Under Fire Read online

  Montego jumped from the driver’s side and shouted in pain as a burning limb caught his shirt on fire. He tried to roll, tried to smother the flames but the forest floor was dotted with smoldering embers, smoking brush.

  Panic swallowed him, and he ran. Back down the logging road. Back toward the cabin.

  Another pop. A tree exploded and crashed across his path.

  With a terrified cry, Montego swung away, shielding his face.

  He turned right. Left. Back. But the raging beast had him surrounded. Flames licked at his legs. Smoke sucked oxygen from his lungs, searing.

  The fire roared. Leaped. And devoured him.

  The big cat landed on Emily, knocking the wind from her. All she could do was curl in a ball and pray harder than she’d ever prayed before. The mountain lion’s big claws slashed through her nightgown and scratched her back.

  Mommy, please! I don’t want to die!

  The lion backed off, and Emily peeked up from her arms. The cougar sat crouched beside her, waiting and growling, like when her cat Tinkerbell played with a bug on the back porch.

  She swallowed a whimper, not wanting to make any sound to provoke the cat. Her heart beat so hard she could hear the booming in her ears. Her stomach swirled so fast, she thought she might throw up. Please go away! Please don’t kill me!

  Maybe if she didn’t move—

  The mountain lion lunged again, swatted with its powerful paws.

  Another shriek of terror ripped from her throat.

  A loud blast echoed over her scream. Like a firecracker. Like the gunshot that had killed Cara.

  Emily whimpered. Gasped for breath.

  The big cat growled again, louder, madder. Another blast.

  The lion’s growl fell silent, and the heavy animal collapsed on her, unmoving.

  She tried to understand what had just happened, but all she could do was shake. And cry. She was numb. Stiff. Her back stung like crazy.

  She wanted Dad. Oh, God, she wanted Dad so much!

  “Hey, are you okay?” a man’s voice said.

  Her breath backed up in her lungs. Her body shivered so hard, she bit her tongue.

  Montego? Kenny? One of the other bad guys?

  She didn’t think she had the strength to run again to get away. Something warm and wet dripped on her face, and when she wiped it off, her fingers came away red. Blood.

  Emily gasped. Peeked up and met the lion’s head. Its teeth so close. Its neck bleeding. Dripping on her. Emily screamed again.

  “Easy there, little one. It’s dead. It can’t hurt you.” The man was beside her now. She could see his big boots.

  The man pushed the mountain lion off her with a grunt. “Damn it. I hated to shoot her. Such a beautiful animal. But the warning shot didn’t scare her off. She was about to charge me.”

  Emily stayed curled in a ball. Shaking. Gurgling little cries she couldn’t control bubbled from her throat. And she wheezed when she tried to breathe.

  “Shit. She got you, didn’t she? Ouch.” He touched her back. Emily yelped.

  “Sorry. I know it hurts.” He brushed the hair back from her face. When he stood up, she cautiously lifted her gaze to look at him. At the gun in his hand.

  A chill streaked through her.

  The man took something off his shoulder, a pack of some kind and put away his gun. The bright sun was behind him, and all she could see was a dark outline, shadowed features. But he had long hair like a woman.

  The guy was big. Not just tall, but big all over.

  “Are you Emily? Dr. McKay’s daughter?” he asked as he reached in his pocket.

  Her heart flip-flopped. “H-how do you know my name?”

  He tossed something on the ground. Coins. They shimmered in the sunlight, and he said something in a language she didn’t understand.

  “To repay Mother Earth for the lion,” he said and crouched beside her again. At this angle, she could see his face. A kind smile. He was an American Indian.

  “I met your father yesterday,” he said, holding out a hand to help her sit up. “He was very worried about you. My friend Lauren took him down the mountain to get help for you.”

  “You s-saw my dad?” Just the mention of Dad made more tears puddle in her eyes and leak onto her cheeks. Her chest rattled, and she coughed. “Are you…one of the b-bad guys?”

  He shook his head and smiled again. “No, little one. I’m a good guy. My name is John Whitefeather, but my friends call me Birdman.”

  She coughed again, and the man’s black eyebrows pulled together. “That cough doesn’t sound good. Can I listen to your lungs?”

