The next sound he heard came sharper, more deadly. He raced toward the echo of the gunshot, even as his heart leaped as if struck by the bullet.

30

When she could, Rowan moved at a steady jog. She’d bruised her hip avoiding the widowmaker, but the pain barely registered—just a dull, distant ache.

They were losing the war, she thought, had been losing it since Yangtree’s chute failed to open.

Everything felt off, felt wrong, felt out of balance.

The wind continued to rise, to shift and stir, adding to the fire’s speed and potency. Here and there, small, sly dust devils danced on it. The air remained dry enough to crack like a twig.

She’d never made it to Trigger’s crew to judge the progress or lack of it for herself, to check that flank, sense just what the fire was thinking, plotting. No, she thought now, not when she’d heard the urgency in Gibbons’s voice. No choice but to reverse.

She’d cut north, through the fire, to carve off a little distance, and calculating her path might cross with Matt and Cards.

Spots sprang up so fast and often, she began to feel like she was playing a deadly game of Whac-A-Mole.

She gulped down water on the run, splashed more on her sweaty face. And resisted the constant urge to call into base, again, for a report on Yangtree.

Better to believe he was alive and fighting. To believe it and make it true.

Under that remained the nagging fear that it hadn’t been an accident but sabotage.

How many others harbored that same fear? she wondered. How did they bear down and focus with that clawing at the mind? How could she when she kept going over every minute and move in the ready room, on the flight, on the jump sequence?

Had something been off even then? Should she have seen it?

Later, she ordered herself, relive it later. Right now, just live.

With her stamina flagging, she pulled an energy bar out of her bag, started to tear the wrapper.

She dropped it, ran, when she heard the scream.

Smoke blinded her, disoriented her. She forced herself to stop, close her eyes. Think.

Due north. Yes, north, she decided, and sprinted forward.

She spotted the radio smoldering and sparking on the ground, and the blood smeared on the ground at the base of a snag that burned like a candle. Nearby a full engulfed branch snaked fire over the ground.

Alarmed for her friends, she cupped her hands to her mouth, started to shout. Then dropped them again with sickness countering fear. She saw the blood trail, heading east, and followed it as she slowly drew her radio out of her belt.

Because she knew now, and somewhere inside her she wondered if she’d always known—or at least wondered. But loyalty hadn’t allowed it, she admitted. It simply hadn’t allowed her to cross the line—except in dreams.

Now with her heart heavy with grief, she prepared to cross the line.

Before she could flick on her radio, he was there, just there, a lit fusee in his hand, and his eyes full of misery. He heaved it when he saw her, setting off his tiny bomb. A black spruce went off like a Roman candle.

“I don’t want to hurt you. Not you.”

“Why would you hurt me?” She met those sad eyes. “We’re friends.”

“I don’t want to.” Matt pulled the gun out of his belt. “But I will. Throw away the radio.”

“Matt—” She jolted a little when Gibbons spoke her name through the radio.

“If you answer it, I’ll shoot you. I’ll be sorry for it, but I’ll do what has to be done. I’m doing what has to be done.”

“Where’s Cards?”

“Throw the radio away, Rowan. Throw it!” he snapped. “Or I’ll use this. I’ll put a bullet in your leg, then let the fire decide.”

“Okay. All right.” She opened her hand, let it drop, but he shook his head.

“Kick it away. Don’t test me.”

“I’m not. I won’t.” She heard Janis’s voice now as she kicked it aside. “We’ve got to get out of here, Matt. The place is coming apart. It’s not safe.”

She struggled to keep her eyes level with his, but she’d seen the Pulaski hooked in his belt, and the blood gleaming on the pick.

Cards.

“I never wanted it to be you. It wasn’t your fault. And you came to the funeral. You sat with my mother.”

“What happened to Jim wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Dolly got him worked up, got him all twisted around. Got us both all twisted around so the last things we said to each other were ugly things. And Cards was his spotter. He should’ve seen Jim wasn’t right to jump. You know that’s so.”

“Where’s Cards?”

“He got away from me. Maybe the fire’s got him. It’s about fate anyway. I should’ve shot him to be sure of it, but it’s about fate and destiny. Luck, maybe. I don’t decide. Dolly fell. I didn’t kill her; she fell.”

“I believe you, Matt. We need to head north, then we can talk when—”

“I gave her money, you know, for the baby. But she wanted more. I was just going to talk to her, have it out with her when I went by her house. And she was just driving off, without the baby. She was a bad mother.”

“I know.” Calm, agreeable, understanding. “Matt, who’d know better than me about that? About Shiloh being better off now? I’m on your side.”

“She went to that motel. She was a tramp. I saw him, the preacher, come to the door to let her in. My brother’s dead, and she’s balling that preacher in a motel room. I wanted to go in, but I was afraid of what I might do. I waited, and she came out and drove away.”

She heard another tree torch off. “Matt—”

“She got that flat tire. That was fate, wasn’t it? She was surprised to see me—guilt all over her—when I pulled in behind her. I told her to pull off onto the service road. I was going to have it out with her. But the things she said... If she hadn’t been screwing around, hadn’t been a liar, a cheat, a selfish bitch, I wouldn’t have pushed her that way. She was just going to up and leave that baby. Did you know? What kind of mother does that?”

“We have to move,” she told him, keeping her tone calm but firm. “I want you to tell me everything, Matt. I want to listen, but we’re going to be cut off if we don’t move.”