Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [157]
Carol Leeds of Billings Live Eye clutched her jacket close and passed a bottle of champagne. Clare drank a deep swallow of golden effervescence and the bubbles burned her nose. She didn’t know whether to give it to Steve.
He took it and sipped without tipping it far up. A man behind him said, “I heard on TV that there’ve been sixty-eight thousand wildfires in the U.S. this season.”
“Two million acres gone in Alaska,” someone else replied.
“Nearly a million just in Yellowstone,” Steve said to Clare. “Last month when I said I’d want to stay if a million acres burned, I never thought it could happen.” He drank champagne again.
“Damn, it’s cold,” said a woman whose nose had gone cherry red. She rubbed her hands together and stuck them under her arms.
“You think this is something?” a man in a woolen cap shouted. “Have you heard tomorrow’s forecast?” He twisted the dial of a portable radio and the tinny strains of “Let it Snow” encouraged another round of cheering.
Not far from the crowd, a group of elk lay blissfully undisturbed by the revelry.
Steve started to raise the bottle again. Someone took it from his hand. “Moru,” he said.
Moru passed the champagne without drinking. “I called Nyeri in Bozeman. They’re going to stay the night and drive back with Devon tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” Clare agreed. The night stretched before her, the time with Steve an impossible luxury.
He pulled her tighter against his side and murmured for her ears only. “This evening, madam, the chef will prepare his special spaghetti sauce, with fennel, basil, and plenty of garlic. Guaranteed to give Technicolor dreams.”
Clare didn’t plan on dreams anymore, unless they were the good kind. She pressed closer to Steve. “On the other hand, we may not get much sleep.”
EPILOGUE
September 11
Steve had always thought the section of the Grand Loop Road between Canyon and Norris to be the park’s most monotonous corridor of pine.
Today, it was transformed, as broad vistas heretofore unseen opened before his eyes. At the high point of the Solfatera Plateau, he could see out over the long burned slope to Nez Perce Creek.
“We need to talk,” he told Clare, who rode beside him in the Park Service truck.
“I know.” She spoke so softly that Steve silenced the radio playing “Frosty the Snowman.”
It was chilly in the cab, but although his fingers hovered close to the lever, Steve did not put on the heat. After suffering through the summer, he was quite willing to taste the bracing bite of cooler air. “I’m not sure where to begin,” he said.
All at once, he couldn’t stand that he had to hold the wheel and keep his eyes on the road. Not while Clare was beside him and there were things he desperately needed to tell her.
“I know Moru said Nyeri will be bringing Devon down this afternoon, but they should be a while on the road.” He slowed and pulled into an overlook on the left. Here the Wolf Lake arm of the North Fork had wreaked havoc. In an area where a rare tornado-like wind had created a blowdown years ago, fire had swept through the deadwood and left a veritable moonscape.
This was one of the worst looking burns, right beside a major road. The news had featured a reporter on this spot telling the nation in grave tones, “Tonight, this is all that is left of Yellowstone National Park.”
What colossal bullshit! Even inside the outlines of the burns, there were broad areas where damage had not been severe.
As Steve drew the truck to a halt, Clare put her hand over his. He killed the engine and turned into her arms. He wanted to drag her into the woods, but only flattened tree trunks surrounded them. With an effort, he broke the embrace and said hoarsely, “We’re not talking.” He was determined to ask her, against all odds, if she would come and live with him in Yellowstone.
Outside, a huge snowflake drifted down and landed on the windshield. It slid sideways as it melted into a great water drop that sluiced down the glass. Another flake whirled past, and another.
Clare opened the door