Summer of Fire Part 4

"Starting today, the National Park Service and Forest Service are to coordinate over the park and surrounding areas. They've put me in charge." Garrett rolled his expressive eyes. "But I expect I'll be acting more as referee with those two groups."

Clare had not realized how influential Buddy's friend in wildfire was.

Garrett reached for the door and held it open for her. "I'll show you the latest fire extents map."

Something dark in his tone made her say, "I have a feeling I'm not going to like it."

In the doorway, they stepped aside to make way for two young men carrying a metal desk.

Inside, an empty vaulted room with pine beams ran the width of the building. Their footsteps echoed on the scuffed pine floor that bore the dusty prints of the movers. Garrett led the way through a pair of metal swinging doors that looked out of place in the otherwise rustic room.

A dramatic staircase led down into a larger s.p.a.ce that had once been the main dining room for travelers at Yellowstone's western gateway. Looking at the soaring s.p.a.ce, however, gave Clare the impression of a symphony played by a tone-deaf orchestra. The fireplace had been boarded up, cheap fluorescent fixtures hung from the ceiling, and squares of speckled tan linoleum covered the floor.

More movers shuffled in with furniture. A woman from the phone company clasped cables together with ties.

Garrett rubbed his bald head that bore the sheen of old mahogany and led Clare to a large mounted mosaic of topographic quadrangle maps. Clear plastic overlaid Yellowstone and the area surrounding it, with the extent of the burned areas outlined in black marker.

"The Yellowstone fires have increased tenfold, from eighty-six hundred acres to eighty-seven thousand in the past week." Garrett's thick finger pointed out the largest burn of nearly fifty thousand acres in the unpopulated eastern highlands of the Absaroka Mountains. "The Mist and Clover fires started July ninth and eleventh and burned together on the twenty-second." He moved his hand west. "Our problem now is the North Fork. It's heading for Old Faithful."

She studied the oblong streak that began about ten miles due south of West Yellowstone and stretched in a northeasterly curve.

"Started four days ago," Garrett went on. "Some loggers took a cigarette break in the Targhee National Forest, not three hundred yards from the park boundary. With Old Faithful and Madison in its path, we'll have one h.e.l.luva battle."

"And no rain in sight," she added.

He nodded. "That's the worst news." With a gesture toward the map, he said, "I wanted you to see this. With your background training firefighters, I'll need you to teach the military that will be brought in."

She'd suspected when she left Texas that her instructor experience might be brought into play. Now that she'd seen the Shoshone rear like a cobra, she wondered what she could bring to the picture. "What makes you think soldiers will be needed? The policy is to not to fight the fires inside the park."

"The Yellowstone Superintendent has suspended the natural burn policy. We're to put 'em all out." His tone rang with finality.

She looked at the command center, imagining it full of workers relaying information on weather, manpower, and terrain, deploying everything from helicopters to toilet paper.

Garrett's eyes moved from the fire map to meet hers. Broken blood vessels marred the whites of his, suggesting that the fire season was already taking its toll on his sleep. "When we bring in green troops, it'll be your job to see that n.o.body gets killed."

Clare's chest tightened. She thought of a child burned to death, or if perverse fortune had smiled, overcome by smoke before flames reached him. Little Pham Nguyen had not yet turned three. And Frank . . . better to think of his Jane receiving the folded flag and the bugler sounding "Taps" than to keep replaying the events of July 1. When she was awake she had some choice, but at night . . .

Garrett ignored a ringing phone and awaited her answer.

If he knew she'd seen a firefighter down so recently, maybe he'd think twice about trusting her. But Buddy Simpson at A & M had relied on her to supervise training the week after Frank was buried. A good friend and mentor, Buddy had stuck his neck out recommending her to Garrett, one of the top Incident Commanders in the nation.

She straightened her back. "You can count on me."

Outside Fire Command, Clare was surprised to find pilot Chris Deering lounging on the rock stair railing. Jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt advertising Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, accentuated his slim frame. "I thought I saw you go in here."

"If it isn't the downed aviator." She brushed back her hair from where it had fallen over her forehead. "Are you all right?"

