Chasing Fire
Page 20
She met Trigger’s eyes, gave another quick shake of her head. “She’s got a kid now.” Rowan kept her voice low. “There’s no point shaking all that out.”
“You think the kid’s Jim’s, like she says?”
“They were banging like bunnies, so why not?” Because, neither of them said, she had a habit of hopping to lots of male bunnies. “Anyway, it’s not our business.”
“He was one of ours, so you know that makes it our business.”
She couldn’t deny it, but she tuned out the gossip and speculation until she had stowed the chutes. Then she hunted out Little Bear.
He straightened from his hunch over his desk, gestured for her to close the door. “I figured you’d be stopping by.”
“I just want to know if I need to watch my back. I’d as soon not end up with a bread knife between my shoulder blades.”
He rubbed a spot between his eyebrows. “Do you think I’d let her on base if I thought she’d give you any trouble?”
“No. But I wouldn’t mind hearing that right out loud.”
“She worked here three years before Jim. The only problem we ever had was the wind from how fast she’d throw up her skirts. And nobody much had a problem with that, either.”
“I don’t care if she gave every rookie, snookie, jumper and mechanic blow jobs in the ready room.” Rowan jammed her hands in her pockets, did a little turn around the room. “She’s a good cook.”
“She is. And from what I heard a lot of men missed those bj’s once she hooked up with Jim. And she’s got a kid now. From the timing of it, and from what she says, it’s his.” L.B. puffed out his cheeks. “She brought her preacher with her. Her mother got her going to church. She needs the work, wants to make amends.”
He waved a hand in the air. “I’m not going to deny I felt sorry for her, but I’d’ve turned her off if I hadn’t believed she wanted a fresh start for her and the baby. She knows if she gives you or anybody else any trouble, she’s out.”
“I don’t want that on my head, L.B.”
He gave Rowan a long look out of solemn brown eyes. “Then think of it on mine. If you’re not all right with this, I’ll take care of it.”
“Hell.”
“She’s singing in the choir on Sundays.”
“Give me a break.” She shoved her hands in her pockets again as L.B. grinned at her. “Fine, fine.” But she dropped down in a chair.
“Not fine?”
“Did she tell you she and Jim were going to get married, and he was all happy about the baby?”
“She did.”
“The thing is, L.B., I know he was seeing somebody else. We caught that fire last year in St. Joe, and were there three days. Jim hooked up with one of the women on the cook line; he seemed to go for cooks. And I know they met at a motel between here and there a few times when he was off the jump list. Others, too.”
“I know it. I had to talk to him about expecting me to cover for him with Dolly.”
“And the day of his accident, I told you, he was jittery on the plane. Not excited but nervous, jumpy. If Dolly dropped the pregnancy on him before we got called out, that’s probably why. Or part of why.”
He tapped a pencil on the desk. “I can’t see any reason Dolly has to know any of that. Do you?”
“No. I’m saying maybe she found God, or finds some comfort in singing for Jesus, but she’s either lying or delusional about Jim. So it’s fine with me if she’s back, as long as we understand that.”
“I asked Marg to keep an eye on her, let me know how she does.”
Satisfied, Rowan stood up again. “That’s good enough for me.”
“They’re getting some lightning strikes up north,” L.B. told her as she started out.
“Yeah? Maybe we’ll get lucky and jump a fire, then everybody can stop talking about the return of Dolly. Including me.”
She might as well clear it up altogether, Rowan decided, and made the cookhouse her next stop.
She found dinner prep under way, as she’d anticipated.
Marg, the queen of the cookhouse, where she’d reigned a dozen years, stood at the counter quartering red-skinned potatoes. She wore her usual bib apron over a T-shirt and jeans, and her mop of brown hair secured under a bright pink do-rag.
Steam puffed from pots on the stove while Lady Gaga belted out “Speechless” from the playlist on the MP3 Marg had on the counter.
Nobody but Marg determined kitchen music.
She sang along in a strong, smoky alto while keeping the beat with her knife.
Her Native American blood—from her mother’s grandmother—showed in her cheekbones, but the Irish dominated in the mild white skin dashed with freckles and the lively hazel eyes.
Those eyes caught Rowan’s now, and rolled toward the woman washing greens in the sink.
Rowan lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Smells good in here.” She made sure her voice carried over the music.
At the sink, Dolly froze, then slowly switched off the water and turned.
Her face was a bit fuller, Rowan noted, and her br**sts as well. She had her blond hair in a high, jaunty ponytail, and needed a root job.
But that was probably unkind, Rowan thought. A new mother had other priorities. The rose in her cheeks came from emotion rather than blush as she cast her gaze down and dried her hands on a cloth.
“We got pork roasting to go with the rosemary potatoes, butter beans and carrots. Veggies get three-cheese ravioli. Gonna put a big-ass Mediterranean salad together. Pound cake and blueberry crumble for dessert.”
“Sign me up.”
Rowan opened the refrigerator and took out a soda as Marg went back to her potatoes.
“How are you doing, Dolly?”
“I’m fine, and you?” She said it primly, chin in the air now.
“Good enough. Maybe you could take a quick break, catch a little air with me?”
“We’re busy. Lynn—”
“Better get her skinny ass back in here right quick,” Marg interrupted. “You go on out, and if you see her, send her in.”
