Getting Married Again

Her face turned bright red. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

Lexie had slept with someone else. The room tilted. Lexie had slept with another man.

“I’m sorry you had to learn about it this way,” Lexie said. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

“How could you do this to me?” He’d be the laughingstock of his Hot Shot crew, of every crew and support group from Montana to Arizona—if he wasn’t already. Had Lexie left him for this guy?

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, but it doesn’t change anything between us.”

“You’ve been walking around like…like…that for months, haven’t you? And everyone in town knows you’re pregnant.”

“Probably.”

Jackson rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes. “Who is he, Lex? Who did this to us?”

Lexie’s mouth dropped open, then she narrowed her eyes at him and said, “You did, you idiot.”

Dear Reader,

This year I will celebrate twenty years of marriage to the same man. But don’t look to me for marital advice. Sometimes I wonder how we made it, given several cross-country moves, job changes, financial challenges, kids, kittens and puppies. One thing I do know—we’re not the same two people who held hands and recited vows so long ago. We’ve grown and we’ve changed.

Lexie and Jackson Garrett are high school sweethearts who marry young. Jackson chases his dream of becoming a Hot Shot fireman—fighting wildland fires from Alaska to Florida. Holding down the home front alone for months at a time, Lexie faces a different set of challenges. It’s not life or death, but it’s still survival. Despite loving Jackson deeply, Lexie can’t handle facing another family crisis alone. Unwilling to settle for a relationship that is less than what she deserves, Lexie asks for a divorce.

When Jackson realizes he’s not immortal, when he understands what he’s lost, when he finally starts to change, he heads straight home to Lexie with one goal in mind…getting married again.

I hope you like Lexie and Jackson’s story. I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me at P.O. Box 150, Denair, CA 95316 or through my Web site at www.MelindaCurtis.com. Enjoy!

Melinda Curtis

Getting Married Again

Melinda Curtis

With much love and thanks to…

My husband and kids, who have learned this year—through trial and error—how to work the toaster, microwave and iron.

Michael Rhodes, Nicki Amburn and Rick Priest, for sharing Hot Shot and base camp stories, maps, nicknames and information. Any mistakes are mine alone.

Those who keep the home fires burning while their loved ones are away putting out fires—whether out on a fire line or away at the office.

And finally, to the brave men and women who fight wildland fires, who risk their lives to “face the dragon” without much more in return than personal satisfaction and a paycheck as they protect our homes and national treasures. You are an inspiration.

Those who have fallen will not be forgotten.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

DRIVEN BY THE WHIPPING WIND, roaring flames made torches of the drought-dry trees on the ridge. Jackson Garrett could feel the heat increase as a wall of fire advanced toward him. Embers shot into the air like Fourth of July rockets, blossoming into flame as they hit the earth.

Ignoring the sweat trickling down his face, Jackson turned to watch the progress of the ground fire, which crept slowly up the steep slope in the direction of him and his crew. The panicked voices on the hand-held radio crackled in his ear over the building snarl of the fire. The words were in Russian and, although he’d been in Russia for nearly half a year, they were speaking too fast for Jackson to understand. Except he did understand.

They were dead.

Not yet, but it was only a matter of time. Ivan, Levka, Potenka, Breniv and Alek. Men he’d trained these past few months to fight forest fires the American way. Men he’d become fond of despite the language barrier and their reluctance to learn a method some bureaucrat figured would help the Russians stem their annual forest fire devastation.

What a joke. You needed equipment to fight fires—reliable equipment that wasn’t salvaged from some war fought fifty or more years ago—and well-trained, well-conditioned men. His Russian team was shaping up, but they had little experience. The men worked sluggishly on the mountainside in the one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat of the fire. They fought without the fire-resistant protective gear that Jackson had taken for granted in the States. As for equipment, in this area of Siberia it included garden-variety shovels, a relic of an airplane that was supposed to be used to drop retardant on the fire—except that after months of fighting wildland fires there was no fire retardant left—and an antique fire truck with only two working gears, reverse and first—not much use in the mountains.

