Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [39]
Garrett studied her. “Most folks like you don’t acknowledge red or black ancestors.”
Clare flushed. “The local bookstores have only a few books about the Nez Perce.”
“Try the archives,” Garrett suggested. “At Park Headquarters in Mammoth.”
Steve’s hands shook as he placed a stack of yellowed papers into a manila folder.
“Right in here.” Walt Leighton’s voice sounded in the outer room as he ushered someone into the basement archives.
Steve checked his watch and found it nearly five. The time reminded him that the sun was over the yardarm.
What in God’s name was he going to do? He longed for the years when he’d been a man who appreciated a good red wine, for the time before his life had been shredded in a falling, flaming instant. Drink was impossible to kick on your own. He’d stopped hundreds of mornings, only to start again the same night. The hell of it was that if he wanted to stay in Yellowstone, he had no choice but to take the cure.
On the other hand, fire’s assault on the land he loved made him determined to stay until the crisis ended.
Steve opened a new folder and considered a reprint of Jarred Ayad’s article, “An Alternate Route for the Nez Perce through Yellowstone.” He knew the Nez Perce story well, how in the summer of 1877 Chiefs Joseph, White Bird, and Looking Glass had refused to go onto the reservation outlined by the U.S. government. After hotheaded young men of the tribe avenged several murdered Nez Perce by killing white settlers, about seven hundred people set out on a freedom flight to Canada. The Army had pursued them through Yellowstone.
“Back here we have our library of books and videotapes.” Walt’s footsteps sounded loud in the narrow aisle between floor-to-ceiling shelves. The person who followed did not walk as heavily as he. “It’s time to close, but since you drove all the way here, I can stay open a while.”
“Where would I find information about an old homestead?” The husky voice might belong to a man or a woman. “Someplace close to the Tetons around 1900?”
“Not here, I’m afraid,” Walt said. “You might ask at Grand Teton National Park, or at the Historical Society in Jackson. In the meantime, feel free to look around.”
Walt retreated toward his office while the other late visitor to the archives shuffled along on the opposite side of a shelf of geology books. A moment later, Steve looked up to find Clare Chance frowning at him, her brows startling wings. Her face had darkened from the sun since he saw her last week.
“Dr. Haywood,” she said, “you look like hell.”
Clare did think Steve looked terrible, but she immediately regretted saying it. The paper he’d been studying wavered as he laid it down. Pale stubble on his chin outlined where he’d missed a patch shaving.
“You don’t look bad yourself.” Steve smiled. Despite the puffy bags around them, his gray eyes lighted. If he stayed off the sauce, he might turn out to be a decent looking fellow, with that blond hair and solid looking build.
“Thank you,” she said.
He tilted the straight wooden chair on two legs against the basement wall. This was the first time she’d seen him in his ranger’s uniform. Above his head, afternoon light shone through the window where he’d placed his summer straw hat on the sill.
“How’s the fray?” he asked.
“Almost a hundred-fifty thousand acres.” Because misery loved company, she went on, “The fire experts are predicting twice that.”
Steve’s dry-looking lips pursed into a whistle.
Clare looked at the stack of journals and books on the desk before him. “History?”
“The Nez Perce War of 1877.”
She’d been a jock in school rather than a scholar, but she’d listened when her family’s tribe was mentioned. That was her history, her blood that had made that trek. “My family has some Nez Perce in it.”
“Walt’s the historian.” Steve gestured toward the front room. “But I’ve been searching the records about the Nez Perce. I’d be happy to share what I know.”
Two hours later, she sat enthralled by the images he painted.