Summer of Fire (31 page)

Georgia’s rage made her forget being chilled and sick. She sat up, wiping cold sweat from her face with her terry sleeve.

A faint ‘whop whop’ came to her.

Deering often came home by chopper, landing at the local heliport near the high school across the road.

She remained on the ground, feeling dew seep though her robe. The helipad was also used for medical emergencies and by other businesses.

The chopper’s sound grew louder.

Reluctantly, she pushed to her feet and walked around the side of the house. Once she got past the area where she’d watered, the dry grass felt sharp on her bare soles.

The helicopter came in low across the football field, olive drab with that same military look as the one in the newspaper photo. There was something else as well; some indefinable nuance in the approach angle that said her husband had come home.

Deering started shutting down. Karrabotsos had sounded surprised when he had radioed for permission to fly to Lava Hot Springs, but had let him go, muttering something about taking better care of that little red-haired gal.

That made no sense for Karrabotsos had never met Georgia.

How simple it had seemed when Clare challenged him. She’d managed to cut through all the bullshit. He did love his wife, had always loved her. No matter how he pretended nonchalance, crashing his helicopter had shaken him to the core. When Georgia hadn’t been there for him, he’d turned to the first available woman, the same kind of daredevil behavior he exhibited in the air.

As the rotors wound down, Deering felt the reluctance that had kept him from calling home these past weeks. Before he stepped down, he reached to the left seat and gathered up a florist’s box. In the breast pocket of his flight suit rested a velvet jewel case. This morning when he’d dropped Clare off he’d hitched a ride into the town of Jackson.

With a slam of the Huey’s door, he started across the grass. Before he’d gone ten steps, he saw Georgia at the edge of their yard, inside the low, wrought iron fence. Her white terry bathrobe was belted around her, that glorious copper hair curling over her shoulders.

Taking a breath of the wonderfully clear air, Deering waved.

Usually she jumped the knee-high gate, rushed across the street to the landing field, and launched herself at his neck. This morning, she stood still at his approach.

Deering came through the gate and proffered the box. He encircled Georgia with his other arm and aimed a kiss. She turned her head and his lips brushed her cheek.

“Flowers?” she asked flatly.

“Yeah, I know how much you like ‘em in the garden . . . “

Her bright head was down and she busied herself with the satin ribbon. The florist had said that long-stemmed red roses were the most romantic statement a man could make. He wished with all his might that he could come home clean instead of with this dirty feeling.

“I’ll put these in water.” Georgia headed for the house and he had no choice but to follow.

“Hon,” he tried. She was already inside the kitchen, rummaging beneath the counter for the vase he’d sent her roses in twenty years ago. Cheap florist’s stock, no blown glass, she’d kept it all these years. He realized, shamefaced, that he’d never repeated the gesture.

Georgia filled the vase, wiped it with a dishtowel and set it on the wooden table. It rocked, reminding him that he’d promised to fix that shaky leg.

She arranged the roses, cutting them to different lengths with a crosswise knife cut. This time of year, she usually had that vase full of blooms from her garden. Her task complete, she said, “I was just going to make myself some tea.” She sounded as though he were a guest in his own kitchen.

“Tea sounds good.”

Georgia brought out orange pekoe. Deering wondered what had happened to the herb blend she usually liked. With her back to him, she put on the kettle and looked out the window.

He reached to his pocket for the jewel box. Georgia was October born, the opal birthstone, and he’d found a simple gold band set with a glowing bluish-purple cabochon.

He held out the velvet case. Georgia took it.

The teakettle whistled.

She set the case on the counter and removed the pot from the burner. Steam rose from the tea, wafting a sharp aroma. Georgia reached for a cup, stirred and pulled the tea bag onto a saucer. He wondered where his cup was.

“Aren’t you going to . . .?”

She rediscovered the jewel box and slowly opened the lid.

Now, she’d smile and throw her arms around his neck.

Georgia’s mouth twisted. “It’s funny.” She set the case down without removing the ring. “I read in a magazine last week that when your man shows up with flowers and gifts, he’s guilty of something.”

Deering felt as though he stood in a cold draft. “You believe everything you read?” He took her shoulders in his hands. Even through the bulky robe, she felt as though she’d lost some weight.

Georgia backed until the kitchen sink stopped her. “I didn’t have to read about this. Anna convinced me to come up to West Yellowstone and find you. That nice Mr. Karrabotsos let me wait at the airport in the middle of the night until you finally showed up.”

No wonder Karrabotsos knew what Georgia looked like. “So, why didn’t I see you there?”

Georgia reached to one of the roses and plucked off the top. The petals fluttered to the floor. “You didn’t see me, but you sure saw somebody. You put your arms around that woman, the one from the news photo.”

She ripped off the top of another rose and let the petals fall.

Deering felt as though the air were a thick liquid that he swam through. “No.” He couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t be a lie, and he was through lying. Another rose ended up on the floor. “It’s not what you think,” he managed.

Georgia put out a stiff arm and shoved the vase she’d treasured for twenty years, and he’d never realized why until today . . . off the table. It tumbled to the floor, bounced once and smashed.

“Go back to her,” she said. “Fight your damned fires.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

September 5

Within the peaceful town of Jackson, nestled at the base of a butte, it was hard for Clare to believe that war raged on a hundred fronts to the north. She wanted nothing more to do with it.

After she’d told Deering good-bye at the Jackson Hole Airport, she had rented another car, shopped for clothes that weren’t green and yellow Nomex, and checked into a motel. Then she’d walked, window-shopping turquoise jewelry and bronzes, and sat beneath the town square’s antler arches.

