style="font-size:15px;"> Jake stretched back as best he could in the narrow lawn chair, listening to the sultry tones of the saxophone drift out from the speaker and up into the night sky. It was late, too late, and he needed to be up early in the morning, but he wasn’t sleepy. He’d gotten caught up in the music and the stories from callers who had phoned into the late-night radio program, caught up in the soft, velvety voice of Dear Jane.
Of course, if anyone were ever to ask, he would deny it to the death that he was part of the legion of listeners across the country who tuned in to the popular call-in program. After all, real men didn’t listen to programs called “Lost Loves.” They went for things like sports and hard-core news. But when you live alone at the top of a mountain, the nights get to be long, and the low, sultry voice of Jane Streeter helped fill the hours.
A tiny flicker of light glimmered suddenly out of the blackness from the far side of the canyon below. Jake sat up, automatically reaching for his binoculars. No flame, no fire, nothing to get excited about, but he would check it out anyway.
He focused the high-powered lens on the tiny spot of light. Just the pale beam from the headlights of a lone vehicle on the narrow mountain road. Too late for campers to be out. Besides, it was off-season. The campground wasn’t set to open for another six weeks yet. More likely one of the handful of locals who lived year-round in the tiny fishing village of Vega Flats, which was three thousand feet and fifteen very rugged miles below his mountaintop perch. It was probably Mac making his way back to his cabin on the ridge after closing up the tavern in town, or maybe Ruby from the bait shop, out looking for night crawlers or tracking down one of her stray colts from the small herd of free-roaming horses she raised.
Jake followed the headlights’ slow progression along the winding mountain pass until they became lost in the dense overgrowth and disappeared. He had planned to swing by the Flats tomorrow to pick up his mail while he was out checking a report of a mudslide along the trailhead leading up the east ridge. He would give that stretch of road a look just to make sure whoever was down there had gotten to where they were going okay. The narrow gravel pass was treacherous in broad daylight; in the dead of night it could be a killer.
“We’re back and we’ve got Miss Priss from Mississippi. What do you say to Sad Sally?”
“Jane, I’ve only got one thing to say to Sally and that’s good riddance to bad rubbish. Let’s hope she’s seen the last of him.”
The loud click on the line had a laugh coming from Dear Jane.
“Okay, Miss Priss, thank you for that. Rita in Rialto, what’s your advice for Sally? What’s a girl to do when her man takes off with her neighbor and her four-wheel drive?”
“Well I’m with you, Jane. Sally honey, if my man did that to me, he’d be doing some serious talking to the business end of my Colt .45.”
“Colt .45, ouch!” Jake laughed, dropping the binoculars to his lap.
“Whoa, Rita, gunplay, that’s a little harsh, isn’t it? After all, isn’t all fair in love and war?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t shoot him, honey, just put the fear of God into him. And if that didn’t work, I’ve got a friend over in San Bernardino who could turn that dude into a dudette.”
Jake laughed again and shook his head. “They grow them mean in Rialto.”
“Well okay, Rita in Rialto, thanks for the call. Let’s go to Harry, calling in from the East Coast. Harry, what’s the word?”
“I think you’re right, Jane. There are a lot of good men out there, Sally. Forget that creep. You’re better than that and don’t let yourself be disrespected like that again.”
“Sage advice, Harry, thanks for tuning in. Now here’s a sad story from the Pacific Northwest. This is Tim from Tacoma. You’re on, Tim. Talk to me.”
Jake leaned back in the chair again and listened as the story unfolded. He stretched out his long legs, hooking his knees over the edge of the deck’s railing. It had been a mild winter and spring had come early. But despite the clement days of early March, midnight on the mountaintop was always cold, and sitting on the deck, which encircled the lookout tower’s dome, it was even colder. Snow still dusted the ground in a few spots and the thermometer hanging on the post beside the sliding door read thirty-six degrees.
He pulled his Gortex jacket around him tightly and reached for the glass of wine on the small metal table beside the chair. He didn’t mind the cold, but even if he had he wouldn’t have gone inside. The midnight sky was brilliant with a million stars and worth risking cold ears and a red nose.
He drained the glass, feeling the alcohol warm a path down his throat, and listened while Dear Jane talked with the caller on the line. There wasn’t another sound on the mountain and her voice drifted out into the darkness like the wind through the redwoods. He’d been first drawn to “Lost Loves” by the jazz, an eclectic mix of new and classic pieces, but it wasn’t long before he found himself listening to the rest of the show—in particular to Dear Jane herself.
Jake wasn’t one for talk radio and normally wouldn’t have much patience for the sad stories phoned in by listeners. But there was something in the way Dear Jane responded to her callers, something so practical, so down-to-earth and rooted in common sense that he could appreciate. She seemed genuine, real, and she refrained from the usual antics of the media to stir up controversy or feign concern in an attempt to promote ratings. It was her manner, her comments, her sense of humor that had him tuning in night after night—well, that and her sexy voice.
“So that winds down another one for tonight. Don’t forget to tune in tomorrow and catch the irrepressible Sly Fox, who will be sitting in for me for the next few days while yours truly takes a little R&R away from heartache.”
“Who broke your heart, Jane?” Jake asked, gathering up the glass and binoculars and slowly rising to his feet.
“But I’ll be back on Monday night with the best in jazz and worst in love. In the meantime, you’re in good hands with Sly Fox.”
“But Sly Fox is no Dear Jane,” Jake commented. The substitute host had filled in for Jane Streeter on several occasions in the six months he’d been listening and Jake would inevitably find himself losing interest in those broadcasts. But he didn’t mind this time. With Ted’s wedding, he wasn’t going to be able to catch the program for the next few nights anyway.
The reminder that all too soon he would be heading down the mountain and returning to Los Angeles again had a mixture of emotions broiling up inside and he suddenly felt cold—the kind of cold that had nothing to do with the brisk night air. The sturdy Gortex could protect him from the elements but it didn’t stand a chance against the dread that pushed itself up from the past.
“And don’t forget, love may be a many-splendored thing, but when it’s over, we’ll be here waiting. This is Dear Jane—Jane Streeter—and you’ve been listening to ‘Lost Loves’. Until next time, dream, hope and love until it hurts. Good night.”
Jake took one last glance across the sky, but like his disturbing sense of dread, the wind had kicked up, whistling through the trees and dropping the temperature another few degrees. He reached up, switching off the small outside speaker mounted on the wall, and pushed the sliding glass door open. The blast of warm air that greeted him from inside the tower felt delicious and inviting, causing him to shiver again.
Ranger Station and Fire Watch LP6, with its solid