  She gave a jerky nod, and he bent his head and pressed it to her chest. He noticed the inhaler beside her on the rock and picked it up. “You have asthma.”

  “Yes, sir,” she squeaked, her voice still all wobbly.

  He sighed heavily, looking worried. When he handed her the inhaler, she took a puff. “Well, let’s get back to where I left Boomer and the first-aid kit, and I’ll see what I can do for those scratches on your back.”

  “Was my dad…okay? When you saw him, was he with…those terrorists?”

  Mr. Whitefeather shook his head and smiled again. “No, little one. He got away from the bad men. He was all right. He’ll be back with help soon. He and Lauren.”

  Knowing Dad was okay should have made her happy. Instead she started crying again with a hiccupping sob.

  “Ah, little one.” Mr. Whitefeather scooped her into his arms as if she didn’t weigh a thing. “Don’t cry. You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you.”

  Wrapping her arms around the man’s neck, she clung to him.

  Mom had told her once that God had angels here on earth, people who helped you when you needed it most.

  She buried her face in his shoulder as a peaceful feeling spread through her, calmed her trembling.

  Mr. Whitefeather might not look the way she thought an angel should, but he’d saved her from the mountain lion. Rescued her when she was lost. That made him an angel to her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What’s the matter with these people?” Lauren groused as the third car in row sped past them without stopping, despite their frantic waving and shouts.

  Jackson watched the car, only the third to drive by in the last two hours, disappear down the two-lane mountain road with a mounting frustration. “Can you blame them? Look at us.” He swept a hand between them indicating their bedraggled appearances. “We hardly inspire a sense of confidence and safety. I’m not sure I’d stop to pick us up either, considering what we look like.”

  “We look like we have an emergency. Like we need help. Which is why I can’t understand how these people can ignore—”

  When the rumble of another vehicle drifted down the highway, Lauren spun back toward the road without finishing her sentence. “There’s another. Maybe I should take off my shirt and flash my boobs or something.”

  Jackson nearly swallowed his tongue. “That’d only work if the driver’s a man. The last three were women.”

  The dilapidated truck shuddered closer.

  “This guy’s gotta stop,” she mumbled, raising her arms to flag the driver.

  The truck showed no signs of slowing.

  “Hey!” Jackson yelled then gave a loud whistle.

  “Come on, pal!” As the truck rolled toward them, Lauren jumped into the road. Directly into the path of the oncoming truck.

  Jackson’s stomach lurched, and the cold grip of terror washed through him in an instant. “Lauren, are you craz—”

  The truck’s horn blared. Brakes screeched. Tires squealed.

  The driver swerved, narrowly missing Lauren, and came to rest on the opposite shoulder.

  Jackson shuddered. “Jesus, woman! I nearly shit a brick! Have you lost your mind?”

  Lauren scooped up the PG bag and started toward the truck. “He stopped, didn’t he?”

  Pumped with adrenaline, Jackson drew a ragged breath. “Next time flash
your breasts. It’s a hell of a lot safer.”

  She shot a devilish grin over her shoulder. “Save that thought. We may have time for that later.”

  As Jackson gaped at her, his thoughts now spinning off in carnal new directions, the truck driver emerged from his vehicle, swearing a blue streak at Lauren.

  Pushing aside thoughts of Lauren’s spectacular breasts, how sweet they’d tasted, how warm they’d felt beneath his palms that morning, Jackson jogged across the road, ready to defend her from the truck driver’s wrath.

  “We need a ride into the nearest town,” Lauren told the man as she climbed into his truck without asking permission.

  When the driver gave him a what-the-hell’s-going-on glare, Jackson returned a smile that was more of a grimace. “We would really appreciate it.”

  The old man groaned and threw up his hands. “I should take you hooligans straight to Sheriff Billows! Of all the—!”

  “Yes! The sheriff. That’d be perfect. Thank you!” Jackson nodded to the man then swung up on the bench seat next to Lauren.

  As Whitefeather approached the spot where he and Boomer had camped overnight, Boomer struggled to prop on one elbow. He eyed the little girl in Whitefeather’s arms curiously then arched a black eyebrow in question. “Is she…okay?”

