Mountain Fire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Mountain Fire

  by

  Brenda Margriet

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Mountain Fire

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Brenda Margriet Clotildes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tamra Westbury

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-675-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband, Mike,

  for believing I could do this.

  You are my Happy Ever After.

  Chapter One

  The massive, humpbacked grizzly threw its black snout in the air and snuffled loudly. It rocked back and forth on its powerful forelegs, pushed itself up to a menacing two-legged stance, and raised its huge head.

  June Brandt cowered, breathless, flat on her stomach, doing her best to be invisible.

  The bear’s maw gaped open, and saliva dripped off lips hanging loosely from sharp-edged teeth. Its head swung back and forth, small, thick-lashed eyes half shut, glistening black nose twitching and moist nostrils flaring as it searched for what had disturbed it.

  She held her position. The whisper of a breeze poked a long strand of hair into her eye. She didn’t dare move to brush it away. A bead of sweat trailed down between her breasts.

  The wild silence stretched out intolerably.

  Another breath of air raced through the long grasses of the alpine meadow, bringing relief from the heat. The grizzly’s distinct scent—an acrid, wildly woolly cologne, salty and dusty—wafted to her. Above the trees edging this high altitude pasture, a hawk wheeled in the currents. Two smaller forms shot out of the tip of a pine, harried the larger bird until it soared out of their space, then returned to their watchtower.

  The grizzly dropped to all fours, lowered his head and shook like a dog climbing out of a pond, the thick pelt moving loosely over taut muscles. It was early May, and this large male still had a long way to go to replenish the stores of fat used up surviving last winter. Finally satisfied that what had alarmed him was no threat, he returned to munching dandelions and clover, casually moving away with every scything bite.

  When she’d first seen the grizzly in the high mountain field, she’d crept on top of a tumbled pile of boulders at the edge of the trees to get a better look. It was barely four feet high and the scrubby bush surrounding it provided only an illusion of protection. She’d lain there for ages, mesmerized by the majestic animal before her. When she ever so slightly shifted her cramping legs, a small heap of gravel had rattled over the edge, spooking the grizzly.

  After a couple of cleansing breaths to settle her pulse, she carefully raised her arms into position. This time, nothing bothered the now placidly chewing bear as she pressed the shutter button on her camera.

  She took a number of photos until the huge beast shuffled a safe—well, safer—distance away, then slipped down the far side of the rocky outcrop, bent at the waist and scuttled deeper into the cover of the forest. Without stopping, she tucked her camera into her backpack and continued through the thinning forest as she slung the straps over her shoulders. She pumped uphill, following a narrow track with fewer roots and loose rocks on which to twist an ankle. A couple of minutes later, she broke through the tree line. Several metres further up, she stopped and sat down on a sun-warmed rock.

  The spiky tips of the trees through which she had hiked spread out below her. Uncountable shades and hues of green rolled up and down into the distance, blending to purple at the farthest reaches before fading into a soft indigo edge against the sky. Rising away from the curve of the earth, violet lightened to a true sky-blue in which the globe of the sun burned. The air was so clear she could count individual needles on the pines and spruce. Far away, sunlight sparked off water as it struck the silt-laden, swift-flowing Fraser River and glittered off the aluminum roof of a house in the tiny village of Longworth, nestled at the foot of the mountain.

  She rose and began toiling uphill once more.

  Her feet, cushioned by thick socks inside hiking boots, ached, as did her calves and thighs. Frequent runs while in town kept her in good shape, but nothing prepared muscles for this kind of hike. By the time she reached the relatively flat top of the mountain she was puffing.

  Bald mountaintops jutting up above the tree line pierced the green coniferous blanket covering much of the northern half of British Columbia. On strategically chosen peaks, thinly scattered across this enormous landmass, were lookouts where men and women, unafraid of isolation and possessed of great stamina, stood guard during the summer fire season, using eyes and experience to discover and track potentially devastating wildfires. Modern technology had not yet superseded this vital service, but over the years, many of the structures had been abandoned, and were now inhabited only by squirrels, birds and other resourceful creatures. She was headed to one of these deserted structures.

  It faintly resembled the top layers of a decrepit wedding cake. The bottom level was sided with vertical wooden planks, once painted blue, now weathered to a dull grey that camouflaged the tower against the rocks. The door was set in the south side of the building, with square windows on each of the other walls. The slightly smaller upper level, where the equipment would have been mounted during fire spotting days, was walled in glass, with a steeply pitched shingle roof.

