"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 pa.s.s. 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 d.a.m.ned 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 out on the Grant Village road, the monster bared its teeth. Seeing trees on both sides fully involved, Clare rolled up the window. Her instructor boss Buddy Simpson at A & M had warned her about wildfire. "Every one is different," the Texas good old boy had hammered. "If the fuel is dry enough you'll get a fire, but after that it's anybody's guess."

Clare imagined times past, when Native Americans or settlers from the East had faced a fire such as the Shoshone. They'd had no truck to escape in, nor any pumpers or hoses to save their houses. Men and women had pa.s.sed buckets until the verdict was a changed land and a new village to be built.

Now the Shoshone caught up with the backfire. The roiling glow had an eerie life, crimson, then flaring orange and wavering purple. As much as the sight exhilarated her, Clare also hated to see the forest burn. How many years must pa.s.s before it would be restored?

The heat grew more intense. Javier gunned the engine, his hands now white-knuckled. He, like Clare, wore Nomex fire r.e.t.a.r.dant clothing, tested at DuPont to withstand the heat of a blowtorch. She hoped they didn't get a chance to find out.

Just ahead, a tree uprooted and cartwheeled across the road.

Javier hit the brakes. The truck slewed sideways.

Clare nearly shrieked, but caught herself in time to keep from scaring the bejesus out of the driver. She ducked and braced against the dash. As Javier fought for control, two wheels dropped off the pavement. Gravel thrown up by the tires hailed against the undercarriage.

Her stomach clenched, for if they ended up on foot there was no telling what would happen.

After driving half in the ditch for thirty yards, Javier managed to pull back onto the highway. Clare felt as though the truck's heater ran full blast as they sped through the screaming gale.

When they broke out, it happened suddenly. One moment they were driving through burning forest and the next, they were in the clear on the main highway. The wide thoroughfare with broad shoulders formed an efficient firebreak.

Clare rolled the window down and savored the breeze on her hot cheeks.

They left the flames behind and took the turnoff for West Thumb Geyser Basin, a mile from Grant Village. Javier parked and she ran down the boardwalk that bridged the thin crust. On either side were algae-coated spring deposits in hues of mustard, lime, and rust. Steam rose from clear turquoise pools and was whisked away. A hundred yards downslope, the boardwalk curved and ran along Yellowstone Lake.

"I don't see anything." Javier caught up with her in a loping stride. The wind that had fed the fires since June blew his dark hair and whipped the lake into whitecaps.

Clare fiddled with the Motorola and tried again to call West Yellowstone.

"Go back to the pay phone by the restrooms and see if you can talk to Garrett," she told Javier. "Let me know if they've rescued anyone."

Left alone, she looked up and down the beach. West Thumb seemed an oasis next to the Shoshone raging to the south. The pale smooth rock of the Fishing Cone broke the water's surface a few feet offsh.o.r.e, while the shadows of trout hung nearby. Swirling eddies indicated more springs flowing into the lake.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the fire's sideshow, a number of tourists strolled the geyser basin. A man with a video camera gestured for his slender blond companion to stand farther left so the plume of smoke would be in the background.

Clare headed for them. "Did you see a helicopter go down in the lake?"

The woman gasped and shook her head. The man pointed toward the fire. "Heard an engine over that way a while ago."

Another scan of the lake turned up no sign of a floating wreck.

Clare watched the Shoshone leap through the treetops and wondered if tourists should be this close. At the flame front, pines exploded as their moisture flashed to steam. She'd always been mesmerized by fire, but until her husband, Jay, had left her, she'd never considered the challenge of fighting it for a living. Jay and her daughter, Devon, didn't understand why she'd rushed to finish the academy nine months shy of the thirty-fifth birthday cutoff.

When she looked back, it became clear. Needing a life to replace the one that had been focused on family, she had discovered the brotherhood of fire.

Thousands had attended Frank's memorial in Houston's Rice University Stadium. Members of the Houston Fire and Police Departments had taken off work, along with representatives of departments all over Texas. The procession had stretched for miles while traffic cops struggled to deal with parking. Family and friends were overwhelmed by the presence of the city mayor and other dignitaries, as well as the ceremony of pipers and buglers. Frank's coffin had been flag-draped, for he was a Navy veteran.

Clare had nearly stayed home. She'd wondered how many might whisper that she could have done more to save Frank. Who of them thought that if Frank had taken Javier, or any other man into that apartment house, he'd have walked out with little Pham Nguyen cradled in his arms.

They'd called Frank a hero, and her as well, but she had not been able to trust embraces and smiles. The department psychologist had warned about survivor's guilt and post-traumatic stress, but putting labels on feelings you couldn't control didn't solve anything.

The only thing she figured might help was carrying on. Right now, that meant helping the people on board the chopper lost in Yellowstone Lake.

Deering floated with one arm tangled in his life vest, his teeth chattering. He wondered how much longer he could hold on.

He'd covered a fraction of the distance to sh.o.r.e. It looked like maybe a hundred yards to the line of trees, but it might as well be miles. He watched the Shoshone leap to the sky and eat its way toward where he would come ash.o.r.e . . . if he made it.

