Rowan studied the fire, the ground, then the flight. Canopies billowed in the black and the blue as the plane came around for its second pass.

“We’re ready,” Gull answered at the spotter’s call. With Rowan behind him, he got in the door, braced to the roar of wind and fire. The slap on his shoulder sent him out, diving through it, buffeted by it. He found the horizon, steadied himself as the drogue stabilized him, as the main put the brakes on to a glide.

He found Rowan, watched her canopy billow, watched the sun arrow through the smoke for an instant to illuminate her face.

Then he had a fight on his hands as the crosswinds tried to push him into a spin. A gust whipped up, blew him uncomfortably close to the cliff face. He compensated, then overcompensated as the wind yanked, tugged.

He drifted wide of the jump spot, adjusted, then let the wind take him, so he landed neat and soft on the edge of the gap.

He rolled, watched Rowan land three yards to his left.

“That was some fancy maneuvering up there,” she called out to him.

“It worked.”

Gathering their chutes, they joined Matt and Trigger at the edge of the jump spot. “Third stick’s coming down,” Trigger commented. “And shit, Cards is going into the trees. He can’t buy luck this season.”

Rowan clearly heard Cards curse as the wind flipped him into the pines.

“Come on, Matt, let’s go make sure he ain’t broke nothing important.”

Since she could still hear Cards cursing, meaning he hadn’t been knocked unconscious, she kept her eyes on the sky.

“Yangtree and Libby,” she said as the plane positioned for the next pass. “Janis and Gibbons.” She rattled off the remaining jumpers. “When they’re all on the ground, I want you to take charge of the paracargo.”

She put her hands on her hips, watching the next person hurtle out of the plane. Yangtree, she thought. He’d instruct, and he’d keep jumping out of planes. But doing free falls with sports groups and tourists was a far cry from...

“His drogue. His drogue hasn’t opened.” She ran forward, shouting for the others on the ground. “Drogue in tow! Jesus, Jesus, cut away! Cut away. Pull the reserve. Come on, Yangtree, for Christ’s sake.”

Gull’s belly roiled, his heart hammered as he watched his friend, his family, tumble through the sky and smoke. Others shouted now, Trigger all but screaming into his radio.

The reserve opened with a jerky shudder, caught air—but too late, Gull realized. Yangtree’s fall barely slowed as he crashed into the trees.

29

She ran, bursting through brush, leaping fallen logs, rocks, whatever lay in her path. Gull winged past her; her own fear raced with her. With her emotions in pandemonium, she ordered herself to think, to act.

His reserve had deployed at the last minute. There was a chance, always a chance. She slowed as she reached Cards, face bloody, shimmying down a lodgepole pine with his let-down rope.

“Are you hurt bad?”

“No. No. Go! Jesus, go.”

Matt stumbled through the forest behind her, his cheeks gray, eyes dull. “Stay with Cards. Make sure he’s okay.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just kept running.

When she heard Gull’s shout, she angled left, dry pine needles crunching under her feet like thin bones.

She caught sight of the reserve, a tattered mangle of white draped in the branches high overhead. And the blood, dripping like a leaky faucet, splatting on the forest floor.

Caught in the gnarled branches seventy feet above, Yangtree’s limp body dangled. A two-foot spur jutted through his side, the point of it piercing through like a pin through a moth.

Gull, spurs snapped on, climbed. Rowan dumped her gear, snapped on her own and started up after him.

Broken, she could see he’d been broken—his leg, his arm and likely more. But broken didn’t mean dead.

“Can you get to him? Is he alive?”

“I’ll get to him.” Gull climbed over, then used his rope to ease himself onto the branch, testing the weight as he went. He reached out to unsnap the helmet, laid his fingers on Yangtree’s throat.

“He’s got a pulse—weak, thready. Multiple fractures. Deep gash on his right thigh, but it missed the femur. The puncture wound—” He cursed as he moved closer. “This goddamn spur’s holding him onto the branch like a railroad spike. I can’t maneuver to stabilize him from here.”

“We secure him with the ropes.” Rowan leaned out as far as she could, trying to assess the situation for herself. “Cut the branch, bring him down with it.”

“It’s not going to take my weight and a saw.” He crawled back. “It cracked some at the base. I don’t know if it’ll hold for you.”

“Let’s find out.”

“Dobie or Libby. It would hold one of them.”

“I’m up here, they’re not. He’s losing a lot of blood. Let me see what I can do. Get me more rope, a saw, a first-aid kit.”

“How bad?” Trigger called up. “How bad is it?”

“He’s breathing.”

“Thank Christ. I’ve got a medevac team coming. Is he conscious?”

“No. Fill him in, okay?” She and Gull switched positions. “We need rope, first-aid kit, a chain saw. Gull’s heading down.”

Rowan leaned back in her harness, stripped off her shirt, cut strips and pads with her pocketknife. Tying herself off, she scooted out onto the branch. It would hold, she vowed, because she damn well needed it to.

“Yangtree, can you hear me?” She began to field-dress the jagged gash in his thigh. “You hold on, goddamn it. We’ll get you out of this.”

She used what rope she had, wrapped it around his waist, then shimmied back to secure it. Gull was there, handing her more.

“I’m going to secure it to the branch just above, get it under his arms.” She watched Trigger and Matt scaling the neighboring tree, nodded as she saw the plan.

“Get another over to them, and we lower him down in a vee after I cut away the harness, saw off the branch.”

Fear sweat dripped into her eyes as she worked, and, forced to shift the shattered leg, she prayed Yangtree stayed unconscious until they’d finished. She padded the wound around the spur as best she could, used her belt to strap him even more securely to the branch.