The spectators had lost interest in her. Whatever was happening at the front of the crowd held far more appeal to them than either her or her panties, to her relief. She wasn’t shy, but she’d been so focused on her career for the past twelve years that her social circle had grown very small, pretty much limited to fellow firefighters and their partners.
Also, small-town Montana was beyond her comprehension. The people, while nice, were astoundingly nosy. She couldn’t figure out whether they were really interested in her or simply being polite. Up until Grand, no one in her life had given a damn what she did.
Dallas Tucker poked his head from the half-open side garage door, scaring the crap out of her, and she jumped. He shot a furtive glance left, then right, then beckoned to her.
“Quick, come inside before anyone sees us,” he said.
She’d gotten to know Dallas a little better over the past few weeks when he’d given her team their refresher medical training. Everyone liked him. He was personable, funny, and didn’t take himself too seriously, and yet when it mattered, he was all business. Curious to find out why he was hiding when this was his party too, she obliged him and stepped into the garage. He shut the door behind her, then flipped the lock.
Calling this a garage was like calling the White House a cottage. There might as well be a posted sign in here proclaiming “Money to Burn.” Panels fitted into the structured steel roof filled the interior with plenty of natural light. The concrete floor had been finished with a textured industrial paint, then sealed with a high-gloss epoxy. Two bay doors challenged the front of the building. A heavy-duty, wood and steel workbench propped up the far wall. Dozens of what appeared to be gently used tools hung on hooks above it.
She counted five cars, all fast and high end. While she was no expert on luxury vehicles, she did like speed and it seemed someone at the ranch might be a collector. The likeliest bet would be Ryan, who’d admitted to having a taste for them.
“Is something wrong?” she asked Dallas.
“Kind of.” He dug his fingers through his dark mop of curls and scrunched up one side of his face, managing to look both innocent and guilty at once, like one of her little brothers, caught stealing candy. “A reporter from some sort of lifestyle magazine showed up, wanting to do an interview with the three of us. I said I’d go find Ryan. Now she’s got Dan cornered at the side of the house.”
So that was what the crowd was about.
“And you couldn’t find him?” she guessed, still confused as to why he was hiding out in the garage.
“Who, Ryan?” Dallas waved a hand. “He took off long before people started to arrive. He hates this sort of thing.”
She got it now. “You left Dan to fend for himself, didn’t you?”
“Of course, I did. I don’t need my private life splashed all over the internet and he’s already a public figure. Besides, he’s used to grilling people for information. Let him see how the other side feels for a change. But now I feel kind of bad about throwing him under the bus. Would you go rescue him for me?”
He had to be kidding. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
He thrust a phone into her hand. “Pretend to be his assistant. Hand him this and say he’s got an important phone call that can’t wait.”
Jazz tried to hand the phone back. “Isn’t there anyone else who can do it?”
“Are you kidding me? Did you see the size of that crowd? They all know him. And so far, not one person has stepped up to the plate. They’re all too busy watching him squirm. They might like him well enough as a person, but at the end of the day, no one loves the law. Especially when the law is stinking rich.” Dallas’s eyes danced. “I don’t plan to remind anyone that I’m also stinking rich. I have to live here, too. You, on the other hand, are only going to be here for a few months.”
True enough. Plus, she’d been interviewed for a so-called lifestyle magazine before and it hadn’t been fun. Not in the least. The reporter had only been interested in the negative aspects of being a woman smokejumper—he’d grilled her about things like workplace sexual harassment—and hadn’t cared at all for what made it the best job in the world. As a result, she no longer granted interviews.
Dan might want to consider adopting her policy.
“I’ll do it, but I’m doing it for him, not you,” she said. She tried to sound severe. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Oh, I am,” Dallas assured her.
He sounded anything but.
Poor Dan.
She grabbed Dallas’s hand and slapped his phone into his palm. “I don’t need this.”
She left him hiding in the garage and crossed the paved drive. She ended up next to a lovely woman with long, curling dark hair, smooth, almond-colored skin, and striking, periwinkle-blue eyes standing at the back of the crowd. She carried a sleeping baby in her arms. She looked vaguely familiar, but Jazz couldn’t place her.
“I can’t watch any longer. Dan thinks he’s holding his own, but Adriana Gallant is toying with him,” the woman said with a wince. She had a faint accent that Jazz couldn’t place either. She cradled the baby with one arm and held out her free hand. “I’m Mara McGregor. You must be the smokejumper everyone’s talking about.”
Jazz shook her hand. “Jazz O’Reilly. I’m not a jumper anymore, I’m afraid. I’m the base’s summer manager.” A tiny lump formed in her throat. That was tougher to say than she’d expected.
It must have showed. Sympathy and understanding flooded Mara’s eyes. “It’s hard seeing others doing something you love, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Jazz agreed.