Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [59]
“He hasn’t called in three weeks,” Georgia gulped.
“He told us you hoped they’d never find his helicopter.”
“I didn’t mean that. I was upset.”
“Georgia,” Anna said flatly. “This last has brought it to a head, but you’ve been trying to manipulate him out of the sky for twenty years.”
“He risks his life to ferry buckets of water to fires that nobody can stop. What’s the use in that?”
Anna went to the rolltop desk and retrieved a folded newspaper. “I picked this up on our trip.”
Georgia took the West Yellowstone News. The photo took up half the front page.
He stood with his arm around a petite woman in shorts and a tank top. In jeans instead of his usual flight suit, his stance spoke of pride, as did the grin on his face. Behind him was an olive-drab helicopter, the kind he’d piloted in Vietnam.
Georgia unfolded the paper and revealed the inch-tall headline. Hero Rescues Injured Smokejumper.
Even with his own Bell out of commission, the man couldn’t stay grounded.
The paper said two tours in Vietnam had given Deering the jungle savvy to maneuver the Huey in the closest of clearings, getting the Smokejumper to medical care before he bled to death from a severed artery. The woman, Clare Chance, was a firefighter EMT who’d been on the flight. Georgia studied her casual top, one shoulder awry where Deering had his arm around her.
It was quiet, save for the ticking of Anna’s grandfather clock.
It had been a long time since Georgia had seen a smile like that on her husband’s face. He looked like a little boy posing for the camera with one hand propped on the chopper door like it was a teammate. What she didn’t like was that his embrace of the woman had the same look to it.
She smoothed her hand over the picture, careful not to let the sweat on her palms smear the newsprint.
“He’s in West Yellowstone working for Demetrios Karrabotsos,” Anna said from the kitchen doorway. “Island Park Helicopters.”
Where in hell was Georgia? Deering listened to the twentieth ring and looked at the Huey where he’d left it beside the Madison River. It appeared to be a normal summer day with wading fly-fisherman casting lines, but a group of firefighters had taken over the campground amphitheater for a training exercise.
Having finally worked up his nerve to call, he needed to hear Georgia’s voice. As the phone kept ringing, his heart thudded. For a guy who liked excitement, this wasn’t any fun. After thirty rings, he slammed the pay phone back on the hook. One of three yellow-shirts waiting nodded and stepped up to the open kiosk.
Deering crossed the road and leaned against a picnic table. He had always called Georgia at least once a day, even four years ago in Alaska when he’d had to stand in line for the only phone in a hundred miles. He’d gotten to bed at three and thought about being home warm with her in bed, while the glow on the horizon said the sun had barely dipped beneath it. Then back in the cockpit at four-thirty, where he’d do his preflight, drinking a cup of harsh black coffee and longing for Georgia’s freshly ground Kenya AA with a touch of cardamom.
He wondered what he would have said if she had answered. She should apologize, for what she’d said about his helicopter was damned near inexcusable. He’d flown other peoples’ equipment for years, scraping and saving for a down payment on his own machine. When his Bell had finally come in, he’d bought Dom Perignon because it was the most expensive and dusty bottle at the liquor store. Georgia had been all smiles until she realized he was serious about her breaking it on the skid.
Just thinking about his wife hoping he’d lost his most prized possession jolted him back to outrage. His Georgie wasn’t a business, but an extension of him. If he didn’t get the insurance check soon Georgia might