Summer of Fire (24 page)

“I’ll help you start more tracts this week,” Steve said. “I’m off the mountain.”

Thinking of getting another drink, he went on, “Beer, Moru?”

“A cola, please. I must drive this evening.”

“How’s that?”

“Dugan heard you’d pulled into town and assigned me to drive you back to Mount Washburn,” Moru said. “Tonight.”

As night fell, Clare parked her rental car in front of the Smokejumper’s dorm in West Yellowstone. The wind still blew, seizing trash from the catering barrels and transforming the papers into darting white birds.

In the dorm’s dining room, Hudson read a dog-eared paperback while he ate. Every square inch of his cast sported a riot of signatures and humorous obscenities, along with a drawing of the Beechcraft discharging jumpers. Sherry’s chili had so many crumbled crackers in it that the mix was unrecognizable.

She pointed to the pot with her spoon. “Randy’s leftover masterpiece. Had to make a run yesterday before getting any.”

Clare helped herself to the fragrant mix of meat, onions, and spice and straddled the bench, just as Deering appeared in the doorway. To his credit, his languid pose straightened when he saw her. While he greeted the others, she used the excuse of being ravenous to shovel food without ceremony.

“Cowboy chili?” Deering sounded friendly, but his lips pressed his cigarette and his eyes suggested Clare could bitch him out later.

“No beans,” Sherry said. “You a purist?”

“Beans or no, I’m hungry enough to eat that whole pot.” Deering looked around the table. “And thirsty enough to drink a beer. Forecast says we’ll be grounded again in the morning. Any takers?”

“I’m in,” Sherry agreed. “Hudson’ll come. Clare?”

Deering had his back to her at the stove, but his shoulders stiffened while she pondered her reply.

“All right,” she agreed. “What else have I got to do?”

Deering turned, bowl in hand, and his tight look said she’d hit the mark.

Fifteen minutes later, the headlights of his pickup illuminated a haze on the highway into West Yellowstone. Clare rode in the center front, pressed between the impersonal bulk of Hudson and the taut tension of Deering.

“That smoke looks like blowing snow,” Sherry said from the jumpseat in back.

“I wish.” Hudson peered past his propped-up leg.

In West Yellowstone, traffic was backed at every stoplight. In addition to the usual Saturday night in town crowd, there were hundreds of firefighters and tourists. Deering passed the Red Wolf Saloon, and on the second pass around the block, a camper backed out in front of Fire Command.

While Deering helped Hudson, Clare climbed out the driver’s side. She looked at the tall, lighted windows in the massive stone and log building. “I’ll be along later.”

Deering caught up with her halfway across the lawn. His touch found her shoulder.

“Don’t.”

He removed his hand, but stayed close at her heels. “We’ve gotta talk.”

She went inside the big raftered room with a moosehead over the fireplace. Folding chairs were set up in rows, but there was no one there. From beyond the swinging doors that led into the main command center came a hum of voices. Clare pushed through, and found phones ringing and people talking on radios at nine o’clock at night.

At the fire map, a bearded older man sketched an extension to the North Fork. His marker blackened past the Grand Loop Road and Norris Geyser Basin. As Clare looked at the small patch that represented the Chance fire, several miles southwest of Clover-Mist, the marker slashed across the plastic overlay. Today Lovely and Chance had burned into Clover-Mist. The dark mass obliterated the entire eastern sector of the park.

As a firefighter, she gritted her teeth at so much destruction.

Garrett came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a stack of Fig Newtons. “Share my supper?”

“What in hell happened out there today?” Clare asked. “We couldn’t fight fires, we couldn’t find a road open.”

“We couldn’t fly,” Deering added.

Garrett shook his head. “Yesterday the total for all the fires was two hundred seventy-five thousand acres. Soon we’ll be staring at half a million.”

Clare whistled.

“The wind hasn’t died down like it usually does at night,” Garrett continued. “I’m getting reports from all over of crown fires running. The Superintendent’s meeting up at Mammoth to decide whether or not to close the park.”

“That would be a shame for folks like the Cullens who own the Red Wolf,” Clare said.

“We’ll be calling in reinforcements, a couple dozen more twenty-person crews. And more soldiers for you and Sergeant Travis to carp at.” Garrett smiled.

“Marvelous.”

“When’s it gonna end?” Deering looked at the map.

“There’s no hope of stopping this,” Garrett drawled. “We’ll try to save the buildings and power lines, but until the snows fly, this is gonna be like the Siege of Atlanta.”

“How’s that?” Clare tried to recall her Civil War history.

“Fight and fall back. These fires aren’t going to stop until the rain and snow put them out.”

When Deering and Clare were back outside, he turned to her. “We can join Sherry and Hudson for a drink . . .”

“But?”

“I’d like to try again with you.”

She kept moving.

Deering stepped in front of her, so close that she could smell a mixture of soap, citrus aftershave, and tobacco. “I know I lied. It seemed like the only way.”

She sidestepped and walked on.

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

At the raw sound of his voice, she stopped.

He took the back of her arm in a gentle grip. “Is that what you want to hear? I was wrong to set you up like that. I only did it because I thought we’d be good together.”

She considered his plea, weighing how angry she’d been against how many times she’d relived those hasty, hot moments at Mink Creek. Without committing to anything, she walked with Deering in the street beside the vehicles of weekend revelers who’d had to park away from the watering holes. As the lights of the town center receded, his hand on her arm was warm like it had been when they’d watched the Mink Creek burning Turret Mountain.

“This is where Karrabotsos lives.” Deering motioned to a house she had passed the day she and Sergeant Travis had found the migrant camp. She recognized the snowmobile parked on the front porch.

“Did you plan this, too?”

“You’re the one who starting walking down this street.”

She sighed, “So I did.”