When Jackson had arrived in Russia and realized the limited experience and resources of the men he’d been assigned to, he’d laughed. A smart man would have filed a report with the government agency that sent him over and taken the first plane back to the States.

But then, most smart men didn’t have a freshly signed divorce agreement tucked in their passport.

Jackson had nearly ten years’ experience as a Hot Shot, one of an elite group of government firefighters trained to battle the hottest part of wildland fires. Hell, Jackson figured, he’d be able to teach his ragtag crew a thing or two about fighting forest fires. They had shovels, didn’t they?

So he’d stayed, not yet ready to return home and smile at his Hot Shot buddies and hide the fact that his wife had blindsided him with a divorce, or fess up that he hadn’t been able to sweet-talk his way back into their bed. That last night he spent in Silver Bend, Idaho, he’d told his best friend, Logan McCall, that he wouldn’t have to sleep on Logan’s couch again because his wife, Lexie, had called and wanted to meet him for dinner.

When Jackson met Lexie at that Boise restaurant more than six months ago, he’d been stupidly sure of himself—even after he’d signed the divorce papers and finessed Lexie into a motel room in Boise, convinced they’d rip the papers to shreds come morning. He was so confident they’d reconcile, he’d been thinking about how he’d brag to his buddies about Lexie’s hot temper and how that made making up that much hotter—while she was putting her clothes back on and walking out on him for good.

“This was breakup sex. Nothing more,” Lexie had pronounced, her eyes brimming with tears, the divorce papers clutched in one hand and the motel room door handle gripped in the other. “I didn’t believe those empty promises of yours at dinner. I just had to…” Lexie paused, swallowed, blinked rapidly. “It was breakup sex,” she reaffirmed before disappearing out of his life.

Now, Jackson wondered why Lexie had slept with him that night and why she’d been so upset about it afterwards. He remembered the first time he’d asked her out in high school. He’d given her some smooth line. He couldn’t even remember now what it’d been. She’d laughed at him—after he’d spent weeks working up the nerve to ask her out—and told him he was full of hot air. She’d gone out with him anyway…after he’d asked her out three more times.

There was a joke. Soon, he’d be nothing but hot air, his body incinerated and smoldering. Lexie would cry for him when she found out, because she had a heart that was big enough to mourn an idiot like Jackson, even after she’d kicked him out of her life. It’d be harder on his little girl, Heidi. But Heidi had Lexie, and Lexie would support their daughter and love her no matter what. Heidi could count on Lexie.

According to Lex, Heidi couldn’t count on him.

The idea that his family would go on without him held no comfort. Jackson swayed on the mountainside, suddenly feeling every ounce of the forty-plus pounds of gear he carried, as he realized how dispensable he was to Lexie and Heidi. He’d become just a voice on the other end of the telephone line, a house payment, medical coverage. He wanted his family back. Not that he was in a position to get them back now, caught between two fires halfway around the world. He didn’t even have a way to call them and hear their voices one last time, to tell them how much they meant to him.

He’d been in tough spots before, but he’d always made it out. His Hot Shot crew back home nicknamed him Golden because they could always rely on him to get them out of sticky situations. Now he realized the reason he believed he’d make it was that Lexie had always been waiting for him.

She wasn’t waiting for him anymore.

With his right hand, Jackson reached into his pocket and fingered the small medal Lexie had given him years ago. It was his good luck charm. No. That was wrong. Lexie was his good luck charm. Things just weren’t the same without her in his life.

“Damn it,” Jackson muttered, as the fire above him roared a challenge—fight or die. Time for him to stop moping and realize he needed to battle for the only woman he’d ever loved. He couldn’t die now. Somehow, he’d screwed up his life, but he wouldn’t go like this. He wouldn’t leave Lexie and Heidi without trying to be a good husband and dad one more time. He’d figure out where he went wrong later, after he found a way out of the firestorm closing in on them.

