The Maddox Brothers: Beautiful Burn Part 15

"This," Tyler said, pointing to a man taller than him, but not as thick, "is Smitty." The short but solid hotshot wore gla.s.ses, and was a sophisticated kind of beautiful, with olive skin and a grease smear on his cheek.

They both wiped their hands on their pants and greeted me.

"Lyle Smith," Smitty said, shaking my hand.

Tyler pointed to the other one. "This is Taco."

"Taco?" I asked. His red hair and freckled skin gave me no hint of a reason for the nickname.

"Clinton Tucker. My son is two. When he says our last name, it sounds like taco. Unfortunately, it stuck, but it's not the worst nickname around here."

"Does everyone have one? A nickname?" I asked.

Tyler shrugged. "Pretty much."

"What's yours?"

Smitty chuckled. "He has one, but no one is brave enough to say it to his face."

"You'll have to let me in on that," I said with a smirk.

"No," Tyler said. "He won't."

I jotted down their names. "Is it hard for you, Taco? Being away from your son for days or weeks at a time?"

"I guess. We don't really know another way. It's what I do," Taco said, wiping his hands with a rag. "During fire season, it's months at a time."

"How long have you been a hotshot?"

"This is my fourth season in Colorado."

I nodded and let them get back to their jobs, then stood in the corner to snap a few candids of them working.

"Over there is Watts ... Randon Watson," Tyler said, pausing while Watts waved with one hand, holding a mop in the other. "And that is our squad boss, Jubal Hill. Don't let the silver hair throw you. He's an animal."

"Jubal?" I asked. "What's his real name?"

Jubal dropped the broom and walked over, his light hair setting off his bronze skin and baby-blue eyes. He held out his hand. "Jubal Lee Hill. Nice to meet you."

"Jubilee," I repeated.

He looked down and laughed once. "It's just Jubal. No nickname needed."

"Nice to meet you," I said. When he walked away, I doc.u.mented him like I was paparazzi. He needed to be in a calendar, or working for Vogue in New York and wearing designer gla.s.ses and a suit, not pus.h.i.+ng a broom in a garage.

"It's okay," Tyler said. "Every female who comes through here has a crush on Jubal."

"He doesn't act like it," I said.

"That's because he doesn't know it."

"Right."

"Seriously. He's loved the same woman his entire life. Since, like, the first grade or something. They got married right after high school, and ... you should see them. They're gross."

"Gross?"

"Like newlyweds. They've been married thirty years."

"That's gross?"

"No," Tyler said. "We just like to give 'em h.e.l.l. I bet my parents would still be like that, too. It's kind of cool to see. The rest of them are out."

"How many are on your crew? And what do you mean by out? Hurt? Vacation? Out sick?"

Tyler chuckled. "Crews are typically twenty men and women."

"Women?"

"Not very many, but the toughest hotshots I know are women."

I smiled, letting my camera hang from the strap around my neck. "So where are the rest?"

Tyler led me to a group photo in a frame. "Like I said, in off-season, when we're not fighting fires, we're sometimes a.s.signed other jobs like search and rescue or disaster response a.s.sistance. We'll also work to meet resource goals on our home units. Some guys have other part-time jobs or just take unemployment and ski or travel or spend time with family." He pointed to the faces I didn't recognize. "Fish, the a.s.sistant superintendent. Sage, Bucky, and Slick are squad bosses like Jubal. Sugar. Cat. Scooter. Baggins. Jew. Sancho. Runt. Puddin'. Pup."

I arched an eyebrow.

"I'll get you a list of full names later."

"Real names, please. What are resource goals?"

"Thinning, prescribed fire implementation, habitat improvement, trail construction projects ... stuff like that. Sometimes we go to the schools and do ... you know ... Smokey Bear stuff."

"Who has to dress up?" I asked.

Tyler made a face. "That'd be me."

