Page 125 of Wild Card

I eye their pinched expressions cautiously because I’ve got that feeling when you justknowsomething is wrong. That feeling rarely leads me astray.

“There’s a fire on the back side of the mountain and it’s spreading quickly,” West says. “We just saw it on the TV.”

Sure enough, when I check my phone, I have multiple missed calls. None of which are from Tripp or Gwen. And all of which are from our local Forest Service’s number.

I step outside and dial back, quickly hearing the voice of our area supervisor, Dale, on the other end of the line.

“Bash, we need you ready for tomorrow morning,” he says.

“How bad is it?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

“It’s bad. Windy as fuck tonight, and it’s dry back there. No one has burned the underbrush for decades. A dry spring means it’s basically a forest floor of kindling and pine needles.”

“It’s not totally dark yet. I could get up there in time to at least lay out some fire lines. Get a lay of the land. I know the other guys would too.”

Dale sighs. “The wind is too much. We’re going to battle it from the ground tonight and see if we can stave it off, but it’s moving quickly.”

“Well, even if I can’t do anything from the air, I’m coming down there to help,” I say, already marching back inside to grab my keys and say my goodbyes.

“I won’t say no to extra bodies,” Dale replies. He knows I’ve got several thousand wildland firefighting hours under my belt. My talents are best used in the sky, but decades on the job give me a level of expertise not everyone has.

“It’s heading toward town, Bash. Any help we can get will be an asset.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I say, stepping into the bar, where an eerie hush has fallen over the space. Usually, there’d be laughter, bowling balls clattering down the wooden alleys. But right now, there’s just the low din of whispered conversation. Most heads are bent over their phones—some curious, some stricken with utter horror.

I reach our table, and the vibe is no different. Clyde and West look especially concerned as they move a map around on West’s phone.

“They just issued a round of evacuation alerts,” West says.

“Orders or alerts?” I ask. “Because those two things are very different.”

“Order for anyone who lives on the back side of the mountain,” West says.

All eyes slide to Clyde. His features remain blank, but lines of stress frame his eyes. And it pulls on something inside me. Even heading into a kidney transplant, he didn’t look this worried.

He waves a hand. “Good news! I’m already evacuated.” His words are meant to sound casual, but there’s nothing light about the way he says them.

West adds, “Mine and Ford’s properties are under alert, but right on the edge. If it moves down the highway, we’ll be ordered too.”

I nod at that. “Okay, alert isn’t the end of the world. That means you’ve got time, things can change, orders can be lifted. Nothing is the end of the world.”

“Yet,” adds West.

The bite in his voice takes me aback, and my features must show it.

“Bash, I have thirty horses on my property. Less than half of them are mine. My trailer holds six. That means at least five trips there and back to wherever I can find that is able to take thirty horses in. And if we move to an order, the time crunch on that is going to mean leaving them behind.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Ford announces. “Let’s start making calls, spread word online. People always band together in times like this. My property is easily evacuated. We can focus on helping yours.”

West’s typically carefree face has worry etched all over it. He shifts on his feet, almost pacing on the spot as he taps his fingers against his lips. “I’m thinking. I’m thinking,” he says. “Everyone I know with a trailer will have their own animals to evacuate. I just… I gotta go.”

He digs his keys out of his pocket and tosses down two twenties.

“Same,” I say. “I’m heading down to the Forest Service offices to find out where they need me. I’m not flying until first light tomorrow.”

I toss cash on the table, and West is already heading for the door. “West,” I say, raising my voice to grab his attention. He turns to face me, looking panicked. “I know someone who might be able to help. I’m going to call him.”

He nods with a quick “appreciate it.” Then he’s gone.