Wildfire. Sandra FieldЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THREE days passed, hot, cloudless days where the wind blew ashes in ghostly whorls among the charred stumps and fanned the flames of back fires. Simon’s muscles grew accustomed to the hours of hard labour, labour which he was finding oddly satisfying. There was nothing romantic about mopping up after a fire. But he knew he was protecting the unburned woods from further outbreaks, and that pleased him inordinately. Not even the news on the second day that the fire had leaped the break and was again out of control could entirely dissipate his pleasure in a job as far removed from painting portraits as he could imagine.

      Mopping up certainly didn’t give him the time or the energy to sit around and brood about his creativity. Or rather his lack of it.

      Only two things were bothering him. The majority of the men were holding back from him; and Shea was avoiding him.

      As he stooped to pour fuel into his chainsaw he remembered the conversation he had overheard in the dark woods by the lake the very first evening he had been here. He had been sitting on the grass doing up his boots when he had heard one of the other swimmers say from behind a clump of trees, ‘Who’s the new guy?’

      ‘Jim Hanrahan’s brother,’ Steve had replied.

      ‘Don’t look like a brother of Jim’s to me. Speaks kind of funny—like he’s royalty.’

      ‘He’s from England,’ Steve said.

      A third, derogatory voice said, ‘He’s a painter.’

      ‘Nothin’ wrong with that,’ the first voice responded. ‘I’ve painted a house or two in my day.’

      ‘Pictures, Joe,’ the third voice said. ‘Pictures that you hang on the wall.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Joe.

      ‘He did just fine on the job today,’ Steve put in. ‘You get used to the way he talks after a while.’

      ‘Yeah?’ Joe said dubiously. ‘Well, we’ll see how long he lasts...’

      This conversation had struck a chord in Simon, who had already noticed how some of the crew were ignoring him and how he was always on the fringe of their horseplay; and the next three days merely confirmed that impression. Jim had not been much help. ‘You’re different,’ he said. ‘You’re a rich and famous artist, totally outside their experience. They don’t know what to do with you, so they act as if you’re not there. They’ll get over it.’

      As he capped the fuel can, Simon wondered how many more days he’d have to spend mopping up before he was allowed to join their ranks. While it was an exclusion he understood, he could have done without it.

      As for Shea, she was spending long hours water-bombing, and Michael did most of the ground crew drops. In her off-hours, whether she was eating, talking, or playing cards, she always seemed to be surrounded by men. As the lone woman in a male environment, the deft way she handled them was admirable. But he was beginning to feel like a large and hungry dog whose chain was too short to reach the feed dish.

      He scrambled up the side of a hill to cut down six or seven blackened tree stumps, and half an hour later was on his way back to the base. Michael was the pilot.

      Because he was far less tired now than he had been the first day, Simon headed for the command post to check on the fire’s progress. The fire boss was talking on the radio, and waved at him genially, and two other ground crew nodded at him. As he bent over the infra-red maps he heard Shea’s voice coming from the next room. It took him a moment to realise she was using the telephone.

      ‘No, I can’t get away—the fire’s still out of control. But I’ll be off next weekend, because I’ll be up to maximum hours by then.

      ‘I didn’t promise!

      ‘Peter, I told you when we first met that in the summer I don’t have a schedule, I just have to go where the work is. That’s the way it is.

      ‘I am not married to a helicopter! But this is how I earn my living. Look, there’s no point fighting about this—couldn’t we meet on Saturday as we’d planned?

      ‘I see. I really hate this, Peter—’

      There was a sudden silence, as though the man at the other end had slammed down the phone. A few moments later Shea marched through the room, saying crisply to the fire boss, ‘Thanks for the use of the phone, Brad.’

      In one swift glance Simon had seen her flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes. Not sure if it was rage or tears that had given them their sheen, he kept his eyes assiduously on the map. The door swung shut behind her, and as if in sympathy the radio crackled with static. Simon finished what he was doing and went to find his brother for a swim. He hoped it hadn’t been tears.

      As always, the cool water of the lake felt like the nearest thing to heaven. Afterwards Simon hauled on a pair of clean jeans and his running shoes, relishing the breeze on his bare chest. He angled up the hill to where he had parked the truck; Jim had been roped into a poker game back at the base. Eight or nine of the ground crew were standing between him and the truck, including two men new to Simon. There was a litter of empty beer cans on the ground.

      ‘Who’s the blonde?’ one of the new men asked, tipping back a can to drain it.

      Steve answered. ‘Name’s Shea Mallory, Everett. She’s a helicopter pilot.’

      ‘No kidding. She ever go swimming?’

      There was a warning note in Steve’s voice. ‘She goes up at the other end of the lake, and we stay at this end.’

      Everett was patently unimpressed. ‘Yeah? Now if I met her down by the lake, let me tell you what I’d do to her—’

      His string of obscenities fell on Simon’s ears like live coals. Not even stopping to think, he dropped his shirt and towel on the path. In a blur of movement he seized Everett by the shirt-front, lifting him clear off the ground. ‘You listen to me,’ he snarled. ‘If I ever see you within ten feet of Shea Mallory, I’ll drive you straight into the middle of next week.’

      ‘I didn’t—’

      ‘Do you hear me?’ Simon shook the man as if he were a bundle of old rags. ‘Or do I have to show you that I mean business?’

      ‘Yeah, I hear you. I was only kidding; no need to—’

      His muscles pulsing with fury, Simon grated, ‘And I don’t want you ever mentioning her name again. Have you got that, too?’

      ‘Sure. Sure thing.’

      Feeling the sour taste of rage in his mouth, Simon shoved the man away. Everett staggered, belched, and edged himself to the very back of the small group of men. Into the small, gratified silence Steve