Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [60]
In the dull sheen of afternoon, the Madison looked like molten metal. Only a few miles south, the Madison-to-Old Faithful Road was closed because the North Fork had spotted across the Firehole River. Word had it that the campground would be threatened within days.
That North Fork was getting to be one ugly fire, started by a thrown cigarette, which reminded Deering that he badly needed a smoke. He reached into his flight suit pocket and drew out a Marlboro.
The haze now produced the daily effect of a partial solar eclipse. The surreal half-light disoriented every bit as much as the celestial event. As Deering smoked, a reddish disc of sun appeared, the color of Georgia’s hair.
He ground the butt beneath his boot heel.
Slowly, he drifted toward the amphitheater of split log benches where a wiry boy in the ubiquitous yellow shirt and olive trousers lectured to about forty people dressed the same. With a smooth motion, the instructor swung an air pack over his shoulder, the tank hanging upside down. Reaching behind, he cracked the valve and demonstrated breathing the air under positive pressure.
After a moment, the full facemask raised and Deering recognized Clare.
“On the fire lines these won’t be available,” she said, “but in case you’re around the villages and need to go into a burning building we want you to know what you’re doing. Remember that fire doesn’t have to touch you to kill you. Most people in house fires die when superheated air and gases start at the ceiling and work down. They breathe in thousand degree air and sear their lungs.”
She paused to acknowledge a raised hand. “Yes?”
“Will we be safe on the fire line?”
Deering watched her consider.
“Firefighting is a dangerous business,” she admitted. “Some folks think that those of us who choose it are crazy. Now, you didn’t make that choice yourself, but you did join the volunteer Army, so I can only assume that you’re willing to do what your country sets you to . . . in this case, fighting fire.” She looked around. “Any questions?”
There were none.
“Now it’s your turn.” The barrel-chested soldier she passed the pack to followed directions, swinging it high over his head and bringing it down onto his back.
Deering watched until she had helped each man and woman, adjusting a strap here and there. When the lesson broke up, he waved.
“What are you doing here?” She came toward him between the rows of rustic benches.
“What pilots do best.” Deering liked the way her long-lashed eyes widened with her smile. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
“This afternoon I’m supposed to fly hot meals to the Mink Creek spike camp.” He took a deep drag on a fresh cigarette, thinking she looked good in trousers, even oversize ones drawn in with a belt. “You stood me up the other night.”
“I got held up on a mountain.” She brushed her hair off her bronzed forehead and offered no other explanation. Watching her manhandle the air pack had brought out the contrast between her compact yet strong frame and Georgia’s softness.
Perhaps if he and Georgia hadn’t been estranged, he wouldn’t be thinking about what Clare’s taut body might feel like against his, but this summer nothing was as it should be.
He gestured toward the Huey. “Want to go for a ride?”
From the left seat, Clare watched Deering run the rotors up until the chopper lifted off the grass beside the Madison River. It hovered at three feet, then he pushed the cyclic stick forward and added power by pulling up the collective and rolling on throttle. The helicopter accelerated across the grassy meadow until it reached about twenty knots, and seemed to leap into the air.
Below, the forest was green as far as she could see, but as they went on, Yellowstone Lake came up with the burn around Grant Village. The blackened swath brought back her dread as she had scanned rough waters and wondered if all hands had gone down with Deering’s helicopter.
He landed at Flagg Ranch, the first private enterprise on the road south after leaving the TW Services empire. While he went to check on his cargo, Clare went into the gift