The white look beneath his tan had disappeared since she had seen him at the hospital yesterday, but the bruise on his cheek was livid. Although the sun shone full on his face, he reached to take off his mirrored sungla.s.ses. "My pride is in tatters. I'm fine as ever." Dark eyes flicked over her. A speculative glance at the front placket of her yellow Nomex s.h.i.+rt, a swift perusal of her cinched up olive fire pants, and his attention returned to her face.

She leaned back beside him against the rail. He was tall for a pilot, having nearly a foot on her five-three. Across the dry-looking lawn and a potholed parking lot, another rustic stone structure, the old Union Pacific Railway Station, was not nearly as interesting as she pretended.

Since Jay had gone, she'd hated the cheap feeling of being on the market. Once, she'd gone to one of those Houston singles bars on lower Westheimer. The guy who'd hit on her expected she wanted the same thing as he, a quickie at a chain motel. Even if she'd been into s.e.x with somebody she'd barely met, she would have discounted that loser as married. Further forays in the dating world had confirmed that if a guy was halfway interesting, she could bet her back teeth there was a wife or long-term gal in the picture.

Deering continued to lounge, but she detected an awareness in him as he tossed off, "Where you staying?"

"I've got an employee cabin at Old Faithful."

"That's a forty mile drive," Deering observed. "You ought to stay here in town like I do."

"Old Faithful is central to my work." She avoided his eyes by glancing toward the motels, restaurants and souvenir shops on the opposite side of the wide street. False fronts gave the impression of a Wild West town.

Following her gaze, Deering said, "Did you know that the streets were built this wide so a horse and stagecoach could turn around in them?"

"Hadn't heard that."

"Have you been in the Bear Pit Bar at Old Faithful?" His hand traced the arc of the metal rail.

"Haven't had time." Enjoying the game despite her instinctive reticence, she finally gave him a level look. His lazy smile intrigued.

"If you're at Old Faithful this evening," Deering was direct, "I'll drive over and buy us a drink."

Decision time. He'd conveyed his interest but not the slack-jawed l.u.s.t of a man on the make. Old Faithful was her turf; he'd never find her cabin . . . unless she showed him the way.

"Seven-thirty," she agreed.

In the Old Faithful Inn lobby, Clare checked the intricate metal clock on the towering fireplace of ma.s.sive pink stones. Guests rested in rockers on an Indian print rug, an island in the polished golden floor. The appointed hour was near, and although the Bear Pit's open door invited, she headed for the nearest pay phone and dialed.

If there was one thing she hated more than dealing with her ex, it was having his wife answer. "Elyssa," she said flatly, twisting the phone cable. "Is Devon there?"

"Can't heah you . . ."

"I said, is Devon there?" Clare raised her voice over the din in the lobby and felt like a fishwife. Elyssa knew who she was.

Thinking of dusty boots left in her cabin, she imagined Jay's wife in her flowered chintz drawing room, her feet shod in soft Italian kid--Texas music in her voice when she wanted something like making the visitation more convenient for her.

"Ah imagine Devon's heah somewhere."

Yes, Clare knew how palatial the house Jay had built Elyssa was and how loosely she monitored the girl who was not her daughter.

Clare waited, imagining annoyance twisting Elyssa's penciled lips like she'd bitten an unripe persimmon. By the long metal hands of the fireplace clock, it took four minutes of long distance until Devon came on. Muted background sounds were probably the twenty-four inch color television Jay had given her for her designer bedroom. Clare couldn't afford a luxury like that for a teenager.

"Where are you, Mom?"

"I'm in the lobby at Old Faithful. Lots of folks coming in for the night."

Through the open doors, she could see the loading zone with buses discharging pa.s.sengers and pungent diesel smells. After what had happened at Grant Village, she wondered if they should think about an evacuation here.

Almost everyone who came through the red, wrought-iron-trimmed double doors stopped and looked up. The soaring atrium lobby, crafted entirely of local wood, had been conceived by architect Robert Reamer in 1902, long before Hyatt considered the concept. On the underside of the dark, s.h.i.+ngled roof, Clare noted a network of pipes and sprinkler heads. She didn't plan on telling her daughter that if the wind did not s.h.i.+ft or lie down, she, along with a thousand other firefighters, was going to defend Old Faithful.

A pregnant woman entered, bending to hold the hand of a chubby toddler. Devon had been like that once. The child looked with wide eyes at the soaring balconies trimmed in knotty pine.

