Smolde: Military Reverse Harem Romance Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Books by Cassie Cole

  1 - Haley

  2 - Haley

  3 - Haley

  4 - Foxy

  5 - Haley

  6 - Haley

  7 - Derek

  8 - Haley

  9 - Haley

  10 - Haley

  11 - Trace

  12 - Haley

  13 - Haley

  14 - Haley

  15 - Foxy

  16 - Haley

  17 - Derek

  18 - Haley

  19 - Haley

  20 - Haley

  21 - Haley

  22 - Foxy

  23 - Derek

  24 - Haley

  25 - Haley

  26 - Haley

  27 - Haley

  28 - Haley

  29 - Trace

  30 - Haley

  31 - Haley

  32 - Derek

  33 - Haley

  34 - Haley

  35 - Haley

  36 - Trace

  37 - Foxy

  38 - Haley

  39 - Haley

  40 - Foxy

  41 - Haley

  42 - Haley

  43 - Derek

  44 - Haley

  45 - Haley

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapter

  Sneak Peek - Sealed With a Kiss

  About the Author

  Smolder

  By Cassie Cole

  Copyright © 2020 Juicy Gems Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior consent of the author.

  Edited by Robin Morris

  Follow me on social media to stay up-to-date on new releases, announcements, and prize giveaways!

  www.cassiecoleromance.com

  Books by Cassie Cole

  Broken In

  Drilled

  Five Alarm Christmas

  All In

  Triple Team

  Shared by her Bodyguards

  Saved by the SEALs

  Forbidden Crush

  The Proposition

  Full Contact

  Sealed With A Kiss

  Smolder

  The Naughty List

  Christmas Package

  Trained At The Gym

  Undercover Action

  1

  Haley

  No matter how much practice I had as a smokejumper, jumping out of an airplane terrified me every single time.

  I sat in a jump seat with my fellow smokejumpers, bouncing up and down with turbulence from the updrafts and trying to remain calm. It wasn’t easy, knowing what was about to happen.

  The red light came on at the front of the plane. “Two minutes!” roared the jump spotter over the sound of the engines.

  Adrenaline hit me like a drug, making every nerve in my body tingle. Intense and on edge. It was an addictive rush that came every time, just like my fear. Despite that, my guts turned to liquid and chills ran up my spine. For a few moments, it made me wonder why I’d ever signed up for smokejumper school.

  The other jumpers and I all stood. I was wobbly in my gear: my parachute on my back and my PG bag for personal gear strapped to my chest like a baby carrier. There were ten of us in this C23 Sherpa aircraft, and I was second in line to the jump door. It was a rectangle of darkness about eight feet away, with smoke obscuring the stars of the night sky.

  The plane turned, and the jump door tilted down to give us a view of the ground below. The Payette National Forest sprawled one thousand five-hundred feet below our plane, in the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho. Smoke rose up from a hundred different locations, blocking most of our view of the dense pine trees. It filled me with awe and fear.

  “Ain’t that a sight,” the guy behind me said over the sound of the engine.

  I took a shuddering breath. “Is it weird to be afraid?”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I flinched. Shit. I’d just blurted it out without thinking! One of the requirements to being a smokejumper was constant, unwavering confidence. Especially for a woman like me who had to prove herself to the men.

  But the guy behind me only grinned. “No way,” he said, putting his mouth close to my ear so he didn’t have to shout. “Fear’s the default. It’d be weird if you weren’t afraid.”

  I twisted to look at the name on his PG bag. Fox. I remembered him from class—everyone called him Foxy. He was cute. A tattoo-covered goofball. Used humor to defuse terrifying situations.

  But there was no humor in his voice now. Just the comforting truth that we were all afraid, and that that was okay.

  “Helmets!” shouted the jump spotter.

  I grabbed my helmet from the hook on the wall and pulled it over my head. It was like a hockey mask, with cross-hatches to protect my face from limbs if we landed in the trees. It limited my view, and the padding around the ears muffled the roar of the engines.

  The red light at the front of the plane turned green.

  “Ready!” shouted the jump spotter by the door.

  The smokejumper in front of me stepped into the hatch. The spotter clipped the jumper’s chute line onto a hook on the wall, which would automatically deploy his parachute when he jumped. The spotter gave him a firm pat on the back, and then the jumper disappeared out the door. It all happened in the span of three seconds. Too quick for me to process the horror that was about to befall me.

  The spotter waved me forward.

  My pulse was a drum in my ears as I stepped up to the hatch. I grabbed both sides of the hatch frame, leaning my weight back into the plane as the spotter clipped in my chute line. My view of the Payette National Forest was totally obscured by smoke now, a fact which filled me with terror. Not only was this my first night jump, but it was my first blind one, too.

  The spotter patted my back. Without hesitation, I hurled myself through the door.

  Wind rushed past my face and stung my eyes. My stomach flew up into my throat, then quickly settled back down. Then my chute opened violently, jerking me in the air and digging the straps of my harness into my thighs and crotch. A comforting pain, compared to the alternative of falling to my death.

