Yellowstone Memories (29 page)

“What?” He could hardly breathe over the rush of emotion.

“Come home. To Kentucky.” Lia let out her breath. “You’re welcome there.”

The words stunned him, jolting his brain more than the first twinges of numbed flesh warming in water. “Home?” he repeated stupidly, gently sandwiching her hand between his. Picturing what Margaret must look like after a year and a half—dear Margaret—and Beanie. How big Beanie must be now. Lanky and skinny like Frankie White but with shy eyes. Practically a teenager probably.

Justin had pictured that long dirt road that led to the farm a thousand times in his sleep, never once believing he’d see it again. The aching hole in his heart throbbed each time he remembered, trying to harden itself to force out the memories.

“I’d think about it,” he said, more gruffly than he intended, “for you.”

The horn blared again, and Lia jumped, turning to the window.

Justin wanted to pull her back, to tell her to forget the car and Jackson and stay. But that was nonsense. What would she do at a CCC camp of two hundred guys? And besides, Mr. Parker needed medical treatment, and fast. He’d suffered enough already.

Instead Justin kissed her fingertips one last time, trying to cling to their softness as long as possible. But he had to let her go. As he’d trusted God with his life, he’d trust Him with Lia as well. He slowly released her hand, letting one finger slip free at a time.

The cot squeaked as Lia stood up, careful not to jar her ankle, and she reached for her crutch. Justin wished he could help her—carry her even—but there he sat, a broken-up wretch who could do no more than watch her leave.

She leaned closer, catching him in a shy hug with her free arm. One side of her curls pressing against his cheek, intoxicating him with their fragrance. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she whispered, her voice close to his ear as she raised her head. And then she stood up, leaning on her crutch, and turned toward the door.

Justin couldn’t say a word. Couldn’t trust himself to speak.

The doc pushed the door open with a gentle squeak as she eased her way through the cots. “Lia Summers?” he said, holding the door wider. “They’re calling for you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m coming.” Lia wiped her nose with a handkerchief and turned to slip through the door then stopped, digging for something in her pocket. “I almost forgot.” She reached a cloth bundle toward Justin. “It’s for you.”

Justin strained to reach it, his fingers catching on a rectangle of familiar faded blue. The color of his CCC bandanna. Something hard and flat tucked inside.

When he unwrapped the rectangle, there it lay: Lia’s precious photo of Reverend Summers. His smile wide and beaming, as if seeing straight into Justin’s heart. And there in the corner, the note he’d written in black ink. A Bible verse.
“For charity shall cover the multitude of sins.”

“I can’t take this.” Justin spoke in a whisper, holding it out.

“Please.” Lia gently pushed it back. “I had fifteen years with him. My best memories are inside. I’ll never forget him.”

He blinked back tears. “Then take this.” He offered his bandanna.

Lia reached out and took it, her fingers trembling. And instead of putting it in her pocket, she pressed it to her heart. Giving him one last glance over her shoulder as the doctor helped her through the door, offering his arm to lean on.

Justin watched the car until he could see it no more, leaning out the window of the infirmary. Dust rising up in a soft haze and burning his eyes the same way it had so many years ago when he counted the miles away from Kentucky.

And from Lia.

Never looking back.

To my father, Larry Rogers, who taught me to love the west.

1988

W
hat? You’re joking.” Alicia forced her eyes open in the darkness of her bedroom, the dispatch guy’s gravelly voice blaring into her ear from her pager. “What time is it, three in the morning?” She fumbled on her dented thrift-store nightstand for her clock radio.

“Yellowstone’s burning out of control.” Paco’s voice came crisp and strident across the line. “We need the whole fire crew at the bus station in two hours, and we’ll ship out to Albuquerque pronto. After that we’ve got a chartered flight to Jackson Hole. They want you guys there yesterday.”

“Caramba,”
Alicia muttered as snatches of CBS news footage of blackened, smoldering hillsides flashed through her leaden brain. “Thanks, Paco. I’ll be there.”