I snickered. "Thanks for that," I said, scribbling on my notepad. "I'd like to get a picture of you in the suit at some point." He frowned, and I nudged him. "You're a peach for showing me around and an angel for taking me to see the superintendent."

"A peach?"

"So, how many hours do you work on average?"

Tyler crossed his arms. "We're doing this now?"

I looked up at him from my notepad. "Yeah?"

"It depends on if it's fire season or downtime. If we're fighting a fire, we just sleep, eat, and work. We can work up to eighteen-hour days, but working thirty-two hours a stretch isn't uncommon. Up to fourteen-day stretches."

"Holy s.h.i.+t," I said under my breath.

"Used to be twenty-one. Then we get our required days off-a forty-eight hour R & R-and then we're back out. We travel all over ... wherever they need us. Even Alaska, Canada, and Mexico."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"I'm a peach? Really?" he said, amused.

"Shut up and answer."

"I can't shut up and answer..." He trailed off, recoiling from my glare. "We're on our third season. We were ground crew before that."

"We?" I said, looking up at him again.

"Taylor and me."

"Are you a package deal?"

"Basically," he answered matter-of-factly, and I imagined him doing the same in interviews as well.

I scribbled a few sentences, and then touched the pen to my lip. "I don't see a lot of older guys on your crew. Why is that?"

"You won't see many at all. Wildfire fighting is brutal. If you do it more than five or six seasons, you start seeing some lingering physical issues. The superintendent goes on site, but he's basically restricted to a desk because of his back, knee, and shoulder surgeries."

"Jesus," I murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing. You've mentioned something about the community. What else do you guys do?"

"You mean community outreach? During downtime we have AM and PM physical training built in to the schedule, patrolling, drills, chainsaw work, fence building, signage..."

I jotted down his answers while he spoke, hoping Jojo could somehow produce a story from my random scribbles.

"Do you get time off?" I asked.

"Not during fire season. I took today off to get some s.h.i.+t done."

"Do you need to..." I said, gesturing to the door.

"What? No, no, I'm good."

"You don't want to leave me alone with these guys, do you?"

"No, not really."

"What will you do when you leave until you come back? What does a hotshot do on his day off?"

Tyler's brows pulled in, and he stared at me, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You're leaving, right? You don't live here, do you?"

"No, I'm not leaving."

"So you do live here?"

"No, I have an apartment with my brother here in Estes Park. We typically only stay at the station when we're on s.h.i.+ft, but yeah ... you're here, so I'm here. I cleared you with the superintendent, so you're my responsibility."

I wrinkled my nose at the thought.

"If the guys get called out, your plan is to ride along, right?"

"Well ... yeah."

"Then I'm staying. They'll be busy. They won't have time to babysit you."

"I went to kindergarten. I can follow directions."

"I'm not arguing with you. This is how it's going to be."

"What about when you're on s.h.i.+ft?"

"Same thing."

"Oh, so they won't have time to babysit me, but you will?"

"Jojo wanted you to follow us around, right? This is how it's done when we have journalists shadow. Someone has to make sure you don't get hurt."

"You can't be serious. I'm a.s.signed to you, and you're a.s.signed to me? I was just beginning to feel cool."

"I'm not leaving you alone. It's dangerous, Ellie."

"You're just precious."

Tyler frowned. "I'm rethinking this."

I suddenly felt heavy, and then panicked as bitter bile rose in my throat.

"I was just kidding. Are you all right? You look a little green," Tyler said.

"I'm nauseous all of a sudden."

"Bathroom's down the hall, second door on the right."

My stomach lurched, and I gagged, covering my mouth. I didn't wait for it to happen again, sprinting to the bathroom just in time. Just as I bent over the toilet, I thought about my camera being dunked in toilet water and covered in vomit, but it was hovering over my right ear, held by the hotshot I loved to hate.

"Why am I so stupid?" I moaned, my voice echoing off the porcelain.

Tyler was holding my camera with one hand, my hair in the other.