  June pushed the warped and battered door and propped it open with a stick jammed into the gap on the hinge side. Swinging her pack off her shoulders, she tossed it on the table, unclipped her canteen and poured warm and faintly dusty water down her dry throat. Swiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she sank onto one of two rickety chairs and bent to undo the laces of her hiking boots.

  The building was dry and clean, other than the mice and squirrel droppings she’d found in the bare cabinets. In the far corner, a plywood sheet attached to two walls with a four-by-six post supporting the outside edge made a rudimentary bed. It would be plenty comfortable once cushioned by the thin foam pad she’d brought. A small wood stove, where she could cook simple meals, squatted a few feet from the wall, opposite the door, and a trapdoor in the ceiling gave access to the lookout on the roof.

  Just outside, a simple gutter system led to an old wooden cask, three-quarters full of rainwater. When she had arrived earlier that day, she had cautiously poked the water
with a branch, stirring it up in order to discover any drowned creatures. When none floated to the surface, she had covered the barrel with an old piece of plywood discarded against the side of the shack and weighted it down with a couple of rocks. Padding across the floor in her sock feet, she pushed the makeshift lid off to the side. She rinsed her hands in the cool water, then ran her fingers through the long, blond strands of her hair, casually untangling knots. Removing the bandanna from around her neck, she dipped it into the water and used it to wipe the sweat of fear and exertion from her face, neck, and arms.

  A brisk breeze swirled through the doorway. Up this high, there was never really a chance to get too hot. Right now the heat beat down with pleasant strength, but it was an illusion that would vanish quickly when the sun faded below the horizon. She pulled her shirt over her head and let the wind ruffle goose bumps across her midriff and back. Stepping inside, she spread her foam mat and sleeping bag on the plywood bed and lay down in her bra and shorts.

  In today’s world, finding a place free of mankind’s sounds was difficult, if not impossible. Even high on a mountain, she sometimes heard voices from the few homes below, floating up on mysterious drafts of air. The rail line was still in regular use, and the whistles of trains as they glided past Longworth echoed eerily many times throughout the day and night. But right now, all was peace.

  She fell asleep.

  ****

  Chuka-chuka-chuka. She woke abruptly, took a moment to register the noise, then stumbled to a window. The helicopter pilot was delicately positioning the small machine a safe distance from the tower. Two fast strides brought her to the table where she had thrown her T-shirt. She pulled it on as she headed for the door. Waiting as the rotor blades whirled slower and slower, she shielded her eyes from the sun as it set stunningly, directly behind the aircraft. All she could see was the outline of the pilot silhouetted inside. He pulled off his headphones, reached up to open the door, and slid out, turning back immediately to lean into the cockpit.

  “Hello!” she called over the ticking of the engine and the humming of the blades.

  The pilot spun on his heel, ducking adroitly to avoid banging his head on the door frame. “Good Lord!” he choked. “Where’d you come from?”

  June made soothing motions with her hands. “Sorry to startle you.” She was relieved to see his shoulders relax and the fierce glare he’d given her smooth out. “I was in the lookout. I hiked up earlier. Planning to spend a few days.” She pointed with her chin at the helicopter. “Nice ride.”

  He smiled. The skin crinkling around his rich brown eyes was a shade lighter than the rest of his face, probably caused by wearing the dark sunglasses now tucked into the open neck of his light green shirt. “Yeah, well, I’m here on business.” She noticed the emblem on the chest pocket, and therefore wasn’t surprised when he introduced himself. “Alex Weaver. Conservation officer, Ministry of the Environment—Fish and Wildlife. I didn’t expect anyone to be up here.”

  “I could tell.” She approached the machine, peering curiously through the plexiglass, then offered her hand. “June Brandt. Sorry again.”

  “Hey, no problem.” He released her hand and reached a long arm into the helicopter to pull out a large pack similar to hers. “We had a report of poachers in the area, so I came to check it out. How long have you been here?”

  “Since this morning. My truck’s parked down in Longworth. I haven’t seen anyone all day.”

  “A couple of hikers phoned it in. They’d seen a bear carcass, maybe a grizzly, somewhere on the north slope. Trouble is they were here last Saturday, and only decided to call today.” He shook his head at the delay. Dark brown, almost black, hair fell into his eyes, and he flicked it away with the back of his wrist. “Plus, their directions are kind of vague. They know they followed the main trail up here, and then went over the crest to the other side. Have you been that way?”

  “No, not yet.” She gestured toward the lookout, and they headed inside. “Once I brought my gear up here, I backtracked a bit down the trail to a meadow on the tree-line.” They sat in the shaky chairs. “I saw a grizzly there, but it certainly wasn’t dead.”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “How close were you? See any cubs?”

