Smoke and Fire Read online

  Synopsis

  Brady Stewart lives for the fire. Nightmares of the fire haunt Nicole McMillan. Whether fighting fires in the Kuwaiti desert, in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico or the heartland of Oklahoma, both women hide behind a smoke screen of who they really are. When they meet and face the challenge of their lives, their passion ignites because where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  Smoke and Fire

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  Smoke and Fire

  © 2014 By Julie Cannon. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-016-4

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: January 2014

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

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Come and Get Me

  Heart 2 Heart

  Heartland

  Uncharted Passage

  Just Business

  Power Play

  Descent

  Breakers Passion

  Rescue Me

  I Remember

  Smoke and Fire

  Dedication

  To all the men and women who put their lives on the line every day for someone else.

  Prologue

  The fire. It was always the fire. The smoke. The heat. The taste. The smell of burning flesh. She was afraid she would die and she prayed to God to stay alive. Then she felt nothing. Nerve endings seared, unable to send pain signals.

  Then, weeks later, as nerve endings healed, contaminated dead skin was removed, the pain was excruciating. Day after agonizing day she prayed to a different God to take her.

  Chapter One

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want. You’re expected to be there.”

  “Do I look like the type that enjoys that dog-and-pony kind of shit? Because you know that’s exactly what it’s going to be. Come on Flick, give me a break.”

  Brady watched her crew chief’s eyes travel from the top of her oil-stained hardhat, slowly across her face, to the top of her steel-toed flame-resistant boots before returning to look directly in her eyes. Before she entered the somewhat clean crew office, she’d unzipped and shrugged out of the top half of her filthy coveralls, tying the arms of the dark-blue protective suit around her waist. She knew he saw exactly what she wanted him to see—a mirror image of himself.

  “No, none of us would, but damn it, Stewart, you’re the one who pulled Steckman out of that fire and the brass is proud of you. Hell, we’re all proud of you, and you should be too. HQ just wants to recognize that.”

  Brady tipped her head back, stretching her tired neck muscles. She was ten hours into her eighth twelve-hour shift, and she was bone tired. Not that she would let anyone see just how dead on her feet she was. She knew her limits and was still on the right side of them. When you push too hard for too long that’s when mistakes happened, and she’d seen the results.

  “I didn’t do anything anyone else wouldn’t have done, and you know it, Flick. For crying out loud, he wasn’t even on this crew.” Brady had volunteered to fill in for a few days on a different crew for one of the guys who had hurt his back.

  “That may be, but you were the one that did.” Flick Jordon, Brady’s immediate supervisor, pointed his pudgy finger at her, then glanced at his watch. “You’ve got one hour to clean yourself up, dig out something decent to wear, and have your ass on that chopper.”

  Brady pivoted and, as much as she wanted to slam the door in frustration, she closed it gently behind her instead. “Fuck, just what I need, to pose for pictures with the queen almighty.”

  Brady stepped off the bottom step, her thick safety boot landing in the middle of a puddle of mud. It didn’t faze her in the slightest. If she cussed every time she stepped into something wet, gooey, greasy, or slimy she’d be swearing nonstop. After twelve years of fighting oil-well fires on every continent of the world, Brady had gotten into the habit of mimicking the language of her peers.

  “What a fucking waste of time,” she mumbled as she walked to the crew quarters.

  Chapter Two

  “You ready, Nicole?”

  “Yes, I’m ready,” Nicole replied calmly, biting back her irritation at Buck Hightower’s unnecessary question. She was never late for anything. Except that one time. And look where that got her. Sitting behind a desk, covered in a shroud she would never let anyone see beneath. Practically speaking, her scarred body was draped in a suit, blouse, and shoes that cost well into four figures, her shoulder-length blond hair and nails professionally attended to. The only jewelry visible was the oversized titanium Eco-Drive watch on her left hand, a wide band of intricately carved butterflies on the ring finger of her right hand, and a sturdy platinum chain around her neck that disappeared beneath the collar of her royal-blue blouse.

  Nicole closed the report she’d been reading, took off her reading glasses, and stood. At five feet ten she was taller than almost all the women she knew and shorter than most of the men that worked for her. She used her height to her advantage when necessary, but more often than not people were intimidated by the image she projected. She was always in complete control and could recite facts and figures off the top of her head that amazed even her most vocal critics. She rarely raised her voice and was the most powerful woman in the male-dominated industry of oil-well blowout suppression. She would never relinquish control of her emotions, her surroundings, or her company. And being late to a meeting with employees was no exception. As the president of McMillan Suppression she set the example of what the company stood for: reliability, respect, and dependability.

