Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [86]
Since the troops had left, the only person she knew at the tables was Steve.
When she paused beside him, he looked up from his Styrofoam plate. His blond hair was clean and, like her, he had turned in his soiled Nomex for fresh. Some medic had bandaged his more seriously burned left hand, and his right was pink in places. Her own hands stung, but she didn’t think she needed a bandage.
Clare climbed onto the bench beside Steve. As she settled in, her arm brushed his. “Excuse me,” she murmured.
She reached for a plastic saltshaker. Steve passed it, their hands touching briefly. His face, still pink from a day of sun and the heat of the fire, seemed to turn a bit redder.
Looking at her plate, Clare salted, lifted a mouthful of the tasteless green beans, and salted again. Her raw throat protested.
Steve looked at her and the night wind ruffled her hair. The errant gust traveled through the tent, making the sides sway and firefighters grab for their napkins.
Clare met his eyes, remembering that afternoon, his weight on hers in a way that couldn’t help but make a man and woman consider. She told herself it was the adrenaline and the danger. Death had been on the wind, passing so close that the shelter’s flapping might well have been the Harpy’s wings.
Billy Jakes had worn a wedding ring. Had someone called or was his wife still passing a pleasant evening? When the phone rang, she’d answer in a breezy familiar way thinking it must be him . . .
A mouthful of pork resisted Clare’s attempt to swallow.
As if he read her thoughts, Steve reached for her hand. He forced her stiff fingers straight. “Don’t beat yourself up over Billy Jakes, Clare.”
His touch did what a hot shower and Garrett’s kindness could not. She found herself able to take a full breath and at least attempt to relax. Her shoulders and back stayed tight.
Steve circled his thumb on the inside of her wrist near her pulse. “There’s nothing you could have done,” he soothed.
“Done about what?”
Clare looked up to find Deering. His smile said he saw she’d abandoned her bra. He appeared not to notice that Steve held her hand, or that she was close to tears.
She pulled back and faced the remembered intensity in Deering’s eyes.
A beat late, he said, “Doctor Haywood.” Without an invitation, he sat across from them. Evidently, he had been to the showers, too, his hair leaving a damp trail on the collar of a khaki shirt. He wore his aviator sunglasses on top of his head.
After what had happened today, Clare was torn between being glad to see him and plain not caring. She cut a slice of pork and failed to convey it to her mouth.
“I can safely tell you that West Yellowstone is secure this evening,” Deering said.
She was too exhausted to celebrate, but glad for the townspeople.
“I must have dropped a hundred buckets of water on the edge of town.” Deering acted as though she had not walked out on him. “The downdrafts were so bad I had to tell myself I was going in for a closer look when I was putting on throttle and dropping like a rock.” He forked up a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
The last thing she needed tonight was braggadocio.
Next to Clare, Steve shrugged at the hero talk. “I’d have expected you’d be trucking that useless chopper out of town.”
“That’s a million dollar machine.” Deering cut his eyes to Clare as though he hoped to impress her.
“Did your claim get settled?” she asked.
“Or did the salvage folks take your Bell?” The taunting vehemence in Steve’s voice shocked her. “You didn’t hear about that?” he said. “The salvage company gets it if flyboy here doesn’t come up with the money.”
Deering slammed a fist on the folding table, making it shudder for ten feet. Curious glances were directed their way. “Okay.” His voice carried. “I tried to cover up what really happened . . . for you.”
“For me?” Steve glared.
“Guys.” Clare held up a hand.
Deering ignored her. “I know your job’s on shaky grounds, Haywood. You don’t need for anybody to know you