She switched off the pager and sat there in a sleepy lethargy.
Call Carlita
. But before she could dial, the phone rang.

“Carlita?” She untangled the phone cord as she crawled out of bed. “You going, too?”

“To Yellowstone? Of course. They’re calling out pretty much every firefighter in the country.”

“How did I miss this?” Alicia ran a hand through her sleep-messy hair. “Is it really that bad?”

“Bad? It’s torched. They’re worried they might lose the whole park. Don’t you watch the news?”

“While I’m rolling silverware at the restaurant.” Alicia wiped sleep-teary eyes, stumbling over cheap pink jelly shoes and canvas Keds sneakers, and pulled the striped bedsheets up by rote. Her yard-sale pillowcases didn’t match; one boasted a guitar with a British flag, and Care Bears slid across a rainbow on the other.

“I work 24/7, Carlita. I haven’t watched
MacGyver
in a year. What’s a TV? And my car radio’s broken, too.” Alicia held the phone under her as she tugged up the thin blanket. “But of course Yellowstone’s torched. They don’t put fires out in national parks, thanks to their famous ‘let it burn’ policy.”

“It’s big this time, Alicia. The place was as dry as a matchstick with the first fires burned, and now the smoke’s showing up as far away as Oklahoma and Texas—and nothing’s bringing it down. The Park Service shut down the park altogether except for authorized personnel.”

“I had no idea. I figured it would burn itself out after a while.”

“There are
eight thousand
firefighters on the ground there now—and it’s still out of control. A week ago winds blew fire across a hundred and fifty thousand acres in a single day. If they don’t put it out fast, there might not be any park left. It’s that bad.”

Alicia stood up quickly, nearly pulling the phone off the bedside table. “You mean it’s threatening Old Faithful? I’ve always wanted to see Yellowstone.” She untangled the cord and pushed the phone back in place. “One of my foster dads swore his grandfather’s brother—a lieutenant in the army—had a treasure map of Gallatin Mountain that some kid found back in the ‘30s. Something about hidden gold. My foster dad thought it was the real thing, but it’s not like you can take a shovel and dig up a national park.”

“I don’t know about any gold, but I can’t guarantee Old Faithful will be left in a few more days.”

Alicia coughed, trying to rid her throat of that sleepy film that made her voice croak like one of the frogs she sometimes found on her rickety balcony. “Well, all right,
amiga
. I’ll be at the bus station in two hours,
bueno
?”

“See ya there.”

Streetlights flickered in honey-colored sparkles through the threadbare spots in her curtains as Alicia hung up the phone.
Two hours. Yeah. I can do that
. Her eyelids still felt heavy, but adrenaline coursed in tingling waves.

Alicia knew the firefighter drill by memory: pour instant Folgers coffee into her Star Wars mug, dig past rolled-ankle jeans, paint-splatter tops, and stirrup pants for her olive green denims and pull on her bulky yellow Nomex fire shirt. All of this she could do without opening her eyes, but then she needed light to pack her overnight bag and feed her fish.

Yes, fish. Serving on a fire crew didn’t offer enough time for Alicia to deal with a dog or even a cat. After all, what kennel would open at Godforsaken hours of the early morning on twenty minutes’ notice, even in downtown Santa Fe?

Thankfully, discount store betta fish could survive in Alicia’s secondhand aquarium and chipped fish bowl for three weeks, so long as she remembered to slide the note and key under Mrs. Miklos’s door on her way out.

Only once she’d forgotten. And even then, both bettas blinked insipidly at her from their tanks when she unlocked the door, her dingy red backpack slung over one shoulder and hair still reeking of smoke and dollar-store travel shampoo.

“Be good for Mrs. Miklos, okay?” Alicia shook some fish food into the top of the tank. “And I’ll bring you a souvenir.”

Right. A souvenir from Yellowstone. What, a snow globe or something? If the tourist lodge hadn’t burst into flames, that is.

