Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [111]
“Oh, dear.”
“There’s no cause for alarm,” the ranger said. “You have until ten a.m. to leave, but I would start right away.”
Minutes later, Clare found Steve in the parking lot. He lay curled inside a sleeping bag in the back of the Park Service truck. One arm was over his head, reminding her of when she’d found him on the lakeshore.
He must have heard her boots on the pavement, for he opened his eyes. This time he looked neither confused nor shocky, but gave her a steady smile that lifted her spirits until he asked about Devon.
She shook her head.
He wriggled out of the bag in his jeans, shirt, and sock feet. With a glance at her Nomex clothing, he said, “I’ve got a spare set to change into.” He pulled on his boots, and grabbed the folded shirt and pants from his bag.
As he let himself down from the tailgate, he cringed when he put his weight on his right leg. She put out a hand and he let her help him.
Swiping a hand through his hair as a comb, Steve led her toward the Visitor Center. Although it was not officially opening time, she could see through the windows that a number of people were crowded inside. The woman ranger who’d knocked at Clare’s door stood surrounded by at least six elderly women.
“What do you mean, evacuate?” one stout dowager demanded.
“We were on a bus tour,” said another, a small-boned woman with the hump of advancing osteoporosis. “I think they left without us.”
Clare followed Steve through the gift shop to the information desk. There, a ranger with a strained look on his bearded face tried to answer questions from at least three people at once.
Steve hailed, “Hey, Butler.”
“Is the fire really coming?” a pudgy woman in Birkenstocks asked.
“Can we stay and watch?” A boy around six tugged his father’s polo shirt.
Steve’s hand closed over Clare’s shoulder. “Butler Myers, this is my friend Clare Chance. She’s with the firefighters from Houston.”
Butler nodded absently and started to deal with another agitated traveler. Finished with the social niceties, Clare grabbed the ranger’s arm. “You’ve got to do something. My daughter is missing.”
He spoke over his shoulder to a female ranger who looked about twenty. “Take over, Jen.”
“Let’s go over here, ma’am.” Butler drew Clare past a seismograph to the rear auditorium. Steve came along, still carrying his fire clothes, and turned on the lights in the vacant room.
From his breast pocket, Butler drew a small notepad and pen. “I’ll need your daughter’s name and a description.”
Clare thought how many times she’d taken information from people in crisis. With the tables turned, she took a breath and tried to stay calm. “It’s Devon, Devon Chance. She’s a couple inches taller than I am, blond hair, shoulder length . . . “
“I’m sorry,” Butler interrupted. “Did you say taller than you?”
“About five-six.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
The woman ranger Butler had called Jen stuck her head in the door. “The wind’s kicked up. Thirty-to-fifty on the heights. That puts the North Fork here in a matter of hours.”
“Please,” Clare said. “You’ve got to find Devon.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“Since last night.” It seemed like a lot longer.
“Where did you last see her?”
“At my cabin. Number sixteen on the back side.”
“Then how did she get lost?”
Clare hesitated. “We . . . that is . . . “ She thought of lying, but it wasn’t in her. “We had a fight and she ran away.” Her back still smarted from the rough edge of the bed frame.
Butler ruffled his beard with his hand.
“She’s a good kid,” Steve put in. Clare could have kissed him for it.
The notebook lowered. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but at her age law enforcement would not track your daughter as a runaway.”
“Someone could hurt her,” Clare insisted.
“We’ve been busing folks out of here since seven,” Butler said. “She was probably on one of the first ones.” His voice had an upbeat tenor. Clare knew that tone; she used it