Scowling, Jackson watched his team of trainees futilely attempt to complete the fire line he’d abandoned the moment he’d seen the fire peak the ridge. But with no chopper rescue possible, and no planes to drop a load of water to form an escape route, they were as good as crispy.

They needed a miracle.

Or a man who had to make it back home.

CHAPTER ONE

“WELCOME TO SILVER BEND, Idaho, Population 770.”

“Off by one,” Jackson mumbled to himself from the driver’s seat of his idling truck. Nobody had subtracted him from the sign when Lexie divorced him seven months ago and he’d gone to Russia to join a humanitarian aid party. Facing death there had made him realize he had a lot to live for.

Strike that. He had a lot to do over. Jackson just hoped that he’d be able to figure out where he went wrong, hoped Lexie would give him a second chance.

He recalled Lexie’s face when she’d handed him the divorce papers that last night he’d spent in the States. Her shuttered, pale features so different from those of the vibrant, smiling girl he’d fallen in love with in high school. All those years ago, he’d won her heart and she’d followed Jackson everywhere, from one party to the next. Twelve years later, she didn’t want to do any of the things they used to enjoy together. Toward the end, she wouldn’t even go with him to hang out at the Painted Pony, the restaurant his mother owned. Not for the first time, Jackson wondered when Lex had changed.

How was he going to win her back when she didn’t want anything to do with him?

If he turned left here, on Lone Pine Road, he’d be at his house in minutes. It was Lexie’s now. He hadn’t contested any of her requests. Why would he have? He hadn’t thought she was serious about splitting up.

Since he’d fought his way out of the Russian fire, Jackson had wanted to come home to reclaim his family. As soon as he’d been able, he’d said goodbye to his comrades and hopped on the first plane back. He should just charge up the mountain, fall on his knees, promise her anything and beg her to take his sorry ass back.

Yet, he hesitated.

Trouble was, a severe case of groveling might not be enough for Lex. He needed something meaningful to say, something to sway her. He doubted “I had the crap scared out of me in Siberia and realized I can’t live without you” would cut it.

And that’s what held him back.

Jackson reached for the paper-wrapped bundle sitting on the seat beside him and fingered the handmade wool shawl—a gift for Lexie. Breniv, one of his Siberian fire-fighting trainees, had taken Jackson aside the day before he left for home. They had stood alone on a muggy, empty side street outside of the fire station, the laundry waving from windows high above the street.

“You bring gift for woman?” the burly Russian had asked in his broken English, dark bushy brows drawn low.

Jackson, who had said nothing about Lexie to anyone, had given Breniv a cool look and a curt “No.” One of Jackson’s reasons for hanging around his Russian counterparts rather than the other Americans was to avoid personal conversation, particularly about his marital status—about the plain gold wedding band he still wore.

Breniv ignored Jackson’s off-limits demeanor. “Woman know you love, no?”

“No.” Jackson shook his head and looked out on the sturdy brick buildings along the street, reminded of the ache in his heart.

“Here, we have way of showing love,” Breniv persisted patiently, as if Jackson were a child. “You face death, you show love.”

His words caught Jackson’s attention, because that was exactly how he felt. Life was more fragile to him now. Love more precious. He wanted to be with the ones he loved.

“Yes.” Breniv spoke as if reading Jackson’s thoughts. He pressed a small packet into Jackson’s hands. “Keep woman warm, she love you back.”

Jackson carefully lifted the ends of plain folded paper, revealing a beautiful black shawl with pink roses that was made of the finest wool. Jackson had seen shawls like these in the market, had heard other American firefighters talk about the high prices of the handmade, hand-blocked shawls.

“Breniv, this is too expensive. I can’t accept it.”

But Breniv was already backing away, his expression solemn. “You save life.”

“Not all of them.” He couldn’t accept the gift. Didn’t Breniv realize Jackson had almost killed them all by taking them out to fight a forest fire when they were so ill-equipped? Fighting a fire without benefit of weather reports to predict the impact of strong winds or air support to monitor the progress of two converging fires was foolhardy at best. Fighting a fire without an escape route was plain-ass stupid.