  “Close enough. No cubs. I’m fairly sure it was a male, based on the size of him. Here, I’ve got photos.”

  While she dug her camera out of her pack and turned it on, Alex pulled out a water bottle and tilted his head back to take a drink. His neck was darkly tanned, with a hint of paler skin showing at the collar.

  “There he is,” she said, handing him the camera.

  He studied the shots closely, agreed with her assessment of the bear being male, then looked at her oddly. “This camera doesn’t have much of a zoom on it.” It was a tiny point-and-shoot she found handier to bring camping than the larger, fancier SLR she also owned.

  “It doesn’t,” she said cheerfully.

  His eyes narrowed. “Exactly how close were you?”

  “I stayed out of sight, and did nothing that would attract him.” Nothing on purpose. She pointed out the window, where the sun was descending. “Isn’t it kind of late to do any scouting tonight? I would have thought you’d wait until tomorrow.”

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “It didn’t matter whether the helicopter came out this evening or tomorrow morning, so I decided to spend the night. Like I said, I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

  “It’s not the kind of place you make a reservation.”

  He laughed. “I guess not.”

  The last of the sun’s rays streamed in through the western window, glittering with motes of dust. “There’s plenty of room on the floor,” she offered resignedly, “so you might as well stay. I’ve got dibs on the bed, such as it is.”

  Again one dark eyebrow quirked upward. “You sure?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “Have you got any ID?” He reached two fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt and fished out a leather wallet. She studied the formal government identification, took one of his business cards and handed back the wallet. “Good enough for me.”

  She stood up from the table and crossed to the cupboards, where she had stored her cooking gear and food. “I was going to make myself something to eat. Are you hungry?” It might be after nine o’clock but she’d napped through dinner.

  “I ate before I left, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

  Using a minimal amount of paper and kindling, she managed to get the pot-bellied stove going in a reasonably expert fashion. The chimney rose for a couple of feet, then made a right angle and vented through the back wall of the cabin.

  Earlier she’d checked it for bird nests and squirrel pantries, so she was fairly certain she wouldn’t smoke them out.

  She put water on to boil. While it was heating, she assembled her percolator coffee pot, scooping grounds into the metal basket and snapping on the lid, then placing it next to the pan on the stove top.

  Alex headed for the door. “I should finish securing the ’copter, make sure it’s set for the night.” She nodded briefly as she poured pasta into the pot.

  Through the small window over the counter she watched him head first to the north edge of the mountaintop. He paused on the brink to scan the valley below.

  The main trail from Longworth came up the steep but relatively accessible south side. The north side had a more gradual slope, leading into a deep but wide valley, rising again to more mountainous peaks beyond.

  Dusk was lowering, and she knew it would be no use searching for anything tonight. Alex Weaver appeared to come to the same conclusion as he shrugged then strode to his machine.

  The door was still open, and the breeze blowing in was noticeably cooler than an hour ago. She mixed shredded cheese in with the pasta, stirred it with her fork, and ate right from the pot. Carrying it with her, she wandered out the door.

  Turning away from the helicopter, she found a convenient spot, and settled down on crossed
legs to enjoy the final minutes of the day.

  She sighed as she scraped out the last of the macaroni and licked off the fork. She had come to this lonely mountain hoping for some time alone as a way to rejuvenate after a busy year at university. The conservation officer’s abrupt appearance had put paid to her solitude, but she consoled herself with the fact that he would probably be leaving the next day.

  Catching poachers in the act was practically impossible, and convictions were usually precisely and painstakingly constructed by the careful gathering of evidence. If Alex Weaver found the carcass tomorrow, he’d be gone before nightfall, and she’d be alone as she wished.

  She clambered to her feet and paced back to the darkened cabin. Treading through the gloom to her backpack, she pulled out a small, battery-operated lantern, placed it on the counter, and switched it on. It lit the tiny room nicely. The coffee started perking, so she pulled her mug from the cupboard and rustled up a sugar packet. She hoped the pilot had brought his own necessities, as she hadn’t brought enough dishware for entertaining. Through the window over the washbasin a dark shape was still moving around the helicopter. She dragged a chair closer to the stove, put her feet on the fender, and sipped her coffee.

  The stove was centered to the back wall, about three or four feet into the room, and the remains of the fire gave off a cheering warmth. She leaned her head back to stretch her neck and glimpsed the steel ring of the trapdoor set in the ceiling.

  On her feet again, it wasn’t much of a stretch for her to grasp the metal handle. It opened easily, dropping down on its hinges, and a small ladder slid toward her from its resting-place on the door.

  Carrying her mug, she stepped up and onto the top floor.