Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [127]
Somehow, the blond highlights didn’t belong to her anymore. In the lobby shop, she had purchased a manicure kit, hoping to clean up the ragged edges of her cuticles. Instead, she used the tiny scissors to attack her bangs.
A pile of clippings mounted on the porcelain sink. With each cut, Clare felt as though she left behind the woman she had been in Houston, emerging like a butterfly from its chrysalis. She imagined that the natural dark shades in her hair were her great-grandfather’s gift of heritage.
When she had finished, she stared at a ruffled little boy’s cut.
What she saw in her eyes still scared her.
In the Stagecoach’s Barrel Bar, the knotty pine walls bounced back the sounds of a country music duo playing guitar and keyboard. Clare had caught their act one night with Sherry and Hudson. Then she’d felt differently about the exuberant exhilaration of the fire crews, listening eagerly to each new story of beating back a fire front, getting run out, or rescuing someone in trouble.
Wearing clean fire clothes, Garrett waited for her at a table. He looked at her new T-shirt and the filthy pants she’d put back on. “Something for you from down the street.” He nodded toward a fresh yellow shirt and olive trousers folded neatly on the chair next to him.
“You’ve saved my life.” Clare thought of going to change right away, but she was starving. The Coke and candy bar she’d had was a long time ago.
She sank into the wooden chair opposite Garrett.
His serious black eyes held hers. “You doing okay?”
“Better when I find Devon.”
Steve came to them through the throng in jeans and the western shirt he’d worn in Jackson. He gave her a quick once-over that included her haircut, but didn’t say anything.
She and Garrett ordered frosted mugs of beer and Steve a Coke.
Garrett placed his big hands flat. “I found out where Deering flew off to this afternoon. He went to check out a report of some hikers trapped by fire on a ridge.” His expression was graver than she might have expected.
“No one was hurt?” she hoped.
“We don’t know. After Deering flew out toward Nez Perce Peak, he never radioed back. It got dark before they could send anybody to look for him.”
Clare gripped the cigarette-burned edge of the table. “Oh, God. Do you think he’s all right?”
Steve shifted in his chair and made a face that could have expressed pain or a reaction to her concern for Deering.
Clare’s mind flashed to the gilt-edged book on her dresser upstairs. “My great-grandparents were caught by a forest fire on Nez Perce.” What if Deering was on that same peak, down for the second time in a summer? He’d told her of his wife’s fears.
Pizza came; the frozen kind that got soggy when heated. Clare chewed without tasting. Garrett tried to keep up conversation, but while Steve obliged with talk of the ecosystem’s burn recovery she fell silent. Every minute that passed made it less likely that Devon was trying to get a message to her.
Before they parted for the evening, Garrett told Clare, “I promise I’ll phone your room if I hear anything about Devon, no matter what time.”
“Or if you hear from Deering.” She couldn’t help saying it.
Steve pushed up from the table. His chair squealed on the wooden floor that was littered with peanut shells. “I’ll catch you folks in the morning.” His voice was neutral, but Clare detected coolness. He made eye contact with Garrett and passed over her.
As Steve took his leave Garrett told Clare, “The park people and law enforcement in the border towns will keep looking for Devon.” He put out his hand and hers disappeared into his firm grip. She drew strength from his calm certainty that things would work out.
By the time she reached the long upstairs hallway, she heard a door close near hers with a hard note that sounded final.
Biting her lip, Clare went into her own room and slammed her fist against the back of the closed door. What