"Are you staying at the hotel?" Her daughter's voice was bright and Clare's heart gave a little mother's lift. Maybe Devon actually missed her.

"I've got a cabin." A smacking sound came through the line. "Are you eating?"

"Pizza. Jay and Elyssa are going out."

Clare considered how poorly Devon received her balanced diet lecture, and really, it was Elyssa's fault for letting her eat like that. She tried another tack. "Did you work at the pool today?"

"Yeah." Devon sighed and Clare imagined her flipping back her blond hair with a desultory hand. The turned up nose would be down and the china doll eyes vacant.

"If work is so boring why don't you reconsider applying to A & M?" It was a long shot with Devon's grades, but both Jay's dad and Elyssa's influential father were alumni.

"Don't start. I'm not going to school anymore."

Clare's face warmed. "Try and find a real job with your high school diploma." It was no use, but she couldn't stop. "Flipping burgers for minimum wage is all that's out there."

"I'll look for something in the fall since I'll need a place of my own."

Clare closed her eyes. "This is the first I've heard of you wanting to move." She'd married Jay when she was too young, to get out from under her mother, and was dead set against Devon making the same mistake.

"I know you're selling the house." Devon laid down her winning hand. "That Realtor left a message on our answering machine."

"Oh, dear."

"Is that all you can say? You're selling our house and didn't bother to tell me."

The tight feeling that she'd seldom been without since Frank died intensified. "Darling, I thought it would upset you."

"You thought I wouldn't find out? I'm old enough to know what's going on." Devon's voice went squeaky. "Are you moving to Yellowstone?"

"Of course not. When you turn eighteen, the support from your father cuts off." Always now, Jay was Devon's 'father,' a way of pretending she'd never known the man. "I can't afford the house on what I make."

Saying it stung more than she'd imagined.

Devon chomped pizza and swallowed loudly. "Speaking of our house, I'm going home. I don't want to stay here with Elyssa."

Might as well waste her breath. "No."

"I stay alone when you're at the fire station."

"That's three minutes away." Clare felt her control over Devon slip further. "You usually go to your father's."

"In October when I'm eighteen . . ." An echo of Clare's own youthful voice telling her mother that. "I can go anywhere and do anything I like."

"You aren't there yet."

She didn't know if Devon heard her last or not, for the dial tone sounded loud in her ear. She leaned against the log wall while guilt warred with her resolve not to rush back to Houston.

She'd come to Yellowstone to break the cycle of feeling she couldn't go on. She owed it to herself and the department to come back stronger. Today, she'd made a commitment and Garrett Anderson was counting on her.

As she replaced the receiver, she caught a whiff of the woodsy scent she'd put on. It wasn't something she'd wear to the fire station, but this evening she'd pulled out a frosted bottle of Wind Song and splashed it over her, relis.h.i.+ng the cold tightening of her skin. The summer ritual was an old habit she had only recently reacquainted herself with.

Clare had grown up in the well-ordered suburbs of Bellaire, Texas, back when Houston's great anastomosing arms had not yet embraced the satellite town. Her friend, Annie McGrath on Elm Street, had shown off the a.s.sortment of perfume her mother Jewel kept on a mirrored tray in their turquoise tiled bath. One day Jewel had caught Clare and Annie sampling and joined them, sitting on the edge of the tub and reaching for a cobalt bottle of Evening in Paris.

"Your father used to buy this for me during the war." Jewel smoothed back her daughter's curling red hair and touched the stopper to the fair skin beneath Annie's dainty ears.

When she was thirteen, Clare's first perfume had been crisp Chanel No. 5, a birthday gift from her mother who hoped she'd grow up to be lady. Constance, who wrapped teapots with cozies and arranged flowers j.a.panese style, had never gotten over her daughter becoming a P.E. coach . . . or a firefighter.

At Clare's senior prom, floral White Shoulders had been wasted on pimply, damp-palmed Billy Meyer. The football player she longed for dated a cheerleader, rather than a fellow athlete like Clare.

Jay hadn't exactly told Clare she couldn't wear perfume during their fifteen-year marriage. He'd just screwed his handsome face into a scowl and fanned away the smell, making the stale leftovers of Elyssa's Obsession all the more hurtful. Before the ink was dry on the decree, Clare had launched an a.s.sault on the Houston Galleria's perfume counters. A mirrored tray identical to Jewel McGrath's occupied a place of honor on her sinktop at home.