  I glanced up and watched the C23 Sherpa soaring away. Another parachute blossomed in the night sky like a white firework, and then another after that. To my right was a second Sherpa dropping more smokejumpers into the inferno. Twenty of us altogether to fight this fire.

  I hung in the air, drifting downward. This part was always peaceful. It came after the roar of the airplane and before the chaos of the ground. It was almost relaxing.

  Almost.

  Night jumps were rare because of how dangerous they were. I had a rough idea of how long until I hit the ground, but it was tough to gauge the passage of time while I was drifting through the air. Especially with the smoke bubbling upward all around me, which gave me the sensation of falling faster than I actually was. The smoke stung my eyes and burned my throat, even though it wasn’t toxic.

  I mentally went through my training. Keep feet and knees together with my legs slightly bent. Hit the ground with a roll, landing on the balls of my feet, rolling forward to absorb the momentum with my calves, thighs, and the side of my back. Breaking my legs in a jump was a good way to fail smokejumping school.

  I tensed. I couldn’t see the drop zone with the supplies. The smoke spread out higher in the air, so as I descended lower I should get glimpses of the ground. Our target drop zone was a rocky outcrop cleared of trees.

  But when the smoke cleared and I finally got a glimpse of the terrain below, all I saw was f
orest rising up to meet me.

  “Shit!” I shouted as my feet crashed through the treetops. Pine needles scraped my body like tiny fingers as I fell through the canopy, slowing as I went. My left elbow smashed into a thicker branch and sent pain up my arm. I kept falling, and waiting for the ground to rise up and smash into my legs, but it was tough to keep them bent and together as the trees raked my body.

  My chute tangled in the trees above, and finally I came to a stop with my feet dangling five feet above the ground. I swung gently in the darkness while waiting to make sure it was really over.

  That was lucky.

  I unhooked my straps, then dropped to my feet. I was in the middle of the forest, with Ponderosa Pines and Douglas Firs all around, and plenty of room to walk in between. The ground was soft with pine needles and moss. Perfect tinder for a wildfire to spread. And I was nowhere near our intended drop zone.

  I removed my protective helmet and took a few moments to calm down, using breathing techniques to relax. Reacting by instinct instead of rational thought was how good smokejumpers died.

  The speaker in my helmet squawked. “Radio check. Check, check.”

  “This is Hinch,” I responded. “Check. I think I’m south of the drop zone.”

  I recognized the next voice. “Fox check. I’m even farther south than Hinch. Damn smoke make it impossible to guide our landings.”

  “I saw you both come down at the end of the valley,” replied the spotter on the plane. “Shouldn’t take you long to get to the drop zone. Get moving and we’ll work on setting up an anchor point.”

  As I stripped out of my protective jump clothes, I felt a tingle of anticipation in my gut. Like when you’ve been studying for an exam for weeks, and then finally had the test in front of you.

  I knew what I was doing. I was an expert in my field. And it was time to show what I was made of.

  Once my jumpsuit was off and I had moved my PG bag to my back, I began moving north through the forest. That was deeper into the valley toward the mountains, so the terrain was at a very slight incline. I felt naked without any of my tools. My PG bag held some survival rations, a pocket knife, and an emergency flare, but all the real tools had been dropped in their own crates. I wouldn’t feel comfortable until I had a chainsaw or Pulaski tool in my hands.

  “This is Sale,” crackled my radio. Derek Sale, the blond pretty-boy, I pictured in my head. “I’m, uh, stuck in a tree. Release won’t engage. I think I’m pretty high up. Preparing to deploy my security line and rappel down.”

  “Don’t move, Sale. We’ll get you down,” replied the spotter. “Hinch? Sale should be north-west of your position.”

  “Be there in a jiffy,” I said without hesitation.

  “You don’t mind?” Derek asked.

  “Not one bit,” I replied. “But if you weren’t on my way to the drop zone, I’d leave your ass.”

  “Ha ha.”

  The wind howled through the valley as I jogged along, which swirled the smoke horizontally across the terrain and gave the forest a grim, hazy feel. Even so, it wasn’t hard to find Derek Sale. The shrill sound of an emergency whistle pierced the air as I drew near, leading me right to him. He was hanging thirty feet off the ground, his parachute tangled in a towering Ponderosa Pine. The wind shifted, causing the smoke to swirl and obscure my view until all I could see were his boots floating in the air.

  “Having fun up there?” I called.

  “Loads of fun,” he called down. “But I’d rather join the party…”

  “You’re about thirty feet up. Sit tight and try not to shake yourself loose.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I dropped my PG bag on the ground, removed the pocket knife, and began climbing the tree. Sap clung to my gloves as I went higher, but I moved with a quickness that came from weeks of recent practice. I kept climbing until I was higher than he was, up in the branches where his chute was stuck.

  “We’re gonna try a controlled fall,” I said after surveying the scene. “I’ll cut one chute line at a time, which should hopefully drop you far enough to cut yourself loose safely.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I removed my knife and reached up to cut the first line. I kept my knife sharp, and it cut through on a single slash. Branches cracked and shifted with Derek’s weight as he dropped toward the ground. I winced, but he didn’t fall all the way; when it all settled out he was only halfway down.

  “Hope you didn’t piss your pants,” I called.