  Four years ago when she stepped into her father’s shoes, Nicole knew the business inside and out. From the age of ten she was at her father’s side learning everything she could about the company he’d built from scratch thirty years ago. At eighteen she was on the front line fighting fires. Six years ago at twenty-nine her life changed forever. Today, Nicole was far too busy to look in the rearview mirror and avoided any mirror, for that matter, as much as possible.

  Buck’s dull voice continued, oblivious to her underlying mood. “We have a last-minute addition to the meeting, Brady Stewart. Stewart pulled John Steckman from the flames at the Zulo wellhead in Brazil last week.” Since stepping in when her father fell ill, Buck had become her right- and left-hand man, taking care of everything from offering advice to executing her decisions. He was well respected in the oil-field community, having grown up as a wildcatter in western Oklahoma. Buck looked exactly like an older Rock Hudson, with dark hair graying around the temples and a thick salt-and-pepper mustache.

  “Buck.” Nicole interrupted him, her patience evaporating. “I know it’s your job to get your message across at every opportunity, and as a PR guy you do a great job, but sometimes you repeat yourself too often. I know this. I read the report last night, the press release and the files of everyone coming today, and,” Nicole said, taking her jacket fro
m the back of her desk chair and slipping it on, “you’ve told me, several times as a matter of fact.” Nicole eyed her favorite staff member with exasperation. “Six employees are being recognized for their contribution to safety, including Brady Stewart. One of the guys on the crew got tangled in the line and went down when the head reignited. Stewart dropped the line, ran into the fire, and dragged him out. They both suffered minor burns, and if it hadn’t been for Stewart, the guy would probably be dead, his wife a widow and his five kids fatherless. Stewart has an exemplary safety record and high praises from everyone on the crew.”

  Nicole reached for the purple folder on her desk, careful not to lean too much of her weight on her right leg. It ached all the time but recently much more than usual. Over the last few weeks, she’d been skimping on her physical therapy and was starting to pay the price. Gritting her teeth against the pain and refusing to let herself limp, Nicole walked out her office door and down the hall.

  *

  Brady spit out the toothpaste, rinsed her mouth, and looked at herself in the hotel bathroom mirror. She needed a haircut, her short brown hair sticking out at odd angles. To anyone else it looked stylish, but to her it was shaggy and in desperate need of a major overhaul. Reflected in the mirror over her left shoulder, the naked woman lying on the king-sized bed stirred. Rachel? Roberta? No, Robin. Thank God.

  An offhand glance across the lobby bar last night had resulted in a much-needed reaffirmation of her sexuality. She’d been celibate far too long this time and planned to rectify that situation as much as possible the three days she was in Morgan City. Sex was a release for pent-up stress, a welcome distraction, a reward for still being alive.

  Walking toward the bed she saw that Robin was awake and watching her. “Where are you going, stud?”

  Brady cringed at the incorrect characterization of who she was. Sure, her hair, clothes, and overall carriage would lead any lesbian to believe she was much more butch than she actually was. Brady had little time or interest, for that matter, for courting, dating, making small talk, or any of the other get-to-know-you rituals that were a prelude to sex. She worked hard and had little time off, and when she did she made the most of it.

  “I’ve gotta go and so do you,” Brady said, dropping Robin’s clothes on the bed between them. She hated morning-afters and did whatever she could to make sure she didn’t find herself in this exact awkward position. She must have been pretty tired last night.

  “Why don’t you come back to bed and I’ll make it worthwhile. You know I can,” Robin crooned, and stretched in what she obviously thought was a provocative pose. Brady just found it annoying.

  “As much as I’d like that I have to go, and you can’t stay here,” Brady said more forcefully. She handed Robin’s clothes to her and didn’t let go until the woman sat up.

  Ten minutes later, her “date” in a cab, Brady was sitting in the backseat of the Town Car McMillan Suppression had provided for her short ride across town.

  Chapter Three

  The office hadn’t been at all what Brady had expected. Twelve years ago, when she’d applied for her first job, it had been at the local field office in Cameron, Louisiana. Little more than a refurbished single-wide mobile home, it smelled like stale cigar smoke, banana peels, and dirty socks. The woman behind the counter could only be described as a broad. With her big hair, long pointy fingernails, and the requisite blue eye shadow she could have very easily starred in any number of B-grade movies made in the early eighties. The nameplate on the scarred desk read Sylvia, and the pitch of her fake Southern drawl had hurt Brady’s ears.

  “Can I help ya?” Sylvia asked, snapping her gum.

  “I’d like to fill out an application to be a firefighter.”

  Sylvia wasn’t shy in the way she’d looked her up and down, as if her personal attire, demeanor, or height was the first prerequisite for the job. When she’d smirked and handed Brady the application it was obvious she considered Brady one step above trash—maybe.

  Brady had long since stopped caring about what people thought of her. She’d grown up in a trailer park and was considered by many as nothing but poor white trash. Her parents’ priorities were drinking, fighting, and fucking, more often than not in that specific order. Their line of sight didn’t often include their only child, and after one too many smacks to the back of the head Brady learned how to stay out of that line quite effectively.