Alicia snapped the aquarium door shut and flipped on the lamp, squinting in the glare. Red Dog lace-up boots, since she couldn’t afford the snazzy Whites? Check. Fire pack with the mandatory Fire Line Handbook? Ready to go. Hard hat? On a broken peg by the door.

She flipped on the radio to wake herself up and hummed along to Tiffany on the Spanish-language Santa Fe station as she sipped her coffee. A handful of Corn Pops straight from the box and that would have to be enough until crew breakfast.

The harsh bathroom light made Alicia’s eyes water as she pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Her perm had grown out a long time ago, and her messy bangs left something to be desired—flat and lifeless—so a little finger-fluff and mist of Aqua Net hairspray in lieu of her ancient curling iron. Some ugly fake gold hoop earrings from K-Mart. A touch of eyeliner, maybe, but between her black eyelashes and her sleepless dark circles, she’d better go easy with the eye pencil.

Alicia nudged open the bathroom drawer—the one without a handle—and grabbed the tube of Crest then reached for her blue toothbrush. Grabbing her former boyfriend Miguel’s old red one by mistake.

Miguel
. She froze, remembering his slurred, drunken shouts as she’d shoved him out of the apartment, pushing the rickety dead bolt and chain shut and throwing herself against the door.

“I know you have it!” Miguel had hollered, his speech slurred. “Where did you hide it?”

He’d pounded so loudly that Mrs. Miklos threatened to call the police, and when Miguel cursed her, Mr. Miklos stormed into the hallway with a sawed-off shotgun.

After that Miguel hadn’t shown up again—at least publicly. But she’d seen his battered Ford pickup trailing her after she left her job at Little India restaurant, and after that she bought her first Smith & Wesson Model 36 and kept it zipped in her purse.

Alicia tossed Miguel’s toothbrush forcefully in the trash.
Good riddance
.

Three thirty-six. Alicia glanced at the clock and strapped on her Coca-Cola coupon watch, her toothbrush dripping pale blue foam, and caught a glimpse of herself in the broken mirror, the bright yellow of her Nomex shirt making her tired eyes ache.
I look like a freaking canary. And a newbie at that
. She fixed her top button, wishing she had her old shirt back—the faded, salty-looking pale yellow one that had lost its hue to ruthless ash and smoke and harsh detergents. But at least it testified to her five years of fighting fires with the US Forest Service with the rest of her Mexican American crew. Or it had, until she ripped it nearly in half on an old, abandoned fence line in the woods near Los Alamos.

And fat. Ugh. Have I always been such a porker?
Alicia turned sideways, smoothing her collar. Maybe working on the fire line would help her burn off some of the weight hanging on her hips.

Alicia rinsed out her toothbrush and strode out of the bathroom in disgust, flipping the flickering light off behind her. Just one more thing.

She scooted the old floor lamp out of the way and knelt by a patch of worn carpet, carefully peeling it up with the edge of a credit card to expose scuffed wooden boards. The crack between two boards lay in a thick and dusty line, slightly wider than the others, and she pried them apart.

It was there. Alicia passed her hand over the little glass jar she’d wedged in the opening, sagging in relief. If anything happened now, she was safe. Even Miguel wouldn’t think to look here if he broke into her apartment.

Alicia pressed the boards back into place and smoothed the carpet then replaced the lamp and stood up. The sky outside the window had lightened, spreading gray-blue over the darkened streets. White and copper streetlights glowed back in pale spots.

Time to go. Alicia glanced at the digits on her watch and grabbed her red fire jacket. Her boots made a reassuring clomping sound on the carpet as she paused by the fish tank.

“Looks like this is it, fellas,” she said, gathering up her keys and pack and giving the glass a fond pat. “Don’t give Mrs. Miklos any trouble, you hear? I’ll be back soon.” She traced the glass with a bitten fingernail, suddenly sober. “And if I don’t come back, you’ll get along fine with Mrs. Miklos. Just remind her to buy Sparky brand fish food. That other stuff she buys smells like dead flies.”

Alicia slid her arm through her backpack strap. “Come to think of it, it probably
is
dead flies. But don’t tell her I said that.”