Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [74]
“All right,” she agreed. “What else have I got to do?”
Deering turned, bowl in hand, and his tight look said she’d hit the mark.
Fifteen minutes later, the headlights of his pickup illuminated a haze on the highway into West Yellowstone. Clare rode in the center front, pressed between the impersonal bulk of Hudson and the taut tension of Deering.
“That smoke looks like blowing snow,” Sherry said from the jumpseat in back.
“I wish.” Hudson peered past his propped-up leg.
In West Yellowstone, traffic was backed at every stoplight. In addition to the usual Saturday night in town crowd, there were hundreds of firefighters and tourists. Deering passed the Red Wolf Saloon, and on the second pass around the block, a camper backed out in front of Fire Command.
While Deering helped Hudson, Clare climbed out the driver’s side. She looked at the tall, lighted windows in the massive stone and log building. “I’ll be along later.”
Deering caught up with her halfway across the lawn. His touch found her shoulder.
“Don’t.”
He removed his hand, but stayed close at her heels. “We’ve gotta talk.”
She went inside the big raftered room with a moosehead over the fireplace. Folding chairs were set up in rows, but there was no one there. From beyond the swinging doors that led into the main command center came a hum of voices. Clare pushed through, and found phones ringing and people talking on radios at nine o’clock at night.
At the fire map, a bearded older man sketched an extension to the North Fork. His marker blackened past the Grand Loop Road and Norris Geyser Basin. As Clare looked at the small patch that represented the Chance fire, several miles southwest of Clover-Mist, the marker slashed across the plastic overlay. Today Lovely and Chance had burned into Clover-Mist. The dark mass obliterated the entire eastern sector of the park.
As a firefighter, she gritted her teeth at so much destruction.
Garrett came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a stack of Fig Newtons. “Share my supper?”
“What in hell happened out there today?” Clare asked. “We couldn’t fight fires, we couldn’t find a road open.”
“We couldn’t fly,” Deering added.
Garrett shook his head. “Yesterday the total for all the fires was two hundred seventy-five thousand acres. Soon we’ll be staring at half a million.”
Clare whistled.
“The wind hasn’t died down like it usually does at night,” Garrett continued. “I’m getting reports from all over of crown fires running. The Superintendent’s meeting up at Mammoth to decide whether or not to close the park.”
“That would be a shame for folks like the Cullens who own the Red Wolf,” Clare said.
“We’ll be calling in reinforcements, a couple dozen more twenty-person crews. And more soldiers for you and Sergeant Travis to carp at.” Garrett smiled.
“Marvelous.”
“When’s it gonna end?” Deering looked at the map.
“There’s no hope of stopping this,” Garrett drawled. “We’ll try to save the buildings and power lines, but until the snows fly, this is gonna be like the Siege of Atlanta.”
“How’s that?” Clare tried to recall her Civil War history.
“Fight and fall back. These fires aren’t going to stop until the rain and snow put them out.”
When Deering and Clare were back outside, he turned to her. “We can join Sherry and Hudson for a drink . . .”
“But?”
“I’d like to try again with you.”
She kept moving.
Deering stepped in front of her, so close that she could smell a mixture of soap, citrus aftershave, and tobacco. “I know I lied. It seemed like the only way.”
She sidestepped and walked on.
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
At the raw sound of his voice, she stopped.
He took the back of her arm in a gentle grip. “Is that what you want to hear? I was wrong to set you up like that. I only did it because I thought we’d be good together.”
She considered his plea, weighing how angry she’d been against how many times she’d relived those hasty, hot moments at Mink Creek. Without committing to anything, she walked with Deering in the street beside the vehicles of weekend revelers