Page 72 of Smoke and Roses

She bites her lip and blinks those damp eyes at me.

“I’m serious,” I say, voice thick. “I came here to disappear. I did. I thought I’d stay six months, then go somewhere else, then somewhere else after that. That’s what I’ve been doing since the Army. Moving.”

As I swallow, I run my thumb along her cheekbone. “Then you handed me a cup of coffee and I haven’t wanted to be anywhere else since.”

Her mouth hinges open, a small choked sound coming out.

“Lindsey,” I say. “I promise. I’m not disappearing. I’m right here. Every morning at five-fifteen. Every night at your woodstove. You’re going to have to get a restraining order.”

She laughs and this time it’s a happy sound until the window rattles.

We both look toward the kitchen. The wind is picking up. It rattles and moans around the eaves, hot and dry, coming down off the mountain.

October in the Ogden Valley shouldn’t feel like this. I file it away for the morning.

The weather alert on my phone goes off at midnight while she’s sleeping on my chest. Red flag warning. Wind gusts to fifty. Humidity eight percent. Extreme fire danger through Thursday.

I turn the phone face down on the nightstand and pull her in a little closer.

Wednesday at 0700, Caleb stands in front of the whiteboard in the station bay with a dry-erase marker and a steely face.

“Red flag through tomorrow,” he says. “Gusts hit fifty-two at Powder Mountain at four this morning. Humidity’s at seven. Every blade of grass in this valley is a match.”

He writes it on the board. 7%. He underlines it twice. “County’s pre-positioned a brush truck at Huntsville. Weber Fire’s got two engines staged at the mouth of the canyon. Rocky Mountain Power is talking about shutting off lines if it gets worse.”

“What do we do?” Novak asks.

“We check every piece of equipment on both engines and the brush truck. Then we check it again. Then we eat lunch. Then we check it again.”

Caleb caps the marker. “Nobody goes home early. Nobody turns their phone off. If you’ve got a wife, a girlfriend, a dog or a pet ferret, you call them and tell them to keep their car pointed out of the driveway.”

“I have a goldfish,” Novak says.

“Then call your goldfish, Pinky. Tell him we might need his water,” he says with a straight face.

We check the brush truck first. Pumps, hose and hand tools. Nate goes over every Pulaski with a file like he’s sharpening a sword.

Rob tests every radio twice and hands me mine without a word. I clip it to my shoulder and don’t take it off for the rest of the day.

At ten, I step out behind the bay and call my girl.

“Hi,” Lindsey says. Her voice is bright. There’s a radio playing behind her, and somebody laughing. “I’m doing a baby shower. Forty-eight pink carnation corsages. I may die.”

“You hear about the red flag?”

“Bonnie Sorensen told me. She says her knees ache.” A pause. The radio turns down. “Travis. Is it bad?”

“It’s a warning. It doesn’t mean anything’s burning.” I look up at the ridge. It’s brown and gold all the way down to the river, and the wind is pushing the cottonwoods sideways.

“Just keep your gas tank full. Keep your phone on you. If you get an alert, you get in the van and you come to the station. Don’t stop for anything, not the shop, not the roses.”

“Not the roses?” She sounds scandalized.

“Lindsey.”

“Okay. Okay. Not the roses.”

As I rub the back of my neck, she’s quiet.