Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [57]
On the other hand, that was an all-day trip even without fire apparatus causing traffic jams. Deering had invited her to West Yellowstone this evening for dinner and she wanted to be back in time.
Her attraction to Deering had not diminished, but she couldn’t forget the venom in his voice when he’d spoken of Steve.
When she came within sight of the Mount Washburn Lookout, Clare saw that Steve had visitors. He stood at the base of the tower in his ranger’s uniform and summer straw hat, pointing off toward the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. A man and woman with well-worn backpacks studied the half-mile deep chasm, stark ochre against the green mat of forest.
As Clare drew closer, the hikers headed off across a rocky field. Not twenty yards from where they walked, three bighorn sheep stood as though carved in stone.
Even after the tourists were out of sight, Clare watched Steve from a distance. He removed his uniform hat and ran his hand through blond hair that shot silver in the sun. Squinting, for he wore no sunglasses, he turned to climb back to the lookout.
As she approached, Clare allowed her boots to crunch on gravel. “Well?” she asked.
“Well what?” Steve’s gray eyes lighted. He looked tanner and fitter, without such deep bags beneath his eyes.
“I climbed all this way to find out if you named the Chance Fire after me.” The end of the road was two miles below, the trail up an ancient roadbed from the parking lot at Dunraven Pass.
He gave a warm, clear laugh. “I’ll never tell.”
Although she allowed a smile, it gave her a funny feeling to know that Sherry and the other Smokejumpers might be courting danger on her namesake.
“After all, I owe you thanks,” he moved closer, “for saving my life.”
Clare flushed, remembering how she’d thrown his thanks in his face. “I was rude and I apologize.”
“You were right.”
Into the little silence, he rushed, “I get some guests up here, but not many I offer lunch.”
Ignoring the small visitor center, they climbed the stairs to the tower. He prepared canned tuna salad, expertly dicing celery and apple into the mix. “Sorry the bread’s a little dry,” he apologized, placing the sandwich before her.
Clare found the food a masterpiece, or perhaps she had a healthy appetite from her hike.
After eating, they walked the summit meadow where red Indian paintbrush, mountain bluebell, and bright pink Lewis Monkeyflower bloomed. Smoke boiled in all directions, but on the mountaintop, the air was clear. On a flattened boulder, Steve pointed out great grooves where glacial ice had carved its name into solid rock.
Clare smoothed the surface of a striation, her fingers close to Steve’s.
He wasn’t looking at her, but at the vista of green forests and golden valleys, patch-worked with black. “Lots of folks think we’re witnessing destruction instead of rebirth.” There was a deep chord in him when he spoke of the land. “When Shad Dugan put it to a choice, leave Yellowstone or get sober, it all came clear to me. If a million acres burned I’d still want to stay.”
Without thinking, she closed the few inches between their hands and touched his. Should she tell him she knew of his family’s death or let the afternoon wear on without a shadow?
Steve twined her fingers in his and lay back to study the sky. “You should see this place at night. Between the smoke plumes, a million stars shine.”
Clare let herself down beside Steve, her shoulders against sun-warmed rock. “On a clear night in Houston, you’re lucky to see Venus and Orion’s belt. If the clouds are in, the sky becomes such a hazy red that I’ve wondered if a big fire caused the glow.”
“Do you miss Houston?”
Above Mount Washburn, high clouds scudded. Their sharp white on blue was different from the washed out look of the