They called Jackson a hero.

He was no hero.

While the flames had roared toward them, he’d made his team shore up two sides of a crevice carved naturally into the mountainside, not an easy task given the hard-packed forest soil. Only as the fire leapt closer did he see the look of terror in Alek’s eyes. It was the young man’s first summer fighting fire. Jackson doubted the rookie had ever seen a fire’s rage mere yards away.

They’d crammed themselves like sardines into the grave they’d made and covered themselves with Jackson’s fire shelter—a one-man tent made of silica, fiberglass and aluminum foil that reflected heat. Everyone jumped in, except Alek. The fire had passed over the men with heat so intense it blistered exposed skin.

Alek had not been so lucky.

By the time the vivid memories of crackling wood, unbearable heat and failure receded, and Jackson returned his attention to the humid street in Russia, Breniv was gone.

Now the shawl sat on the passenger seat next to Jackson as if holding a place for Lexie. The rest of the gifts he’d brought back were tucked into his backpack on the floorboard of his truck.

Who was he kidding? Gifts and groveling weren’t enough to get her back. She wanted the one thing he’d been unable to give her—another child.

Jackson pulled onto the highway and headed into Silver Bend. He needed a beer before he decided what to say to Lex. Since it wasn’t noon yet, a strong cup of coffee would have to do, and if that cup came with a bit of advice from his mom, so much the better. He could use all the help he could get.

As Jackson drove by the gas station, the attendant nodded in greeting while pumping gas into Marguerite’s shiny new Cadillac. Marguerite Sterling, his mother’s friend, craned her neck far enough in the direction of his passing truck that Jackson feared she’d knock her spine out of alignment again.

Jackson waved, somewhat comforted by the familiarity of it all.

Smiley Peterson tottered out of his client chair in the barbershop and pressed his bulbous nose to the glass when Jackson parked his truck on Main Street in front of his shop. The old man shuffled to the front door, opening it with a clang of the bell that Jackson had helped him install.

“Hey, Jackson, that you?” he called.

Jackson climbed out of his truck, working the kinks out of his body after sitting for so long. It took him a bit to answer, but Silver Bend was a quiet town where slow wasn’t necessarily considered stupid.

“Yeah, Smiley. It’s me.” Jackson slung his backpack over one shoulder.

“Seen Lexie?” Smiley asked, not smiling. Jackson couldn’t remember when he’d seen Smiley without his trademark toothless grin.

Ignoring the feeling of emptiness that hearing Lexie’s name gave him, Jackson shook his head, pushing off his unease. Lexie was fine, he was sure.

Jackson gestured to Smiley’s candy-striped barbershop pole listing dangerously to one side of the door. “How long has that sign been broken? Some fool will smack into it if they aren’t watching where they’re going.”

“Blew loose in a summer storm a week or so ago.”

“Got a screwdriver handy?” It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to fix it.

Now Smiley grinned. “’Course I do.”

The old barber leaned against the door frame while Jackson tightened the pole back into place. “Wanna shave that beard?”

“Naw.” Jackson stroked the thick growth covering his cheeks and jaw. He hadn’t shaved since he left home, hadn’t had a haircut in months either. Besides, no one let Smiley near their hair anymore. He’d nearly taken off a little kid’s ear a couple of years back because his eyesight was atrocious and his hands were too shaky. Now, he employed younger hairstylists in the afternoons and on weekends, but he still hung out all day in the shop.

“Shame. Goin’ back soon?”

“I start back in two weeks.” The Department of Forestry hadn’t expected him to return for another five months, so there weren’t any immediate job openings for a Hot Shot leader. His slot as superintendent of the Silver Bend Hot Shots had been filled for the year by Logan. He’d been assured they’d find something for him in two weeks. In the meantime, they had granted his vacation request.

Bureaucrats may talk about budget cuts and downsizing, but when push came to shove, the Department of Forestry found the approvals and moneys necessary to keep valuable assets like Jackson on the ground where he could make the most difference.

