a hand over her eyes, searching for the chopper. The plane sat on the runway.
Riley came up beside her. “Everyone’s okay. Apparently, Tucker and the others are getting picked up at Alicia’s so that your dad can fly in with the chopper and rescue the team.”
“That fire is headed right for our house.”
“I know.” He reached out then and curled his arm around her neck, pressed a kiss against her forehead. “I saw a bulldozer in your barn. Please tell me it runs.”
“It runs.”
“Good. Then do your magic, Doc, because we have work to do.”
Eight
He’d never claimed to be the best strategist, but Riley had paid attention during training.
He knew how to cut a dozer line. Wide and deep enough to slow the fire, which would allow reinforcements to lay down a wet line.
And save Sky King ranch.
Riley anchored the line to the dirt road that led to the landing strip behind the house and cut along the airstrip all the way down to the lake. As the fire approached, the wind kicked up and the swirl of cinder and ash thickened, the fire beyond the foothills thundering.
Riley kept his head down. Dirt and dust plastered his sweaty face, the rumble of the dozer cutting into his bones, jarring his wounds. But Larke had bound his shoulder tight around his ribs, up over his collarbone, practically creating an upper body cast.
Then she’d fetched a fire shirt for him from his extra gear he’d left at the cabin and rustled up a handkerchief, a hard hat, and a pair of gloves.
By the time a black SUV pulled up, pouring out Tucker and Skye, along with a handful of tagalongs, he’d cut a half mile of thick, solid fire line.
Tucker ran out across the runway, and Riley cut the engine. The dozer shuddered to a stop.
Without the engine noise, the roar of the fire chewing its way to the ranch could deafen them. He climbed off the dozer. “Where’s the team?”
“On their way. They had to evac—found refuge in the lake at the Boy Scout camp.”
Riley didn’t want to imagine the fight—and the escape—to the camp. “Are they okay?”
“Yeah. Barry is picking them up. Good job on this line. The BLM is sending in a tanker from the Fairbanks fire—it’s nearly out—”
“It’s about time,” Riley said, none too nicely.
Tucker nodded. “I know.”
“Skye—she’s okay?” Please.
“Yeah. And the guy back at the house—his name was Pope. He is—was—the head of the Russian mob in Alaska.”
Riley stared at him. “What—?”
“It’s a long story, but—what happened?”
Riley looked beyond him and spied Larke talking with Skye and one of the other— “Hey, is that Rio? The prisoner?” The tall, dark-haired man was stalking out toward them.