This evening, in addition to wearing cologne, Clare had selected the one dress she'd brought with her. The slight slip of sundress in a deep violet was more suited for a humid Texas night, but it made her feel daring.

With the easy appreciation that liquor bestowed, Steve Haywood leaned against the dark wood bar in the Bear Pit. He'd walked out of the Lake Hospital yesterday and not been sober since.

Sea green light shone onto the gla.s.s screen dividing the bar from Old Faithful's cavernous dining room. Etched into thick panels was a group of bears in nineteenth-century clothing, playing cards, dancing, and shooting one another with seltzer bottles. Party animals--and no matter how much Steve had drunk in the past four years, he'd never found that carefree plane of non-existence.

Maybe he'd find it tonight, with enough Jack Daniels.

He sipped and surveyed the summer crowd occupying heavy wooden tables and chairs in the half-round bar. Here was an eclectic mix of tourists and folks working the park. Bartender Annabel Eaton stood behind the long western-style counter and wiped a gla.s.s with a rag. They were old friends by now, and Steve could tell Annabel thought he'd had enough to drink. He'd need to slow down so the heavyset, earnest, kindergarten teacher from Des Moines would continue to serve him.

Over there was off-duty waitress Pamela Weber, with velvet, Italian-movie-star eyes that could have graced the pages of a men's magazine. Tanned legs stretched a mile below tight white shorts. Steve hadn't been to bed with her; in fact, he hadn't slept with a woman in the four years since Susan, but, with Pamela, he'd come close. Back in June, she had attracted his attention while he was walking around the geyser basin. She'd invited him to go hot potting, the summer employees' name for swimming in the thermal springs. He'd had too much to drink and the warm water had relaxed him so much he'd been unable to rise to the occasion.

Pamela spotted him, gave an airy wave, and turned her attention to the man buying her drinks this evening. Steve sighed and took another long and joyless swallow of whiskey.

Twenty feet away, Clare Chance paused in the doorway. Everything seemed suddenly sharp to Steve as she swept the room with that deliberately blind stare women bestow on a roomful of strangers. Those eyes, almost haunted-or maybe she just suffered from the lack of sleep of many on the fire lines.

In a bright dress that left her golden shoulders bare, with streaked tawny hair over her rounded forehead, she strode purposefully to the bar. Steve watched her stand on tiptoe in flat-heeled leather sandals, accentuating the corded muscles of her calves. Her extraordinary presence had caused him to forget that she was barely taller than five feet, and made it difficult to believe she had manhandled him into the lake.

With the champagne she'd ordered, Clare drifted toward the curved outer wall of windows. Steve cursed himself for not having noticed Deering before. The pilot looked as c.o.c.ky as ever, lifting his beer mug and toasting Clare's approach. A small sideways flick of eyes said he'd seen Steve. "You should have let me get your drink." Deering's proprietary note carried.

Steve decided he needed fresh air. His exit was marred by a stumble at the slight step up into the lobby. From the front desk, he heard an elderly woman shrill, "The bath is down the hall?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the clerk said. "The old wing does not have private baths."

Steve turned right and opened the outside door. The combination of a difficult climate and the drought created earth covered with spa.r.s.e brown gra.s.s and volcanic gravel. Moving away from the building, he inhaled the tang of smoke on the breeze.

In the past twenty-four hours, the North Fork fire had tripled from twenty-five hundred acres to over eight thousand. Although no evacuation had been called, some of the tourists feared getting caught by the fire that was still six miles from the inn.

He guessed people were frightened of things that spoke to them at a visceral level. Some kid who'd accidentally gotten locked in a lightless closet would spend his life sleeping with a nightlight. The very idea of flying turned Steve witless, and ditching in the lake had necessitated the liberal application of alcohol for its anesthetic properties.

Yesterday afternoon, Clare Chance had not been afraid. She'd faced the exposed fangs of the Shoshone . . . and saved his worthless life.

"What's the word out of Fire Command?" Deering asked.

Clare looked across the Bear Pit table at the sharp-nosed pilot wearing slim fit Wrangler jeans, an open-necked s.h.i.+rt that revealed dark chest hair, and well-worn cowboy boots.