“Thanks.” Joaquin didn’t want to be rude, but they didn’t really have time for this now.
“I’ve got an idea.” Wendy shook Leah’s hand. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”
Leah nodded. “It’s that obvious?”
“Don’t worry. We’ve all been there.” Wendy turned back to Joaquin. “I’ll take your new reporter under my wing. I know all the officials in this area and most of the firefighters, too. I’ll make sure she gets the story. In return, you’ll let us run one of your photos—something your editor doesn’t want.”
That was an unusual offer, but Joaquin didn’t need to think about it. “Done.”
Joaquin left Leah with Wendy and jogged to where the PIO stood having a heated conversation about him with the fire chief, a big guy with dark hair and a sooty face.
“I can’t guarantee his safety, and if he doesn’t listen to me…”
“I’ll listen.” Joaquin held out his hand. “I won’t get in your way.”
The man seemed to size him up, took his hand, shook. “I’m Eric Hawke, fire chief for Scarlet Springs FD.”
“Joaquin Ramirez, Denver Independent.”
Hawke frowned. “Why does your name sound familiar?”
“Maybe because I won a Pulitzer for—”
Recognition dawned on Hawke’s face. “You’re a friend of Gabe Rossiter’s.”
“Yeah. I am. How do you know Gabe?”
“He and I volunteer together on the Rocky Mountain Search and Rescue Team.”
“Small world.”
“All right. You can come, but know that I can’t guarantee your safety. Have you ever trained in the use of a fire shelter?”
A fire shelter?
Hell. “No.”
“Then you’d better hope we don’t need them.”
Joaquin climbed into the truck, buckled himself into one of the back seats beside sooty, sweaty firefighters. They didn’t make eye contact with him, their minds on what lay ahead. They had already battled this thing—and lost.
He kept quiet, listening as Hawke directed operations via radio as they left the ski resort and drove toward the smoke-filled horizon.
That’s why Joaquin had so much respect for everyone who worked in emergency services. They ran toward the danger while everyone else fled. They were true heroes.
One of the firefighters—a woman—spoke to Joaquin. “If I’d known someone was going to take our pictures, I’d have put on a little makeup.”
The others laughed.
The woman, whose face was lined with sweat and soot, smiled. “I’m Jenny Miller.”
“Joaquin Ramirez, Denver Independent.”
The man in the passenger seat looked back at him. “Brandon Silver. You have any idea what you’re going into here, Ramirez?”
Joaquin shook his head. “No, but I’ve been in some pretty tight spots before. I was in the Palace Hotel during the terrorist attack, and I was shot when a lunatic tried to kill my wife.”
Eyebrows rose.