Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [61]
Maybe the box could hold Devon’s concert tickets or keepsakes. On the other hand, considering how her daughter’s tastes differed from her own, she wondered how she might please her. The girl was seventeen going on seventy, playing like a child one moment and disdainful of anything that smacked of youth the next.
Before Clare had selected anything, Deering came to get her.
Once airborne, they headed northeast for forty miles. Deering circled the chopper around Turret Mountain on the north side of Howell Creek, banking to give a view of the steep-sided peak. Then he dropped down between the valley walls.
“There it is.” He brought them in to land near a mismatched array of colorful tents and camping gear staggered along a meadow bisected by a mountain stream.
“How long will we be here?” Clare reached for the door handle.
Deering stripped off his headphones. “How long would you like?”
Several hours later, Clare saw him through the throng of yellow-shirts, his olive drab flight suit distinguishing him from the hundreds of firefighters in line for dinner. She waved from her volunteer position inside the medical tent and turned to lay another strip of moleskin on yet another blister. Beside her was a cardboard box filled with discarded, bloody socks left behind by Apache and Navajo firefighters.
Heading to meet Deering, she sidestepped a patch of grayish phlegm on the ground. After foot injuries, bronchitis from smoke inhalation ranked high on the list of ills. Not to mention back problems. Lifting the air pack had aggravated her recurring lower back pain.
Deering ducked beneath the tent flap. He carried an orange stuff sack and a pair of yellow sleeping bags. “I found a crack in the Jesus nut on the Huey.”
“Christ,” she quipped. “What does that mean?” In the moment when her words were out, she saw his face settle in serious lines.
“It holds the rotors onto the ship. It breaks, you go down.”
Clare looked at the sleeping bags. “How long will it take to get a part?”
When she looked back at Deering, his gaze did not meet hers. “They don’t have it at West Yellowstone. I’ll have something flown in tomorrow.”
“I’ll need to radio Garrett since I’m supposed to meet the troops at Madison.” Things had to be kept flexible when the fires did the unexpected.
“What time?” Deering asked.
“Noon.” The wind riffled the canvas walls of the tent.
He smiled. “No need to call in. I’m sure I’ll have you at Madison before noon.”
She decided to enjoy the evening. Except for, “Is that one tent I see in your hand?”
“Last one in camp. We’ll have to share like scouts.”
He made it sound simple, but near midnight, Clare sat in the tiny two-man tent. Deering had excused himself to visit what he called the ‘portable convenience.’
Her boots and socks already rested at the head of the zippered bags lying side by side. Together, she and Deering had watched the forest on Turret Mountain being consumed. A big fire at night was even more mesmerizing than staring into a fireplace, or at a single candle’s glow.
Ever changing and ever the same.
Out here at the edge of the park, without any homes or property threatened, she could relax and watch the spectacle of nature untrammeled. Deering had stood behind her, a light hand holding each of her elbows. Although she’d rolled the sleeves of her shirt down against the night wind, she was aware of his touch.
Sitting alone in the tent, she suddenly thought that she was playing the fool. He probably wasn’t even thinking of her. She shrugged and unbuttoned her shirt, then wriggled out of her pants.
“Look there.” Deering pulled back the flap.
Clare dove into the sleeping bag. Once covered, she turned onto her stomach and peered out. The Mink Creek glowed along its front like a brilliant diadem. The wind had picked up, blowing down Turret Mountain.
“The fires are supposed to lie down at night,” Deering observed. “This year they must have been behind the schoolhouse when the rulebooks were passed.” He sat to unlace