“Come inside.”

She ought to go back to the Red Wolf and have a drink with Hudson and Sherry, but the reddish glow in the sky reminded her of the filtered light in the tent at the spike camp. She’d thought of it, ten times, a hundred, at odd hours of the day and night . . . most often when she lay in her narrow twin bed at Old Faithful and argued the pros and cons of finishing what they had started.

“Please.” Deering circled his fingers on the sensitive flesh on the back of her arm.

He wasn’t perfect and neither was she.

With a key from beneath a flowerpot, Deering unlocked the front door. Inside, he disappeared into blackness until a faint glow shone at the end of hall. “Beer?”

“Sure.”

The refrigerator shut. Bootheels sounded on hardwood. Halfway up the hall, Deering snapped on a light in a side room, turning him into a tall silhouette.

The can he pressed into her hand was cold and wet. She took a huge swallow.

“Come down here.” Deering led her toward the light.

They would talk now. Had he always wanted to fly? Was he a bad boy in third grade? Did he ever get a puppy for Christmas?

Clare stopped in the doorway. Against the paneled wall was a single bed as narrow and lonely as hers at Old Faithful. Deering set his beer on a chest of drawers, took hers and placed it beside his. He stepped closer and tilted her chin up toward him.

It was going too fast, like last time. All she really knew about Deering was that he loved to fly, a daredevil to some, or fool, if you listened to Steve Haywood.

“Wait.” She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “We need to talk.”

He covered her hand with his, pressing her fingers. “For Christ’s sake, you wanted it as much as I did.”

It still grated that he’d lied.

Deering dipped his head, a move to kiss her. His breath smelled of smoke and beer.

Clare blocked him with her forearm. It was more than just the night at Mink Creek. This evening it rankled that instead of buying her a decent margarita, he’d snagged a beer from the fridge and tried to lay her down before she’d had two sips. Granted, she was out of practice, but she had an idea of how she wanted to feel.

She tried to gather the shreds of her thoughts. “It’s just that . . . “

Deering backed away and stared at her. “We’re working eighteen hour days. I’m based in West Yellowstone and you’re staying at Old Faithful.” He waved a frustrated hand. “We’ve gotta take advantage of the chances we get.”

Clare went cold inside. “I get it. You’re saying ‘let’s hop in the sack’ and I’m supposed to say, ‘Great, I have an hour free on Tuesday’.”

She went down the hall, past Karrabotsos’s snowmobile, and into the night.

YELLOWSTONE FIRES

August 22, 8:00 a.m.

Here is a list of the fires and approximate perimeter acreages. To date, about 354,470 acres have been affected by fire. However, only about half of the vegetation has burned within many fire perimeters. Throughout the summer, 50 different fires have been started by lightning. Of those 50, seven are still burning inside the park. Fire fighters are working to control them. Any new fires will be suppressed as quickly as possible.

Clover-Mist Fire:
156,502 acres. Mist Fire started July 9. Clover started July 11. They joined on July 22. Shallow Fire started July 31. Fern Fire started August 5. These two fires joined Clover-Mist August 13. Lovely Fire started July 11 and burned into Clover-Mist on August 21. Crews attacking hot spots on northeast flank. Fire trucks and crews in Silver Gate and Cooke City as a precaution. Pebble Creek Campground is currently closed and is being used as a firefighter camp. Regular U.S. Army troops arriving today to give civilian fire fighters a break. Fire contained at Thunderer, Amphitheater, and on Republic Pass.

Falls Fire:
3,738 acres. Started July 12. Fire within ½ mile of South Entrance Road.

Fan Fire:
22,020 acres. Started June 25. Islands of unburned vegetation continue burning within perimeter. 70% contained by a fire line.

Hellroaring Fire:
33,000 acres. Started August 15. Outside the park, burning to the northeast.

Lava Fire:
Started July 5. Contained but began smoking after high winds on August 21. A few fire fighters have gone in to cool it off.

Mink Creek Fire:
21,036 acres in Yellowstone. Started July 11 outside the park in Teton Wilderness. Burning to the northeast into the Shoshone National Forest.

North Fork Fire:
91,700 acres. Started July 22 by human. Now has two fronts: one north of Norris, the other along Canyon-Norris Road. Norris and Madison campgrounds closed and in use as fire camps.

Red-Shoshone Fire:
58,744 acres. Red Fire started July 1. Shoshone Fire started June 23. Joined August 10. High winds caused flare-ups around Grant Village and West Thumb that led to evacuation of Grant Village on August 21.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

September 3

"What’s your crystal ball say now?” Clare asked Garrett through a mouthful of Fig Newton. On her first day off in two weeks, she’d stopped by Fire Command to look at the full-sized quadrangle maps used for daily press conferences. Since Black Saturday, over two hundred thousand acres had burned inside Yellowstone.

Garrett set down his coffee and slid a hip onto a metal desk. “The moisture content measured in large logs continued to drop through the month of August, now hovering in the seven-percent range. Grasses and small twigs are at two percent. You just look at this fuel wrong and it blows up in your face.”

The description made Clare think of Devon, whose eighteenth birthday was exactly one month away. It had been just that amount of time since the day she’d listened to the fire behavior experts’ obsolete predictions. Although trying to second-guess her daughter by long distance was as futile an effort, she wondered aloud, “Seriously, Garrett. It’s September now. When do you think this will break?”

He shrugged with the weariness of battle fatigue and looked out the south windows toward the nearest advance of the North Fork toward town. “Your nightmare is as good as mine.”

She hadn’t told him about Frank or her bad dreams. She didn’t plan to.

As she turned to leave, thinking of visiting the Smokejumpers, Garrett detained her. Rummaging on his desk, he produced a pink slip. “While you were out screwing off . . .” He chuckled.