Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [73]
He raised his glass and was surprised to find it empty. Sliding it across the bar, he gestured for another.
A hand clapped him on the shoulder. “I bloody heard you were back,” Moru Mzima said in his deep, Oxford-accented voice.
Word spread fast on the Mammoth telegraph. A tourist could think it an impersonal place, with thousands of people passing through every day, but those who lived at Park Headquarters knew how small a town it truly was. Here Steve was, back from supposedly drying out on the mountain, with a double bourbon in his hand.
He cursed his judgment in coming to the hotel. He should have driven down the canyon to Gardiner for a bottle. Only the fact that drink came quicker here had swayed him.
“Yeah,” Steve said dully, “I’m bloody back, all right.”
Sure enough, Moru glanced at Steve’s drink. “You made Peter Jennings.”
Big fucking deal. Steve suppressed it because Moru did not use foul language.
“A photo of an elk carcass and you.”
“Was that all?” Steve drained half his fresh drink. “Nothing I said about how the large animals usually aren’t harmed by fire?”
“Not a word. That did get aired in Billings.”
“A huge audience there.”
“Tonight was the biggest sideshow yet.” Moru grimaced. “Leaping flames and sweaty firefighters.” His voice took on the officious tone of a TV announcer. “Over a hundred thousand acres burned in a single Black Saturday.”
Wanting to change the subject, Steve asked, “Have any of our experimental plots burned?”
He’d been collaborating with Moru on documenting the effects of fire on the plant community. They catalogued the species diversity in a marked-off area, waited for it to burn, and studied the recovery.
“Not unless we got lucky this afternoon with the North Fork,” Moru said. “I’ve got the summer interns I’m working with, Thomas Lee and Kelly Engels, on some new areas in the predicted path of the big fires. Thomas wants to do one by Old Faithful.”
“That’ll never burn.” Even as he spoke, Steve knew he had yet to see the fire maps for this Black Saturday. He would not have imagined the North Fork getting as far as Norris.
Moru smiled. “I think Thomas wants a chance to hang out near a bar and decent restaurant, rather than doing all the remote hikes we’ve had those kids on for two and a half months.”
“I’ll help you start more tracts this week,” Steve said. “I’m off the mountain.”
Thinking of getting another drink, he went on, “Beer, Moru?”
“A cola, please. I must drive this evening.”
“How’s that?”
“Dugan heard you’d pulled into town and assigned me to drive you back to Mount Washburn,” Moru said. “Tonight.”
As night fell, Clare parked her rental car in front of the Smokejumper’s dorm in West Yellowstone. The wind still blew, seizing trash from the catering barrels and transforming the papers into darting white birds.
In the dorm’s dining room, Hudson read a dog-eared paperback while he ate. Every square inch of his cast sported a riot of signatures and humorous obscenities, along with a drawing of the Beechcraft discharging jumpers. Sherry’s chili had so many crumbled crackers in it that the mix was unrecognizable.
She pointed to the pot with her spoon. “Randy’s leftover masterpiece. Had to make a run yesterday before getting any.”
Clare helped herself to the fragrant mix of meat, onions, and spice and straddled the bench, just as Deering appeared in the doorway. To his credit, his languid pose straightened when he saw her. While he greeted the others, she used the excuse of being ravenous to shovel food without ceremony.
“Cowboy chili?” Deering sounded friendly, but his lips pressed his cigarette and his eyes suggested Clare could bitch him out later.
“No beans,” Sherry said. “You a purist?”
“Beans or no, I’m hungry enough to eat that whole pot.” Deering looked around the table. “And thirsty enough to drink a beer. Forecast says we’ll be grounded again in the morning. Any takers?”
“I’m in,” Sherry agreed. “Hudson’ll come. Clare?”
Deering had his back to her at the stove, but his