Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [103]
Cordon built an evening fire and paid attention to the young woman he brought along. Francesca is lovely and sweet, an immigrant from Italy. When I put on some beans, sliced bacon, and added brown sugar, Francesca suggested that a pinch of dried mustard would add flavor. Our younger son, Bryce, back from another of his wanderings, started coffee and struck up conversation with the guests we brought up to the campsite. I hate the term “dudes.” Before we sought the warmth of our bedrolls, we watched for shooting stars. One traced a long line over Idaho.
We went to bed with an added sense of anticipation. This morning we strike out, not for the ranch and the valley, but for the summit of Grand Teton.
The rest of the words blurred. Flesh of Clare’s flesh, Laura Sutton had climbed the peak that soared to the sky. And there in the meadow of flowering yellow balsamroot walked a new generation in Devon.
Steve passed Clare a clean bandanna. She sniffed and blew her nose.
Mildly, Steve observed, “By rights, that book belongs to the National Park Service.” Then he grinned. “I don’t think anyone would mind if you hung onto it.”
Clare tested one of the porch posts with the heel of her hand. It seemed solid and she leaned against it. “I’m sorry I got weepy.” She tucked the kerchief into her pocket rather than hand it back soiled.
“Keep it,” he offered. “Something to remember me by when you get back to Houston.”
She did not miss the catch in his voice, just as Devon reached the cabin’s front steps.
Driving through a long corridor of pine on the Rockefeller Parkway, headed toward Yellowstone, Clare could not resist the urge to open the diary again. With the sunlight strobing on the pages, she read a passage dated two years later.
May 19, 1927
Three a.m.
When the warning came from Ranger Dibble, saying that a wall of water was bearing down on Kelly, many people did not believe.
This evening was a horror. Past dark we searched for survivors amidst the mud and rubble left when Slide Lake broke its dam. I helped our neighbors from Mormon Row lay out the dead in the church. While I helped carry buckets of water to wash the dead, Cord was on the detail of men constructing coffins.
Near midnight, young Cordon insisted that his father and I return home and rest. Before we left what remains of Kelly, only four buildings standing, he promised to eat something and rest. I suspect he has kept searching by lantern light. Francesca, the girl he has been after, was helping out at the school today and has not been seen since before the flood. I only hope that Bryce was delayed in returning from his journey and was far from here.
At the Bar BC they asked for news of the dead and those missing. I don’t think that either Cord or I wanted to be alone yet, for we stayed late drinking coffee and talking with Struthers Burt.
I should sleep, but I keep listening for Cordon’s Model A. It is as though if I hope hard enough he may bring us Francesca, weary yet well. I am sure that if I close my eyes I would see the wall of water, bearing the trees and rocks of Slide Lake Dam, houses, fencing and livestock.
Devon put an arm around her shoulder. She’d been reading over Clare’s shoulder in the truck’s front seat. As Clare dug out Steve’s bandanna again, she said, “It’s okay, Mom. If she hadn’t made it, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Except that your grandmother’s name was Anne Lamar.”
“Oh . . . yeah.” Devon chewed her lip and stared again at the page, while Clare wondered if the diary would unravel the mystery of the missing Francesca.
In late afternoon, Steve pulled under the massive porte-cochere of Old Faithful Inn. They had stopped along the way at several waterfalls. Overlooking the Lewis River’s rugged canyon, Devon had gaped at the blackened landscape where the Red-Shoshone had wreaked ruin.
As Devon slung her backpack over her shoulder and opened the passenger door, Clare said, “Just a minute . . . “ She swallowed