Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [104]
In late afternoon, the loading zone was chaos. Rainbow bags and designer leather lay strewn over the wide sidewalk. A bus arrived, blowing diesel exhaust.
It was difficult for Clare to reconcile this air of normality with the fact that beyond the public window dressing, Pete Cullen and his West Yellowstone volunteers were moving in irrigation sprinklers. Since their town was no longer threatened, the equipment was being brought into the park to protect power lines. When Clare had spoken to Garrett this morning, he’d cautioned that another grasping tentacle of the North Fork reached for Old Faithful.
Although she had phoned him with the best intentions, she had hung up without telling Garrett that she was going home. No matter how many ways she tried to phrase it, the words had choked in her throat.
Steve rested both hands on the steering wheel. His left hand still wore the bandage she’d put on for him the other night at his house. An unbidden image of his strong, yet gentle fingers sliding over her skin almost made Clare gasp. She hadn’t felt this way with Deering.
Another bus pulled in behind them. Steve glanced in the rearview mirror. In just a minute, she would get out and thank him for the ride. He’d drive away without having explained his trip to Jackson, all because her daughter was too damned effective a chaperone.
The bus driver hit the air horn.
Do something, but for God’s sake don’t let him leave.
Wordlessly, Clare brushed Steve’s cheek with the back of her hand. He’d brought his kit into the Antler this morning and shaved, leaving his skin smooth with a hint of blond stubble. He gave her a long look. “I can’t drive if you do that.”
A second horn blast and he said, “I guess I’ll have to park and get us some dinner.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
September 6
No matter how many times Clare watched Old Faithful Geyser, she never tired of it. Despite the fires, tourists from all over the world crowded closer, speaking the universal language of expectation.
The circular walkway ringing the geyser was at least fifteen feet wide, standing room only with the rows of wooden benches already occupied. Clare looked for Devon, but didn’t see her.
The waiting crowd stirred as the first signs of steam poured from the roundish mound of white rock in the center ring. Across the mineralized soil on the far side of the geyser, a small group of tourists clustered. Not ten feet from the elevated walkway, a shaggy bull stood with his head lowered, creating a buffalo jam.
Another blast of steam burst from the earth, a white cloud streaming against the hazy summer sky. Steve’s hand rested at the small of her back.
Above the spectacle, the long green shoulder of a ridge stood at least three hundred feet high, a backdrop for the geyser’s hundred-fifty foot show. Towering and triumphant, the foaming rush peaked and began almost imperceptibly to subside. Too soon, the exalted ritual turned to streams of hot water finding a path away from the central cone.
The sounds of the crowd muted. People turned away before the last gallons spilled over the terraced earth. The small channels narrowed, running in rivulets down to join the Firehole River.
As Clare and Steve headed for her cabin, she caught a glimpse of Devon dropping a cigarette and stepping on it with her clunky boot. Beside her, a tall man in his mid-twenties produced a lighter and lit her next smoke while she shoved the pack in her bag. He looked down her tank top and laughed at something she was saying
A sick feeling seized Clare. She’d given her daughter the birth control lecture a long time ago, but Devon had never volunteered and she’d never directly asked whether she was sexually active. She could imagine Elyssa being smugly certain of the worst.
As she watched Devon flirting with someone she’d just met, Clare wondered if she’d been naïve.
“Home sweet home.” Clare opened the door of her small dark cabin and went in ahead