An asset. That’s how his boss at the Department of Forestry in Boise had referred to him this morning when Jackson explained that he was thinking about giving up firefighting.

There were fewer than one hundred Hot Shot superintendents in the United States, employed by various government agencies including the Department of Forestry. There were less than fifty with Jackson’s tenure of service, and fewer than twenty who had served overseas. The Department of Forestry wanted Jackson back on the first line of defense against wildland fires—not exactly the ideal situation for a guy who broke into a sweat just remembering the feel of heat on his skin.

Jackson hadn’t wanted to listen to his boss’s protests, but he couldn’t help himself. He was a second-generation Hot Shot. Fighting fires was in his blood. The last thing he wanted to do was quit. But what choice did a coward like him have?

Despite his boss’s protests, he’d applied for two different desk jobs, one as a fire specialist—to predict the path of destruction a fire might take—and one as a member of the Incident Command team—an on-site group that managed the various crews and support personnel needed to combat a fire. Both jobs were with the National Interagency Fire Center, which monitored fires in the nation, processed requests for assistance with fires burning on government land and recommended deployment of resources, which included everything from fire engines to portable showers to fire fighters. The DOF and NIFC were both located within the Boise airport.

Jackson handed the screwdriver back to Smiley and accepted the old man’s “Welcome home” before continuing on his way.

Jackson walked down the empty sidewalk to the Painted Pony, noticing the vast number of cars and trucks parked in the lot beside the life-size plastic horse that was the restaurant’s icon. He recognized many of the vehicles as being owned by his Hot Shots. In this part of Idaho, forestry and firefighting jobs were a big part of the community. A few tourists came for the rafting on the Payette River, but Silver Bend, with its ranger station and Hot Shot base, was considered by locals to be a fire town.

He entered the town’s lone restaurant and local hangout, then paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, letting the familiar smells and sounds envelop him.

Almost immediately, the door opened behind him and another of his mother’s friends, Birdie Lowell, local busy-body and grocery store owner, came in on his heels. Jackson had thought Birdie was old and cranky when he was a kid. Today, she looked ancient and cranky. The last time he’d seen the old woman, she’d told him the one way to get Lexie back was to take her camping. As if roasting marshmallows over an open fire would win her back.

Jackson stepped aside to let Birdie pass. He wasn’t in the mood for her brand of advice today, but Birdie stopped in front of him anyway.

“Have you seen Lexie yet?” Birdie asked, forehead crinkling as she craned her neck to look him in the eye.

Jackson’s jaw tensed. It was clear that everyone knew about the divorce, which was damn irritating when Jackson was trying to figure out how not to be divorced. “Not yet, Birdie. How’re you?”

Birdie pursed her pale, thin lips while she studied his face. After about thirty seconds, she huffed “Fine,” and then strutted out with an ungainly, jolting gait similar to a pigeon’s.

Obviously, something funny had been added to the water in Silver Bend, because everyone was acting as if Jackson needed to run straight to Lexie. Sure, he’d just returned from Russia, but it wasn’t as if Lexie was anxiously awaiting his return.

That was the problem—she was too damn good at taking care of herself.

Jackson took a moment to reacquaint himself with his mother’s restaurant. He’d grown up cooking, bussing tables and doing dishes at the Pony, idolizing the Hot Shots that treated the place as a second home. There was nothing like the combined aromas of yeasty beer and seasoned curly fries to make him feel like he was back where he belonged.

Nothing had changed here, thank you very much—from the retro blue-green and chrome chairs to the faux white marble countertops to the mural of a rearing black-and-white pony. The scarred pool table still stood to his right, a small video game section to his left. Three rows of oblong tables cascaded back to the bar.

One of the tables near the kitchen was overflowing with familiar faces. Most of his Silver Bend Hot Shots were congregated for a late breakfast. In their fire-resistant Nomex green pants and yellow shirts, they looked ready for battle. The group glanced at him curiously, at first not recognizing him behind his beard.