Numbness stole over him and his shaking stopped as though the water had become warmer. He imagined he was home, lying beside Georgia in their bedroom with sun on the corner. He could take a little nap.

Deering closed his eyes. Cold water slapped at his face and into his ears, but the sensation seemed far away.

Through a growing lethargy, he heard a faint familiar rhythm. It reminded him of early morning in Nam when the first chopper in the air made a solitary song.

Opening his heavy lids, he identified the boxy silhouette of a Chinook, with rotors fore and aft. The big machine could carry thirty firefighters and their field gear or airlift a thousand gallons of water in a sling. Deering waved, shocked at how heavy his arm felt. He wished he had a purple smoke to signal with.

Without showing any sign of seeing him, the pilot guided the Chinook north past the whitened ground of West Thumb Geyser Basin.

Deering studied sh.o.r.e and struck out with rubbery arms and legs, failing to make headway in the wind-driven chop. It wasn't fair that it should end like this, that he should fail with land in sight, all Georgia's fears realized.

Behind him, the sound of rotors once more grew louder. His heart surged and adrenaline came to his rescue.

The Chinook came in low and hovered about a hundred feet off the water. The chopper door slid open and someone reached to a cable on a pulley.

The horse-collar landed three feet from Deering. In the chop, it looked like thirty. He reached to stroke and his hand splashed into the lake. The man above shouted, but the whipping wind and whine of rotors turned it to gibberish.

The Chinook moved forward, sweeping the horse-collar through the water. Deering saw it coming and let go of the vest he'd only partially donned. For a panicky moment, he was afraid he'd made a mistake, but the collar came into his hands. Although he was tempted to drape himself over it, he risked falling out when they lifted him. Another minute ticked past in the frigid water while he struggled to get the sling around his back and under his arms.

Aloft, the winch started and Deering lifted clear, dangling like a doll. He rode the twisting cable up through bright sun that failed to warm. Stiff wind whipped his flight suit, snapping the sopping cloth.

All the way up, he felt the remembered disgrace, the deep sense of leftover shame from his war years. A pilot who lost his ship was lower than whale s.h.i.t, and he'd been there before--with a shot-up rotor, surrounded by VC, praying for rescue, yet reluctant to face the fellow soldiers put at risk to save him.

When most of the cable had rolled up, Deering's rescuer reached for him. The big man was alone in the rear compartment. "We were heading back from dropping groundpounders out east and heard your Mayday."

Deering was dragged through the doorway. The horse collar stripped over his head. When he fell forward to land with his cheek on the deck, he appreciated the heat of the metal.

Clare watched the Chinook bank away from West Thumb. Thank G.o.d, someone had been rescued, perhaps the pilot judging by what looked like a flight suit. Had there been more than one person aboard?

The wind gusted, she guessed at over forty miles per hour. Her pants and shirtsleeves popped like sails and she wished she hadn't left her turnout coat in the truck.

She cast another look at the crown fire eating its voracious way up the lake sh.o.r.e and noticed something out of place in the world of gray pumice, pink rhyolite and pine. A hundred yards down the beach something lay half in the water. With a squint, she recognized the beacon of a yellow Nomex fire shirt.

As she leaped from the end of the boardwalk, she slipped on a white crust of pea-sized rocks. For an instant, she teetered on the rim of a hot pool, remembering stories of people and animals parboiled in Yellowstone. When she regained her balance and ran down the beach, it was tough going. Trees that had been battered down by winter storm waves tripped her.

The smell of fire grew stronger as she struggled. Hung up in ragged limbs, she twisted to the side, trying to ease herself out without tearing her trousers. A look ahead showed the potentially drowned person, lying between the approaching flames and the lake.

To h.e.l.l with it.

She ripped her pants and splashed the rest of the way through shallow water.

A broad-shouldered man in fire-r.e.t.a.r.dant olive trousers and the yellow shirt lay on the rocks, his clothing and dark blond hair streaming. He might be thirty or fifty years old, face down with one arm flung over his head.

The wind shifted to blow onsh.o.r.e as the convection cell sucked oxygen to feed the flames.

Clare crouched and called, "Are you all right?" She felt the deja vu of the opening steps of CPR. The last time was in Houston on a heart attack victim and the man had died anyway.

She pushed away the vision of performing ventilations in waist deep water, for without a solid surface she would not be able to do effective chest compressions.

"Can you hear me?"

She checked for a pulse in the carotid artery at the side of his neck. Feeling a flutter beneath her fingers, she exhaled a sigh.

Not a hundred yards away, the Shoshone reared like a cobra.

Clare rolled the victim over and discovered a Park Service badge and nameplate. "d.a.m.n you, Steve Haywood," she raged. "Talk to me!" That one wasn't in the rescue manual.

He stirred and opened his eyes, silver gray like the sheen of light on a lake before a storm. The look on his face was one of confusion.

Flames spotted not thirty yards away. A two-foot thick pine blasted apart with a crack like a howitzer. "I hate to tell you this." Clare forced a note of cheer. "You're about to go swimming again."