  Hearing the new voice, Emily raised her head from Whitefeather’s shoulder and twisted to look at the injured man.

  “She got a good scare and some scratches,” Whitefeather answered as he knelt and set Emily on the ground beside Boomer. “Cougar. I think the cat was just trying to defend its home. Chase her away. Didn’t appear to be a full-out attack. Still, she didn’t scare off, and when she crouched to charge me I had to shoot her.” He smiled at Emily and tweaked her nose. “Doesn’t make those scratches sting any less though, huh?”

  She shook her head and chewed her lip, wheezing all the while. She huddled close to Whitefeather, and her brow furrowed when she spotted the bloody bandage on Boomer’s leg.

  Whitefeather put a hand on her shoulder. “Emily, this is my friend Jake, but you can call him Boomer. Boom, this is McKay’s little girl, Emily.”

  Boomer’s eyes widened. “No shit?”

  Whitefeather glared at him. “No kidding.”

  Boomer winced. “Sorry.” He extended a hand to the girl, a move which no doubt spent a large portion of his strength. “Hi, Emily. Always nice to meet…a pretty girl.”

  “You’re hurt,” she said in response.

  Smiling at the child, Boomer lay back on the pallet Whitefeather had made earlier that morning. “Yeah. But I’ll be okay. Birdman here is taking…good care of me. And he’ll take care of…you too.”

  “Does it hurt?” Emily asked.

  Boomer hesitated. “Yeah.” He sighed. “Yeah, it hurts.”

  Whitefeather gave Boomer marks for his honesty with the kid. He was clearly in pain, and lying to the girl served no purpose.

  “Emily, I need to clean the cuts on your back. Okay?” Ripping open an alcohol swab, Whitefeather met her big brown eyes and felt a kick against his ribs. The haunted shadows in her gaze and wan complexion spoke of horrors the child had survived but didn’t voice. He hated to add to her pain, but the cougar’s claw marks could easily get infected if he didn’t treat them.

  “This will probably hurt, but only for a little while. And I’ll blow on it to cool the sting as best I can.”

  Somber-faced, Emily nodded. He scrunched her nightgown up her back while she held the front. She flinched when he dabbed her cuts and squeezed her eyes shut, but didn’t so much as whimper. Boomer apparently also noticed the child’s stoicism and slid his hand over to wrap his fingers around Emily’s.

  Startled by the contact, the little girl’s gaze darted to Boomer, and the injured man grinned. “You sure are brave. I squawked like a baby…when Birdman was fixin’ me up.” Boomer gave Emily one of his famous grins, the kind that had women lining up in bars to give him their phone numbers.

  She tipped her head. “You did?”

  Boomer nodded. “Yep. ’Fraid so. But don’t…spread it around, ’cause…I’ve got a…he-man image to maintain.”

  Emily’s lips pulled up at the corner, and she glanced back at Whitefeather, who shrugged.

  “What can I say? The guy’s a wimp.”

  “Hey!” Boomer protested, and Emily giggled.

  “So, Miss Emily…how many boyfriends…you have back home?” Boomer asked.

  “None.”

  “None? A beautiful chick like you?”

  Emily blushed and giggled again.

  Obviously Boomer’s charm appealed to women of all ages, Birdman thought and snorted in amusement.

  As he unwrapped a sterile bandage for Emily’s cuts, Whitefeather followed the teasing by-play between Boomer and the child and smiled. Boomer might be doing his best to calm and distract the frightened girl, but in turn, Whitefeather couldn’t ask for a better medicine for Boomer than Emily.

  Silently, Whitefeather thanked the spirit guides for their wisdom in sending Emily, for leading him to the girl. He tipped his head to look up at the bright sun and mumbled, “But a rescue chopper would be nice too.”

  The sun sat low over the sparse buildings of Redmont, bathing the town in a coppery glow by the time Jackson and Lauren rolled down Main Street. An increasing skepticism and needling dread mounted in Jackson’s gut as they drove past a busy diner, a small post office, a nursing home, a dilapidated elementary school and a dime store with two old men playing cards on the front sidewalk.

  Jackson muffled a groan. Welcome to Mayberry.

  Impatience scampered through Jackson, and he prayed the law enforcement in the town had one up on Barney Fife.

