Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [136]
Over the sound, there might have been a faint cry.
Clare stopped to listen, but it was not repeated. She swallowed around a parched patch in the back of her throat.
She climbed down farther onto hard rock that formed crooked stair steps. Out onto the ridge now with a drop off on either side, she picked her way with exquisite care. Drawing closer to the black pillar, it became clearly distinct from the wildfire below. The premonition that it was the smoking remains of a crash site grew stronger while the bands around her chest threatened to snap her in two.
From above and behind, Steve’s voice came to her. “Clare, wait for us.”
She knew he meant to spare her being first on the scene, but that was no good. If there was anything to be done, she needed to be there. Once more, she bargained in vain for a well-equipped trauma kit to fall out of the sky. Cooling gel for burns, an air splint for fractures . . .
She caught a glimpse of something in the trees below the ridge crest and she wasn’t ready. God, don’t let it be them. No, let it be them.
Her heart leaped. The twisted wreckage of rotor blades was unmistakable.
She wished she could turn away from this, to let Steve or Karrabotsos take the lead and have the first knowledge.
Then she went still inside. A firefighter approaching a scene, she went into the minute-by-minute mode that people described from accidents. Evaluating, calculating.
The ruined chopper hung tangled in the trees. Not burning. The fire had clearly been set atop the rocky ridge, a pile of green pine boughs and seat cushions from the helicopter.
They weren’t dead, then.
She broke into a run, heedless of the treacherous footing. She cupped her hands and shouted. “Deering!”
That cry she’d heard before, only faintly, came again.
She lost her balance and nearly went off the side. As she clung to the sharp rock, her palms scraped with white patches turned pink with seeping blood. A wave of nausea welled.
Breathe, breathe.
When she straightened, there was movement below. It resolved into Deering as he climbed out onto the ridge crest wearing his flight suit. He stood at a respectful distance from the fire and waved both arms over his head.
She made it the rest of the way and he grabbed her in a bear hug.
“You’re okay?” she asked.
“Just sore. Clare . . .”
“Some people said that Devon . . .?” Her mouth and throat had transformed to the Sahara.
“Mom?” a voice quavered from down the slope.
Clare sagged against Deering. His hands kept her upright while she vowed never to let her daughter out of her sight again. “Stay there, honey.”
Her boots slipped on rock and gravel, while incredible blue eyes beckoned. It didn’t matter that they’d fought or that Devon had run away.
Sitting on a tarp spread on the ground, Devon had an olive wool Army blanket draped around her. She held one swollen wrist cradled with her other arm. With a supreme effort, Clare held back from hugging her.
“Let me see.” She knelt and pushed aside an empty can of Vienna sausages.
Devon’s expression was a little shocky. With a careful hand, Clare brushed back the blanket and a singed wing of hair to see what was beneath the loosely taped gauze on her chest. Releasing the tape that Deering must have applied from the chopper’s first aid kit, she examined the wicked burn. Part of it had blistered and a patch showed the discoloration of third-degree.
“At Old Faithful,” Devon said faintly. “My hair caught fire.”
A great hematoma cut diagonally across her shoulder. Seeing seat belt bruises in car accidents made Clare surmise this came from the chopper crash. She checked Devon’s collarbone for a fracture, but there was no flinch at mild pressure.
On her left temple, Clare found a contusion that had swelled half an inch. “Is your vision clear? Have you had any trouble staying awake?”
Devon shook her head. “What you see, Mom.” Tears welled and she lifted the cradled wrist a half-inch. “I fell on the roof at the Inn.”
Clare’s stomach clutched as she remembered the people