More than seventy Mexicans had lost their lives in this season alone in the deployment of airplanes, helicopters, and firefighters. In southeastern Mexico, 250 Mexican firefighters currently were hard at work, along with 550 military personnel and 2,400 volunteers, all battling the out of control fires still burning. Guatemala and Honduras were threatened by similar situations. The San Puebla fire was considered insignificant in comparison.

No doubt, they desperately needed help. She had some of that help on its way. The man in her Cessna had been a firefighter in South Carolina, and had the skills necessary to organize a big crew.

And a big crew was needed. Just a few days ago the fire had been at twenty acres, but it’d escalated since, blooming over three hundred acres now, threatening the village.

“Kick ass,” she said to herself, with a grim smile for the man who was no longer around to see her do exactly that.

“We almost there?”

This from her passenger. Firefighter Griffin Moore had gotten on board casually enough, without a glance at her, though she’d glanced at him. She always glanced at a good-looking man; it was a sheer feminine reaction of healthy hormones.

But in the last few moments, since the change in altitude from San Diego as they climbed over the Barranca del Cobre, sailing through majestic peaks dangerous and remote enough to swallow them up if they wanted to, he’d begun to exhibit signs of nerves.

“We’re about sixty miles out,” she said of the just over five-hundred-mile flight.

“Bumpy ride.”

His voice was low, gravelly. As if he didn’t use it often. And since he spoke to the window, she wasn’t clear on whether he was making an idle observation or complaining.

At least he hadn’t hit on her. It happened, and every time it did, it both surprised and amused her. Most of the time she was so wrapped up in her work she actually forgot she was female. But then some guy, usually a gorgeous one—she’d never understood why the better-looking ones always turned out to be jerks—figured her for a captive audience. Not that she had anything against men in general. Actually, she enjoyed men very much, she just liked to do her own picking. And she was picky.

Bottom line, her life was flying. And unlike Sam, her boss at Hope International—a man who appreciated the finer, more delicate dance of getting women into his bed—she didn’t consider the experts she flew prospective lovers.

When a passenger wouldn’t take no for an answer, she had no problem explaining the basics. One, she was a black belt. And two, she wasn’t afraid to open the passenger door—in the middle of a flight—to assist an annoying passenger off the plane.

That threat alone usually warded off any further advances.