COLE HUDSON FINISHED sweeping the razor across his chin, rinsed the last of the shaving cream from his face and paused to stare into the sliver of a mirror someone had hung above the outdoor sinks at the Flathead, Montana, base camp.

"We made it through a day without the fire getting the better of us," Jackson, the supervisor of the wildland fire-fighters known as the Silver Bend Hot Shots, announced beside him. "I think that calls for a beer, don't you?"

"And a thick, juicy steak," Logan seconded, shoving his shaving kit into his pack, pausing to look at the plastic-encased picture of his family dangling from the strap.

Cole hesitated. It had been a tough few weeks in the Flathead Mountains of Montana. The beast had toyed with the crews on a daily basis and finally overrun them with near deadly consequences two days ago. Cole's best friend, Aiden, better known as Spider in Hot Shot circles, had nearly lost his dad in the flash fire. Spider now sat vigil at a hospital in Missoula waiting for his father's recovery.

"I heard they were serving steak tonight, too."

Jackson dried his hands with a towel, lingering over his wedding band.

"But not beer," Logan lamented. Alcohol wasn't allowed in fire camps. "Let's get into the chow line before they run out of beef. If I lose any more weight this season, Thea will kill me."

Cole knew exactly what Logan meant. After six months away from home, the entire crew was pretty lean. Thanks to the demanding physical labor and the fight against dehydration, they didn't carry much fat.

"Just another day or so," Cole murmured. They'd served their time, and the Forest Service would have to decide if they would