Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [9]
Behind him, Clare watched a reddish glow advance beneath a smoke veil. Although the backfire seemed powerful, it could not compare with a conflagration that had been a month in the making. The Shoshone’s rumble became a roar, a hollow warning that presaged firestorm.
Clare’s heart pounded. If they couldn’t get these people out of here, the main body of the fire was going to sweep over them. She strained her ears, but there was no familiar whop of rotors bringing relief.
“Clare,” Javier Fuentes said from behind her shoulder.
She turned. Instead of speaking, he jerked his head away from the RV. They trudged along together, her head barely coming up past his shoulder. Once out of earshot, she paused.
Javier’s face looked white beneath his tan. “The chopper crashed,” he blurted. “Down in the lake off West Thumb.”
Clare pressed her lips together. In the five days she’d been at Yellowstone, she’d supervised several teams in stopping the advance of fire onto utility lines. Save the property was the rule, but not at the risk of safety.
Today was the first time she’d seen lives threatened.
She’d been counting on the effect of the water drop to beat back the heat beside the road. Without it, it was probably still possible to drive through, but only if none of the drivers panicked and stopped.
Javier waited for instruction with alert dark eyes. As his superior, she was to command the next action. A look at what was becoming a tunnel of flame gave no encouragement. The Shoshone rose to a banshee wail.
In the moment she continued to hesitate, Javier suggested, “How about we get these folks moving?”
“Okay.” She forced an even tone. “Get the man in that RV driving, no matter what it takes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Javier turned away.
Although it had been a break of mere seconds, a flick of his eyes said he’d noticed. Javier had been the one who reached her first, while she kicked at the fallen roof covering Frank and bent to put her gloved hands into the fire. Now, she had to admit that she’d been out of her head, trying a desperate rescue where none was possible. Javier had pulled her out of the building, refusing to let her sacrifice her life.
“Let’s go!” Clare shouted. People who had their car windows up against the smoke began to lower them. “There’s just a short stretch and then you’ll be in the clear.” She tried to keep her voice from going shrill.
Determination dawned on the faces of drivers who’d been looking helpless. The RV started. Clare went to the next vehicle, a white Caprice. Slapping the hood with the flat of her palm, she shouted, “Move it!”
It seemed to take forever for the line of traffic to pass. Each time someone slowed at the sight of leaping flames ahead, she rushed their vehicle and shouted through her raw throat for them to keep going. Gradually, the bottleneck cleared.
Clare waved at Javier. “We’ve got to check that crash site.” As wildfire fighters, it wasn’t in their job description, but city EMT training had her ready to move.
Javier drove as steadily as he had before. He was a good man, strong and solid. If she had to go into a closed warehouse where fire awaited the fuel of fresh air, she would want him with her.
Heat blasted through the open window along with the sharp snap of fire’s voracious feeding. The bare skin of her arm felt as though she held it too close to a broiler. “Javier . . . “
He obliged by picking it up perhaps ten miles per hour.
Through pursed lips, he began to whistle “Singin’ in the Rain.” She’d heard him do that before, when they were in a smoky hotel corridor and visibility was nil. They’d crept forward, waiting for the dragon to reveal itself.
It had been that way for her and Frank in the fourth floor hall. A dark tunnel that lead to their quarry, born of fuel, oxygen, and heat. What unbelievable fortune, the flying fickle finger of fate, or just plain damned being in the wrong or right place--Frank had ended up in the morgue while the blistering heat drove her back from the light.
About a quarter mile