  The truck driver stopped in front of a one-story brick building with a faded “Redmont Sheriff’ sign over the door. Jackson cast a dubious glance to Lauren, thanked the driver for the ride and climbed out of the truck.

  Heart thudding, he stared at the peeling paint on the wooden office door until Lauren slid her hand into his and nudged him with her elbow.

  “Well…?” Her green eyes reflected both curiosity about his hesitance and an unflagging support that bolstered Jackson’s wavering faith.

  He sighed and gave her a half-smile. “Let’s see if Andy Griffith is home.”

  The squeaky hinges of the office door announced their arrival and roused the man behind the desk from a catnap.

  “Oh, God, it is Barney Fife,” Jackson groaned.

  Lauren elbowed him. “Shh.”

  The sheriff—Frank Billows, according to the nameplate on the tidy desk—swung his feet to the floor and rubbed his eyes quickly with the pads of his fingers. “Can I help you folks?”

  “I’m not holding my breath,” Jackson muttered.

  Lauren cut him a quelling glare. “Yes. Please. We have a bad situation about thirty to forty miles from here. Up on the mountain. We need federal law enforcement, search and rescue, emergency medical help. The works.”

  The sheriff looked Jackson and Lauren over with a wary quirk in his brow.

  Jackson sighed. He knew how disheveled he must look. Four-day beard, dirty, ripped clothes and almost no sleep in the last seventy-two hours.

  Billows scrubbed a hand over his jaw and narrowed his gaze on them. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.” Rising, he motioned to two folding chairs angled across from his desk. “Please, have a seat. Now, what’s happened?”

  Placing a hand at the small of Lauren’s back, Jackson ushered her around the chest-high counter at the front of the spartan office and took one of the chairs.

  Jackson and Lauren spoke at the same time.

  “My daughter’s being held—”

  “Terrorists shot at—”

  Jackson put his hand on Lauren’s knee and squeezed. “Let me.”

  She covered his hand with hers, twined her fingers with his and nodded. The intimate gesture didn’t escape Jackson’s notice. Nor the warmth in her eyes. Heat flashed over him. Mind-nu
mbing sex with Lauren had not been far from his thoughts all day. But he knew his response to her touch had more to do with his tangled feelings for this woman rather than anything sexual.

  They’d spent every minute of two intense days together. Hiking, talking, arguing. Fighting for their lives. Having sex. Was it any wonder his emotions were running so high? He had a lot to sort out in regard to Lauren. About why the idea of parting ways with her left a hollow ache in his soul. But not now.

  With a cleansing breath, Jackson focused his attention on the clean-cut man behind the desk. On getting help for Emily. “My name is Jackson McKay, and I’m a research scientist for Hemmer Biochemical in Missoula.” He detailed the events of the past several days for the sheriff and his best estimate of the cabin’s location.

  When Jackson paused to catch his breath and gauge the sheriff’s reaction, Billows leaned forward, propping his arms on his desk. “Sounds like the old Smithy cabin. All right, go on.”

  The sheriff regarded Jackson with keen gray eyes. Intelligent eyes, Jackson realized. Perhaps he’d underestimated the good sheriff of Redmont.

  Jackson detailed his escape, and Billows rocked back in his seat with a deep crease in his brow. Taking a notepad from his drawer, he began scribbling notes. “You were interrogated for a full day, and you escaped the next day. That’d be yesterday?”

  Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose. God, was it only yesterday? So much had happened. The past seventy-two hours felt more like seven hundred and twenty.

  “Yes, yesterday,” Lauren confirmed.

  “All right.” Billows waved his pen. “Go on.”

  “Rick didn’t want any witnesses, anyone who could report having seen the van, or me, or anything happening up on the mountain to the police. So he opened fire on the smokejumpers.”

  Jackson felt Lauren’s grip tighten. He glanced at her and saw the grief for her fallen friends cloud her eyes.

  “Were there casualties?” Billows asked.

  “One man was killed. Another seriously injured.”

  Billows cocked his head. “And this injured man is still up on the mountain?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lauren said, her voice not entirely steady. Tears puddling in her eyes, she blinked rapidly and turned her head to stare at the far wall.