Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [101]
Steve wanted more time with Clare, but he decided it was not to be. “I’d better look for a room, then.” His married friends had told him how god-awful kids were on your sex life.
Below, Devon dragged out her duffel and backpack and slammed doors. He saw Clare scan the street where a couple of “No Vacancy” signs were visible. “You’ll never get a place at this hour.”
“Yeah,” Devon agreed, as though eavesdropping was perfectly fine. “This town is packed.”
So he’d drive up to one of the Teton overlooks and sleep in his damned truck. If one of the rangers rousted him, he’d flash his badge and convince them that Steve Haywood was not drunk for a change, just too dog-tired to drive. He’d try not to think that last night Clare had slept in his bed while he’d repeatedly retrieved his pillow from slipping through the sofa’s armrest.
He could hardly believe his ears when Clare’s husky voice stopped him. “We have two beds. Why not stay with us?”
Ten minutes later, Clare climbed in beside Devon, who appeared to be already asleep in the spot against the wall. She’d thought of asking Steve to go for a walk, but they were both exhausted.
At least now, they had tomorrow.
Keys and change jingled when Steve placed them on the round table near the window. That sound came from another life, when Jay used to stow his stuff on the glass-topped dresser in their bedroom.
Steve faced the window and she heard the snaps of his western shirt. He loosened the cuffs and shrugged out of one sleeve, stopping to scratch his back. Off with the other and he turned out the hanging light over the table.
With wonder, she realized that she had spent the entire evening without thinking of Billy Jakes, her upcoming interrogation, or the question of whether to quit fighting fires. From across the three feet that separated the beds, her eyes met Steve’s. One arm was pillowed beneath his head and the other beneath the covers, but for a moment, she felt as though he reached out to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
September 6
The river terrace dropped away, revealing an inner valley where the Snake River flowed in three winding, braided channels. On the bank, Clare saw at least a dozen leaning cabins with red metal roofs bleached by the sun.
“There’s the Bar BC,” Steve offered. “Dude ranch for armchair cowboys of the teens and twenties.”
When Clare had told Steve over breakfast omelets that she wanted to try and find her family ranch, he had immediately started making plans. Even Devon had surprised her by saying she’d like to go.
They’d convoyed to the airport and dropped off Clare’s rental, then driven through sage meadows and crossed a bridge over the rushing Snake. At the Grand Teton Visitor Center, a silver-haired ranger offered directions to the landmark Bar BC and the nearby Sutton homestead. “They’re just ruins,” he warned. “We don’t have funding and the goal is to let the land return to its natural state.”
The Bar BC was better preserved than Clare had thought from the way he’d spoken. Despite their derelict appearance, most of the buildings stood intact behind rail fences. The exception was a bare foundation with a river-rock fireplace where she imagined ghosts danced on moonlit nights.
Steve turned the noisy truck onto a faint track at the base of a bluff. Willows and aspen grew thick in the bottomland. As the trail grew fainter, they backtracked several times. Finally, Steve brought the truck to a halt beside a small ravine lined with granite boulders. “Can’t give up now.”
He struck out on foot down the bank and into rushing water. Clare splashed behind him, wetting her boots and jeans. Past the ravine, she had to watch for burrows, twisted roots, and the rounded pellets of elk droppings. The bottomland smelled of evergreen, the woodsy tang of sage, and something cinnamon-like. “What smells like Christmas?”
Steve pointed out a tree with light-brown bark. Its narrow leaves had yellowed from the dry season. Pulling a clump that looked sticky with pungent sap, he brought the spicy aroma to her nose. “Cottonwood.”
They walked the faint memory