Deering had gone to try and make things right with his wife, as it should be. That left things all wrong with Steve. Last night, after they’d talked for hours, she’d almost believed the spell of his Susan was weakening. And if Deering’s call had made him jealous, maybe that was a good sign. She passed a pay phone, but what could she say if she called? Devon would be here within hours.

Thinking of family and watching the tourist stagecoach circling the block reminded her that she wanted to learn about her ancestors. Such ties extended beyond death, like Steve’s to his wife and child. If she didn’t have Jay anymore, she at least had her daughter and the people who’d gone before.

Recalling the Yellowstone historian’s recommendations, she searched out the Jackson Hole Historical Society. It occupied an authentic-looking log building on a quiet side street. When she opened the door, a bell tinkled.

The man who emerged from the rear room might have been a weather-beaten seventy or a well-preserved eighty-five. His ruddy face beamed beneath a shock of silver hair. “Don’t get many folks here.” Filled from floor to ceiling with ancient volumes, the dimly lit cabin was not exactly the average tourist destination.

“Asa Dean.” Her host peered owlishly through glasses and extended an age-spotted hand.

“Clare Chance.”

Some of the books were thick leather-bound tomes with pages edged in gold; others had seen better days. Wildflower books were filed alongside old novels. When she trailed her finger along the edge of a water-stained spine, Asa offered, “A souvenir of the 1927 flood.”

“I’ve not heard of that,” Clare said.

“Back in twenty-five, old Sheep Mountain got tired of holding herself up and slid down into the valley of the Gros Ventre.” Asa’s voice lapsed into the cadence of telling a familiar tale. “Dammed the river and created Slide Lake . . . until the wet spring of twenty-seven. On May eighteenth, the earthen dam let loose and a fifty-foot wall of water wiped out the town of Kelly.”

“Were you here then?”

“I was born in Kelly in ought-seven. Moved to Jackson after the flood.”

“I had some family that lived near the Tetons. My grandfather left for Texas in twenty-seven.”

“Mayhap ‘cause of the flood.” Asa toyed with his suspenders. “Would you like coffee?”

Clare checked her watch. She’d called the airport and been told that Devon’s flight was delayed several hours. “That would be nice.”

“Cream and sugar?” Asa stumped into the room behind the library.

“Just black.” She raised her voice, for she’d noted her host wore a pair of large, old-fashioned hearing aids.

Asa returned. Coagulated lumps of powdered creamer floated in both brimfull Styrofoam cups. “What brings you to Jackson?”

“I’m a firefighter.”

“Whee . . .” Asa set his coffee on a worn antique table, hitched up his pants and sat down. “Many women do that now?”

“Some,” Clare said, then admitted, “not many.”

“We’re hearing they can’t stop those fires. Just plain burning out of control, and all you firefighters do is toast marshmallows.”

By now, she should be used to peoples’ attitude around the park. No matter how skilled the generals and their troops, or how many millions were spent, all they could do was try to keep the fires from damaging life and property.

Clare set her coffee aside. “My family was already in the valley around the turn of the century.”

“Not many folks here then,” Asa said.

“Their name was Sutton.”

Asa nodded. He was silent for so long that Clare wondered if he had heard her. Finally, he said, “Suttons lived out north in what’s now the National Park.”

“My great-grandmother Laura was supposed to have kept a journal. Nobody in the family has it and I wondered if it might have wound up here.”

“We don’t have anything like that,” he answered immediately.

“How can you be sure?” Clare gestured toward thousands of books.

“Been working here since forty-nine. Know every volume on every shelf.”

There were a lot of books, but she figured that in thirty-nine years she could get through them all. “Did you know the Suttons?”

Asa dipped his head. “They sold out to the Snake River Land Company after the flood. Their ranch ended up inside the park, just the way Rockefeller wanted it.”

“What do you mean?”

“John D. Rockefeller, Jr. hated the gas stations, billboards, and cheap tourist camps near Jenny Lake. He decided to buy up all the private land and donate it to the country for a national park.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Clare asked.

Asa scowled. “If you’d been here then, you’d understand. They set up a dummy corporation and kept folks in the dark about what all the buying was for.”

“My family sold out?”

“Yup. After the Gros Ventre flood, people were nervous and took whatever offers they could get. Your folks got taken to the cleaners along with my father.”

“Do you know the way to their place?”

“Ask at Grand Teton Headquarters,” Asa said.

Clare thanked him and headed for the door. She wondered if Devon would show any interest in knowing about the family.

While she killed more time in town before heading for the airport, she felt torn between anticipation at seeing Devon and an ache over what might have been with Steve.

Two hours later, Clare watched as the 737 taxied up to the Jackson Hole Airport. The small terminal squatted on the sage-covered flats beside the startling wall of the Tetons. Smoke hung in the valley, giving a filtered view of the mighty bulwark.

After twenty or so vacationers had picked their way down the stairs to the tarmac, Clare saw Devon. Her unruly hair was more golden than usual; she must have hit the Summer Blonde too hard. Charcoal rimmed her eyes and her cutoffs and tank top were tight. When Devon got to within three feet, Clare smelled gin.

Before she could berate Devon for getting the flight attendant to serve someone underage, a low male voice spoke from behind her. “How about introducing me to your daughter?”

Her two worlds collided.

“Hey, Mom.” Devon tossed off her greeting, and checked Steve out, from his red western shirt and faded jeans down to scuffed leather hiking boots. She raised an inquiring brow that made Clare feel as though she was the one who had some answering to do.