Firewolf. Jenna Kernan

looked back. “You believe me now?”

      She nodded. “It’s just too big. I need to look at the footage. Maybe I can see something.”

      “I’d imagine the FBI will want to see that footage, as well.”

      “It’s up on my feed. Anyone could have seen it live. But the entire thing, it’s only recorded on this.” She lifted the camera. “And on my server.”

      “Can’t the social media sites recall it?”

      “I don’t know.”

      He started walking again.

      She spotted a phone sticking out of his back pocket and jogged to come even with him again.

      “You have a phone,” she said, pointing at his pocket.

      “No service,” he said without slowing.

      “You think you’ll have service up there?” She pointed to the ridge.

      “Maybe. I know Rustkin’s got a well. Only water within ten miles. The fire started there and moved with the wind. Top of the ridge and the far side will be untouched.”

      She looked at the climb ahead of them. Meadow already felt dizzy, and the prospect of the hike made her stomach twist. Maybe she should wait for help. A glance back showed the billowing smoke off to the east. How long until anyone could drive out here. The road they were on dead-ended at the mansion that had once occupied the ridge. Emergency and Fire would concentrate on the threatened town of Pine View and the larger community of Valley View, which lay between the fire and Flagstaff. But her father. He’d come for her. He knew where she was.

      When she glanced back to Dylan, it was to find him another two hundred feet along the road. The man was quick as a jackrabbit.

      She stretched her legs and walked. By the time she drew even with him, her mouth felt like cotton.

      “I need some water.”

      “No.”

      Now that was a word she didn’t hear very often.

      “Are you crazy? I’m thirsty.”

      “We don’t have much left. We need to make it up there first. Then, if I find the well, you can have a drink.”

      She stomped her foot, raising dust and his brow.

      He was walking again. Meadow closed her dry mouth and lifted her stubborn chin. If he could make it up that mountain, then so could she.

      * * *

      SHE WAS TOUGHER than she looked, Dylan gave her that. The hike had to be four miles uphill, and she made it in those wedge sandals without another word of complaint or request for anything. In fact, it appeared that she would not even have taken the time of day from him if he had offered to give it to her.

      Perhaps her strength was born of orneriness, but he still gave her credit for making the trek unassisted. He would have bet good money that she was going to start bawling like a branded calf or just stop so he’d have to bring water back to her.

      Dylan glanced at the landscape surrounding them. He’d seen such a view before. Too often. The ground was scorched black and stank of charred wood. The fuel here had all been expended, the fire so hot that it had taken the crowns of every tree. The forest was gone, leaving denuded smoking trunks. The pristine view of the mountains, purchased at great expense, had now become bleak and ruined and would remain so for years to come.

      Dylan lifted his phone and found a signal. He called Jack first, before his family and before his friend Ray, who was still a newlywed. He’d attended the ceremony in May. He knew now what no one but Ray and Morgan had known then. His new wife was already carrying his child. Seeing Ray happy for once, and settled with a wife and child, had been the deciding factor for Dylan. He wanted that. A wife. Children. And a job that didn’t smell of charred trees and animals.

      Jack picked up on the first ring. “Dylan!”

      Dylan could tell from the echo on the connection that Jack was in his truck.

      “Yes!”

      “Where are you?”

      Dylan gave him their position.

      “Sit tight. I’m on my way.”

      It was over a 120 miles from Turquoise Canyon to Flagstaff and most of it on winding mountain roads.

      Dylan told him he had a companion and relayed the name. Silence was his answer. Finally Jack spoke.

      “Not good.”

      “Did you contact Kenshaw?” asked Dylan, inquiring about their shaman and the leader of Tribal Thunder, the warrior sect of Dylan’s medicine society.

      Jack said he had and that Kenshaw had been unable to reach Cheney Williams. “Kenshaw said he was there, right at the epicenter.”

      “What is the news saying?” asked Dylan.

      “Forest fire. Evacuations. No mention of the explosion yet.”

      Dylan told him about the live streaming.

      “I should be able to get that feed,” said Jack. “Have to submit a request. If it captured a major crime, they’ll release it.”

      Dylan scanned the smoking landscape. He’d call it major.

      “Cheney Williams’s death qualifies,” said Jack. “Was the home owner up there?”

      “I don’t think so. Cheney said it would just be the two of us and a caretaker.”

      “I’ll look into that. You have the caretaker’s name?”

      “No. Sorry. Maybe you ought to call Luke Forrest.” Forrest was the field agent in charge when they took Jack’s twin brother, Carter, into federal protection. Forrest was also Black Mountain Apache.

      “Maybe. Hey, they’ve already called in our hotshots. Ray’s heading up the guys in your absence. I guess you won’t be crew captain on this one.”

      The Turquoise Canyon Hotshots were going on assignment without him. That was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? The reason he’d gone back for training as a fire-safety inspector. So why did his gut ache?

      “Yeah.”

      “I can’t get to you until the fire is off the road. You got water?”

      “Soon.”

      “All right, Brother Bobcat. Hold on. I’ve got another call. It’s Forrest.”

      Dylan heard a double beep indicating he was on hold. He disconnected and continued along. They needed water.

      “So, Cheney was here?” asked Meadow. It was the first she’d spoken to him in over an hour.

      “Yeah. I’m sorry. He’s gone.” Now Dylan was wondering if Williams was a victim or some sort of suicide bomber. Kenshaw had recommended Dylan for this job, but now Dylan wondered exactly how his shaman knew this attorney who had lived down here in the valley? And why hadn’t Cheney sent one of his staff to meet Dylan up here on the ridge? If he worked with Meadow’s father, he must have people to do such things.

      “Why did he call you brother bobcat?” she asked.

      “You could hear that?”

      She nodded.

      “Bobcat is my spirit animal.” He pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt, showing her the tattoo. “This is his track.”

      She stroked a finger over the muscle of his arm and purred, her hand lingering. Dylan’s muscles twitched as he grappled with the tension now overtaking him.

      He stepped back, breaking the connection between them.

      She distracted him. Made it hard for him to think. Now the questions swarmed him again. Buzzing around his head like gnats when he reached