“I need to dry these greens,” Dolly began, but shrunk—as all did—under Marg’s steely stare. “Okay, fine.” She tossed aside her cloth, headed for the door.
“You think the kid’s Jim’s, like she says?”
“They were banging like bunnies, so why not?” Because, neither of them said, she had a habit of hopping to lots of male bunnies. “Anyway, it’s not our business.”
“He was one of ours, so you know that makes it our business.”
She couldn’t deny it, but she tuned out the gossip and speculation until she had stowed the chutes. Then she hunted out Little Bear.
He straightened from his hunch over his desk, gestured for her to close the door. “I figured you’d be stopping by.”
“I just want to know if I need to watch my back. I’d as soon not end up with a bread knife between my shoulder blades.”
He rubbed a spot between his eyebrows. “Do you think I’d let her on base if I thought she’d give you any trouble?”
“No. But I wouldn’t mind hearing that right out loud.”
“She worked here three years before Jim. The only problem we ever had was the wind from how fast she’d throw up her skirts. And nobody much had a problem with that, either.”
“I don’t care if she gave every rookie, snookie, jumper and mechanic blow jobs in the ready room.” Rowan jammed her hands in her pockets, did a little turn around the room. “She’s a good cook.”
“She is. And from what I heard a lot of men missed those bj’s once she hooked up with Jim. And she’s got a kid now. From the timing of it, and from what she says, it’s his.” L.B. puffed out his cheeks. “She brought her preacher with her. Her mother got her going to church. She needs the work, wants to make amends.”
He waved a hand in the air. “I’m not going to deny I felt sorry for her, but I’d’ve turned her off if I hadn’t believed she wanted a fresh start for her and the baby. She knows if she gives you or anybody else any trouble, she’s out.”
“I don’t want that on my head, L.B.”
He gave Rowan a long look out of solemn brown eyes. “Then think of it on mine. If you’re not all right with this, I’ll take care of it.”
“Hell.”
“She’s singing in the choir on Sundays.”
“Give me a break.” She shoved her hands in her pockets again as L.B. grinned at her. “Fine, fine.” But she dropped down in a chair.
“Not fine?”
“Did she tell you she and Jim were going to get married, and he was all happy about the baby?”
“She did.”
“The thing is, L.B., I know he was seeing somebody else. We caught that fire last year in St. Joe, and were there three days. Jim hooked up with one of the women on the cook line; he seemed to go for cooks. And I know they met at a motel between here and there a few times when he was off the jump list. Others, too.”
“I know it. I had to talk to him about expecting me to cover for him with Dolly.”
“And the day of his accident, I told you, he was jittery on the plane. Not excited but nervous, jumpy. If Dolly dropped the pregnancy on him before we got called out, that’s probably why. Or part of why.”
He tapped a pencil on the desk. “I can’t see any reason Dolly has to know any of that. Do you?”
“No. I’m saying maybe she found God, or finds some comfort in singing for Jesus, but she’s either lying or delusional about Jim. So it’s fine with me if she’s back, as long as we understand that.”
“I asked Marg to keep an eye on her, let me know how she does.”
Satisfied, Rowan stood up again. “That’s good enough for me.”
“They’re getting some lightning strikes up north,” L.B. told her as she started out.
“Yeah? Maybe we’ll get lucky and jump a fire, then everybody can stop talking about the return of Dolly. Including me.”
She might as well clear it up altogether, Rowan decided, and made the cookhouse her next stop.
She found dinner prep under way, as she’d anticipated.
Marg, the queen of the cookhouse, where she’d reigned a dozen years, stood at the counter quartering red-skinned potatoes. She wore her usual bib apron over a T-shirt and jeans, and her mop of brown hair secured under a bright pink do-rag.
Steam puffed from pots on the stove while Lady Gaga belted out “Speechless” from the playlist on the MP3 Marg had on the counter.
Nobody but Marg determined kitchen music.
She sang along in a strong, smoky alto while keeping the beat with her knife.
Her Native American blood—from her mother’s grandmother—showed in her cheekbones, but the Irish dominated in the mild white skin dashed with freckles and the lively hazel eyes.
Those eyes caught Rowan’s now, and rolled toward the woman washing greens in the sink.
Rowan lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Smells good in here.” She made sure her voice carried over the music.
At the sink, Dolly froze, then slowly switched off the water and turned.
Her face was a bit fuller, Rowan noted, and her br**sts as well. She had her blond hair in a high, jaunty ponytail, and needed a root job.
But that was probably unkind, Rowan thought. A new mother had other priorities. The rose in her cheeks came from emotion rather than blush as she cast her gaze down and dried her hands on a cloth.
“We got pork roasting to go with the rosemary potatoes, butter beans and carrots. Veggies get three-cheese ravioli. Gonna put a big-ass Mediterranean salad together. Pound cake and blueberry crumble for dessert.”
“Sign me up.”
Rowan opened the refrigerator and took out a soda as Marg went back to her potatoes.
“How are you doing, Dolly?”
“I’m fine, and you?” She said it primly, chin in the air now.
“Good enough. Maybe you could take a quick break, catch a little air with me?”
“We’re busy. Lynn—”
“Better get her skinny ass back in here right quick,” Marg interrupted. “You go on out, and if you see her, send her in.”
“I need to dry these greens,” Dolly began, but shrunk—as all did—under Marg’s steely stare. “Okay, fine.” She tossed aside her cloth, headed for the door.