  “Nope, still dry,” he said with a nervous laugh.

  “Cutting another one, then.”

  The next line I cut dropped him so far I thought he would slam into the forest floor. His weight bounced up and down, but I never heard him hit the ground.

  “A little bit of pee might’ve come out that time,” he called up to me. “But I’m low enough now.”

  I climbed down and joined him below. He was still three feet off the ground, and trying to trigger the release on his harness, which was still jammed. I wrapped my arms around his legs and lifted, which took the pressure of his body weight off the harness. Then he was able to unclip himself, and I lowered him to the ground.

  He pulled off his protective helmet and let it fall to the forest floor. Derek was your typical all-American boy next door, with a strong jaw and perfect muscular body. His blond hair was matted to his head with sweat, and his blue eyes glistened in the night.

  “Thanks for not copping a feel while I was vulnerable,” he said with a disarming smile. “If roles were reversed…”

  I smiled back at him. “And that’s why women are the superior sex.”

  I had a good relationship with most of the guys. They talked shit, and I talked it right back. The kind of light ribbing that formed long-term bonds. And Derek and I had a better working relationship than most. There was a smile in his jokes and teasing that hinted at something deeper. Some flirting mixed in that might’ve held a note of truth.

  No time to think about that right now.

  He nodded as if conceding a point in an imaginary debate. “Let’s get moving. It’s going to be a long night, and I sure as hell don’t want to fail our final exam.”

  “They won’t fail us for being late to the anchor point. They dropped us in the trees on purpose, as part of the test.”

  “Still. I don’t want points deducted on our score.”

  “Not going to disagree with you there.”

  Into the smoke-filled forest we ran to complete our final smokejumping school test.

  2

  Haley

  The primary strategy of a smokejumper was indirect firefighting. Removing a fire’s fuel so that it couldn’t advance. That involved cutting handlines in the forest, which were long roads where all potential fuel—trees, shrubs, and undergrowth—had been removed. The handline points were strategically chosen by the spotters up in the planes, since they had a wider view of what was happening. The fire would burn all the way to the handline, run out of fuel, then peter out.

  Derek and I met up with the rest of our jumper trainees at the anchor point, which was a small bend in a river. We always started our handline at an anchor point. That meant that as the fire burned, we had a safe place to retreat to, so it couldn’t sweep around and cut us off. That was the cardinal rule of fighting wildfires: don’t let yourself get encircled. Encirclement meant death.

  We helped unload the gear from the crates, then got to work while the team leads shouted out commands.

  There were three primary jobs to creating a handline. A cutter used chainsaws or handsaws to remove saplings and trees from the prospective handline. Then a sweeper came behind them with a McLeod—a rake-like tool—to sweep away all pine needles, leaves, and small twigs. Finally a stirrer came through with a Pulaski, which was a specialized tool with an ax blade on one side, and an adze on the other. The stirrer tilled the earth, revealing the mineral soil underneath the surface. Stirring it up so that the cool, moist soil was mixed up with ev
erything else.

  A typical job took hours. Sometimes even days. Smokejumpers usually jumped with a forty-eight hour supply of food, water, and fuel, and had to rotate in and out to rest.

  I put my head down and focused on digging my Pulaski into the ground. One stroke at a time. The hum of an aircraft engine passed high overhead, just loud enough to hear over the sound of the chainsaws and other tools. The spotters watching our work and monitoring the fire—even though it was a controlled fire in this case.

  We took short breaks to hydrate and wolf down energy bars, but otherwise we worked non-stop. My arms burned from the constant tilling of the ground, but I didn’t complain or request to switch jobs. Being the only woman in the smokejumping team meant there was greater scrutiny in my abilities. Not only did I have to perform as well as the men, but I had to appear that I was performing as well as them. Anything less was unacceptable.

  The headlamp on our helmets gave us ghastly white cones of vision in the forest, with smoke drifting through every time the wind changed. The smell was acrid and felt like danger. A constant reminder that the fire was burning in our direction. It was difficult not to feel a little bit of panic. Just at the edge of my awareness, like a visitor standing in the doorway and waiting to enter the room. But I closed the door on it, compartmentalizing it away until it was almost like it was happening to someone else. Not me, Haley Hinch.

  Fear’s the default, I remember Foxy saying. I glanced over my shoulder and caught him looking at me. He made a goofy face at me, which made me laugh in spite of how tired I was. We shared a smile, then returned to our work.

  I was well-conditioned. An hour a day in the gym, and twice that jogging on the trail outside the smokejumping school. I was a machine. The next time we paused for water I popped a caffeine pill, and when the team lead asked how I was doing I told him, “Never better, sir.” I almost meant it, too. Running on adrenaline, smelling the chainsaw fumes and the distant scent of the controlled fire, I felt like I could do this for a week straight.

  Fortunately, we didn’t have to. We steadily progressed through the forest, cutting away trees and undergrowth and tilling the ground. The sun rose in the sky and cast everything in a yellowish haze, but we didn’t stop. We worked for thirteen hours cutting the handline through the forest until we finally reached the far end of the valley, where the forest abruptly gave way to a high outcropping of rock.