Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [52]
Since Hudson had broken his leg, Clare had visited him twice in the West Yellowstone hospital. With a plaster cast from hip to ankle, he had chafed at being sidelined.
It was interesting the way different people reacted to adversity. When Deering had told her in the Bear Pit that he needed to get back in the air, she’d known he was one of those who climbed right back on the horse that threw him.
She envied his ability to shrug off trouble. Her lack of confidence after Frank’s death was just beginning to be replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. Participating in Hudson’s rescue had been a real boost.
This afternoon’s training involved soldiers she’d been working with for several days. Watching a parade of faces that changed from incomprehension to confidence was another factor in easing her anxiety.
There was one problem, though. Sergeant Ron Travis, instead of moving on with the first group of soldiers, had been assigned to work with her for the duration.
With a check of her watch, Clare called for the end of the day. Conversation broke out as they hiked the half-mile back to their truck. Pulaskis and shovels were tossed into a pile.
Clare massaged her aching back, but she was getting stronger every day. It felt good to lift without effort and to keep up with the young male soldiers. It did irk that Sergeant Travis relegated himself to the role of supervisor, for all hands were needed. Just because they were training didn’t mean their fire lines were without value.
As she wiped sweat from her forehead, she reflected that her dislike for him went deeper than that. The code of the firefighter was to do the work. If somebody asked for your axe, you did what needed to be done rather than pass it off. A person without equipment was worse than useless. Travis’s Pulaski, issued eight days ago, rested behind the troop carrier’s front seat.
He lounged on the open tailgate of the truck, looking cool despite the afternoon’s heat. A bottled water in his hand made her want to snatch it and pour it over her sweating head.
“A good day’s work,” she said, loudly enough for the troops to hear. Although she started training with a tough-guy attitude, she thought it important to add praise as their ability increased.
Travis did not second her.
As the soldiers loaded their equipment, Clare spotted a pickup coming up the rutted trail with Javier Fuentes at the wheel. Since she’d taken on instructing soldiers, she no longer worked with the other volunteers from Houston.
A short distance from the troop carrier, she and Javier swapped stories while she downed the lukewarm bottled water she’d gotten from the truck. “How’d a cold Coke go?” Javier produced one from a cooler and she savored the effervescent explosion in her smoke-ravaged throat.
Javier’s eyes grew serious. “How’re you doing?” he asked in a way she thought referred to Frank’s death.
“Getting by. You?”
He flashed a smile born of youthful resilience and testosterone. “This is something else up here.” After a drag on his own Coke, Javier went on. “You know, if he’d lived, Frank would have come with us. Hell, he’d have fought fires till they forced him into retirement.”
From the corner of her eye, Clare noted Travis listening. “Lose somebody in a fire, Chance?”
Javier jumped in. “Big apartment complex in Houston, wood shingle roof fully involved.” His hands pantomimed leaping flames. “She was right in the middle of it when the ceiling came down and killed the other guy on the hose.” He must have thought he was doing her a favor, pointing out her bravery.
Travis shifted his eyes to Clare. “So if we get in a pinch, I can’t count on you?”
Javier’s bronzed young face frowned. “No, man, see she was lucky to get out . . .”
The soldiers were scheduled to drop her at her cabin, but Clare cut in and asked Javier, “How ‘bout a lift to Old Faithful?”
Clare seethed in the passenger seat as Javier drove. Coming to Yellowstone had not been the escape she had imagined.
Javier turned down the radio feature on the September match of Stars and Stripes vs. New Zealand