Steve was fresh out of adrenaline, but he knew he had to move. He felt the woman's hand beneath his shoulder and, with her help, he managed to get to his knees. Although his legs threatened to collapse, he crawled back into the freezing lake.

She stayed with him, shedding her rubber boots. Dazed, he looked at her turnout pants and Houston Fire Department shirt. "What are you doing here?"

"I hope to G.o.d I'm saving your a.s.s."

He hoped so, too. Not because he looked forward to spending more time on this planet, but because he needed to survive in case Deering managed to dodge the bullet. If Steve had his way, he'd see to it that Deering never flew again. The Triworld Airlines pilot had paid the ultimate price, but late at night Steve still woke up sweating, wanting to kill Captain Todd Neville with his bare hands. After four years, the shock of Susan's screams and Christa's pitiful wail as the jet plunged was still as vivid as the night it happened.

"Deering?" Steve asked the woman helping him into the lake.

"The pilot?"

He nodded.

"I saw someone picked up by chopper."

Steve's anger warmed him as he waded after her, twenty-five, then fifty feet from sh.o.r.e.

The Shoshone burned hotly, crackling and roaring toward West Thumb's boardwalks. He looked back at it . . . once.

This summer's fires were like nothing he'd even seen, not in the early seventies when he'd dug line a few feet from the creeping edge of flame or during his past three years in Yellowstone. The park's recent wildfires had barely blackened the bark.

The inferno came closer, right down to the water. Steve felt the heat on the back of his head, almost blistering despite his wet hair, and knew he would be burned even at this distance.

"Survival floating," the woman directed. Her short blond hair was wet, too, revealing dark roots. "You know it?"

He answered by pushing off into a dead man's float, then curled until only his back broke the surface. They would conserve their energy until they needed to take a breath, then draw their arms and legs together just enough to raise their faces for air. People could supposedly do this for hours, but that a.s.sumed the water was a lot warmer.

It had been freezing that night in Alaska, too, when the 737 plowed into a s...o...b..nk and slid a thousand feet to crash into a cliff. Steve had thought he was dead until the cold rushing through the broken fuselage and the pain in his shattered knees had brought him around. Frantically, he had looked for Susan and Christa.

The scientist in him knew the facts, but looking back on that night Steve always thought the cold had come from the frozen hollow heart of a man who had lost everything.

The firefighter's fingers encircled Steve's wrist and held on.

CHAPTER THREE.

July 25 Clare's strained face, streaked with soot, stared back from a mirror at the Lake Hospital. More of a clinic, the small complex beside the Lake Hotel was the best care available in the center of Yellowstone. They'd given her a room to take a hot shower and some green scrubs to put on in place of her sodden Nomex. Down the hall, the helicopter pilot and the ranger she'd rescued were being treated.

Deep shadows marked the skin beneath her eyes. For years, she'd prided herself on being able to sleep through the station alarm when she wasn't up on the roster, but since Frank had died, sleep was a nightmare landscape.

Clare brushed sweaty bangs from her forehead, and checked for the gray she blamed on Jay's leaving her. Although she frosted her coal dark hair to mask the evidence, the blonde in the mirror sometimes still surprised her. Stripping off her filthy fire clothes, she unhooked the damp bra that stuck to her and wanted to throw it as far as she could. With a silent entreaty, she turned the faucets.

Steam rose. There was nothing like the sluice of hot water when you'd been shaking with cold. She and Steve Haywood had been in the lake for long minutes, until the Shoshone's fury pa.s.sed. Then they'd worked their way along the sh.o.r.e to West Thumb, where Javier had carried the ranger to the truck.

Beneath the spray, Clare lathered luxuriously and lingered to soak in the heat with bent head.

When she climbed out of the shower, the pale green of fluorescent lights washed out her naturally healthy color. For rea.s.surance, she a.s.sessed her body. Not that there was or might be any man to appreciate the results of weightlifting during slow times at the fire station. Her upper arms and smallish b.r.e.a.s.t.s were firm. Dark aureoles reminded her that her great-grandfather had been a quarter Nez Perce.

She'd asked her mother about her family and been told her great-grandparents William Cordon Sutton and his wife Laura had ranched in Wyoming through the nineteen twenties, along with their sons Cordon, Jr., and Bryce. "Why did my Granddad come to Texas?" Clare had been around ten, stirring a soggy bowl of Cheerios and hoping she didn't have to finish breakfast.

Her mother shrugged. "Your Grandfather Cordon was a man of few words. He once said his mother Laura was the writer in the family, but I've never seen any of the journals she was supposed to have kept."

Young and inspired, Clare had started a journal of her own that very afternoon, proudly opening a blank, lined notebook and inscribing her name in purple ink on the flyleaf. That was as far as her efforts had gone.

Over the years, she'd often wondered about her great-grandmother's life on the frontier. Now that she was in the West, she hoped to dig up some family roots.

Dressed and in the hospital hall, Clare looked for a telephone. Although her wallet was damp, she extracted her long distance calling card and dialed Houston.