Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [148]
“We’ll beat it,” someone said.
A chorus of agreement arose. In spite of herself, Clare caught the contagious excitement. She wasn’t going to fight this battle, but thoughts of the North Fork heated her blood.
“Hey,” one of the firefighters called. “How does the government put out a fire in your kitchen?”
“They backburn your living room,” another hollered.
Clare gave a tight grin.
There would be backburns set around Mammoth tomorrow, a risky endeavor at best. The fire near Grant Village had been deliberately set to deprive the Shoshone of fuel, but had gotten away from firefighters. Tuesday’s near miss at Silver Gate and Cooke City on the east end of the park had been due to a runaway backfire.
Maybe Devon was right about Clare being a pyro, for she could almost feel the drip torch in her hand and smell the pine pitch. She’d learned this summer that despite the dryness, trying to ignite the seedlings of Douglas fir was nearly impossible, so she’d targeted pine and duff.
One of the firefighters was showing the others a cartoon of the National Park Service emblem with its tree and mountain emblazoned on an arrowhead. In this version, the tree was a blackened stick. Clare smiled. After a few days away, it felt good to be back.
“Everybody take ten,” Garrett called. “Shad Dugan is coming over to map out where the crews will set up.”
The group headed for the coffee urn and began passing Styrofoam cups. “Something to drink?” Garrett asked Clare.
“No, thanks.”
“Fig Newton?”
She laughed.
“They’re in my car,” Garrett said. “Why don’t we take a walk?” He led the way out of the command post past the crowded radio room and the warehouse depleted of Pulaskis, rope, shovels, and webbed belts with canteens. The cache was mostly stocked for wildfire fighting, with a small unit for calls in the village. The biggest local fire danger was the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel across the way, or it had been until today.
When Clare and Garrett went out, the world looked brighter. A stiff wind had blown out some of the hanging smoke, giving a filtered view of the surrounding mountains. The sun looked angry, a violent red disc suspended over the white terraces of the hot springs. As they crossed the lawn between Park Headquarters and the first big house on Officer’s Row, Garrett asked, “You see any news last night?”
“Nothing but a few minutes of Peter Jennings. I caught it in the hospital waiting room while they were X-raying Devon. Democrats trying to give the spin that if they were in charge, nothing like this would have happened.”
“Nightline agreed that people will argue about fire management policy for years,” Garrett said. “How is Devon?”
“Cracked wrist and a chest burn she got from a flying cinder at Old Faithful.” Ashes drifted from the sky as premature darkness resettled over the day. “She’ll be okay once I get her home to Houston.”
Garrett stopped in the street and looked at Clare. A flicker of his eyes took in her ragged hair. “How’re you doing?”
She recalled their unfinished business. “I’ll be a lot better when they’ve finished the Hellroaring investigation.”
His dark brow furrowed as they moved onto the lawn with scattered picnic tables. “I’ve already taken statements from Sergeant Travis and the troops. And you told me about it the other night.”
They reached the old parade ground that was thick with sage. Clare stopped beside a fence around a fumarole. Watching the steam rise and whip away on the wind, she dared to hope, “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
She held the wooden rail and rode a surge of elation.
“I know you won’t let an accident like what happened to Private Jakes run you off.” Garrett was offhand.
She opened her mouth to tell him she’d quit, but said, “How do you know that when I don’t?”
“A tough gal like you didn’t let the death of Frank Wallace get her down.”
Clare went still inside. “All summer, I’ve kept up a brave front, never thinking you knew.”
“Buddy Simpson at A & M told me. He thought coming up here would do you good.”
“So did the department psychologist.