  She was teased in school for being too skinny, on welfare, and wearing clothes from the local church donation box. When her parents did muster up enough interest or obligation to make a showing they were brash, outspoken, and every teenage girl’s worst nightmare. It had been her eighteenth birthday when she stood in front of Sylvia’s desk vowing to have more money than God and never look back.

  Since then she’d traveled tens of thousands of miles, was on her third passport, and was a seasoned oil-field fire veteran. She’d done a lot of stupid things, crazy things, and brave things, the least of which was saving a coworker’s life. She didn’t think it was a big deal, but the boss obviously thought otherwise.

  Stepping through the revolving door, Brady thought about the woman everyone called the boss. The pictures of Nicole McMillan in the company’s annual report and trade magazines seemed to reinforce her reputation of being cold, hard, and all business. Her eyes were dark, her expression serious, and she had a take-no-shit look that Brady secretly admired. Brady couldn’t remember ever seeing a picture of the boss smiling, and if she believed half of the crew gossip she was a real ball-buster. Her boss epitomized the saying about a woman in a man’s world. Oil was a man’s world. It didn’t matter if you were drilling for it, pumping it out of the ground, or putting out its fire, there were at least a thousand men to every woman. And a woman at the top, well, suffice it to say Nicole McMillan was in a league all her own.

  Alone in the elevator, Brady plucked the crease of her khakis, centered the buckle of her belt, and buttoned her navy-blue jacket. She turned her head left then right, looking at her neck, and breathed a sigh of relief that the she didn’t see any signs of last night’s entertainment. The elevator was quick, and the soft melodic voice announcing the eighth floor was soft and sexy. Stepping out, Brady wondered what the boss thought of that every time she heard it.

  The offices of McMillan Suppression lay directly in front of her. The floor-to-ceiling glass doors were intricately carved with a scene of an oil rig on the left and an oil-rig blowout on the right. Evenly spaced across the top was the name of the company in four-inch-high brass letters.

  Very impressive, Brady thought as the thick jade-green carpet muffled her footsteps. She pulled on the door handle and the heavy door opened with a slight whoosh. Sitting behind a large, U-shaped desk was a woman with dark-brown hair talking to absolutely no one. Before Brady had a chance to say anything the woman looked at her, held up one finger as if to say one moment, and signaled to her left ear with the other.

  Brady realized she must have a headset or Bluetooth receiver in her ear covered by her long curly locks and casually glanced around the ornate lobby. The deep-red walls were offset by oversize tan leather chairs. The coffee table held several issues of Oil Field Technology and today’s Wall Street Journal. A photo of a wellhead on fire filled the cover of a National Geographic and Brady picked it up, recognizing the name of the well as one of the fires she’d fought six or seven months ago.

  “May I help you?”

  Brady replaced the magazine on the table and faced the pretty receptionist. “I’m Brady Stewart. I’m here for…” Brady didn’t get a chance to finish.

  The woman’s professionalism couldn’t hide her momentary look of surprise before she said, “Yes, Ms. Stewart, we’re expecting you. If you’ll have a seat, Ms. McMillan’s assistant will be out shortly.”

  Brady was ten minutes early, and, expecting she’d have to wait, she did as she was instructed, flipping open the National Geographic to the cover story. Scanning the article Brady was p
leased to see that the general theme of the story concerned the ecological damage caused by oil rigs that gushed oil unabated or, in the case of the rig in the photo, burning oil as it shot out the top of the rig.

  Brady could verify the author’s description of the thick, black smoke billowing into the sky and practically obliterating the sunshine. The air around an oil-well fire was thick and caustic, forcing everyone within several miles to stay indoors or risk severe respiratory distress. As a member of the hotshot crew whose job it was to extinguish the blaze, she breathed through a specifically formulated mask, similar to a gas mask. It was claustrophobic to wear the mask ten or twelve hours a day, but the alternative wasn’t an option. Even with the protection, her lungs rattled and her eyes burned. It took three crews eighteen days to extinguish the fire and another seven months for the air to clear.

  “Mr. Stewart?”

  Brady looked up and into the questioning eyes of a complete stranger. This must be the assistant, she thought to herself. Judging by the woman’s expression, Brady wasn’t at all what she expected.

  “I’m Brady Stewart,” she replied, not particularly upset to be mistaken for a man. Her name and profession drew everybody to the same conclusion. Of course her short hair, flat chest, and nonexistent ass didn’t help either.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Stewart,” the woman said, obviously flustered. “I apologize, I…”

  Brady waved her off. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, dropping the magazine back on the table.

  “I’m Ann Franklin, Ms. McMillan’s assistant. Would you please follow me?”