As soon as she was in place and slammed the door, Deering lifted off. She fumbled for her harness and headphones, while the earth dropped away. Below, the highway from Mammoth to Tower Junction crossed Lava Creek on an impressive metal span, near its confluence with the Gardner.

Over the engine's roar and the steady whopping of rotors, Deering said dryly, "Good morning." Dark eyes shot a sideways look. "I trust you pa.s.sed a pleasant night."

"f.u.c.k you," Clare said. "Did you sleep with your wife?"

Deering cut power and the Huey started to lose alt.i.tude.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting her down."

"What for?"

"So we can talk."

"Talk all you want. I can't hear you." Clare tore off her headphones and dropped them.

They were coming down onto a broad meadow of dry golden gra.s.s. She remembered the drive last night when she and Steve had looked out at the high country of the Blacktail Deer Plateau.

Within a rising cloud of dust, the chopper hovered, then landed. A look out at the expanse of empty meadow made her reconsider getting out and walking away. Nothing was going to make her miss Devon's plane.

The rotors wound down. Deering sat with both hands draped over the cyclic stick until it was quiet, save for the hum of wind around the door seals. He took off his headphones and put them between the seats.

She sat stiffly.

When she failed to look at him, he said, "Clare."

She flicked her eyes to his. There was no cajoling, just an infinite sadness that reminded her of when he'd climbed out of the tent at the Mink Creek Camp.

"You're right," he said evenly. "I am married."

"Then what . . .?"

"When I ditched, she said she hoped they never brought up my chopper. She doesn't understand my flying, like you seem to. I was torn up, looking for a way to get back at her."

Clare saw in him what felt like the first solid truth she'd seen. "You love her."

"Yeah."

Now that she knew . . . too late, that she cared for Steve and not Deering, it was easy to say, "Then, for G.o.d's sake, what are you doing here?"

Georgia Deering swam through mola.s.ses-thick darkness toward the light. She kicked and pulled until the brightness became a flood of morning sun on the bed. Through the open window, framed by gently blowing lace curtains, she heard the chatter of the Portneuf as it wended its way downstream from Lava Hot Springs.

Gradually, Georgia came fully awake, realizing that she'd overslept for the third time in a week. Ten-thirty usually saw her breakfast of shredded wheat and strawberries finished, dishes on the drain board.

She ran a hairbrush through her unruly reddish curls and put on her favorite white terry robe, well washed and softened.

In the hallway, she paused to straighten the frame of the wedding ring quilt she'd made when she and Deering got married. It hung next to a shadow box of tiny porcelain dolls. When she got to the kitchen, she frowned, for she'd fallen asleep without putting away last night's dishes.

Although it was pushing noon, she didn't yet feel like eating.

"Maybe just a cup of tea," she said, and shook her head.

"Pretty soon you'll be answering yourself and then what?"

What indeed? She'd been putting off finding a lot of answers, even afraid to ask the questions. Surely, Deering had been curious about her showing up in West Yellowstone, waiting around with Karrabotsos, and then disappearing. Didn't he even suspect she might have seen him with that Clare?

When she'd come home, she hadn't even told Anna. As if not speaking of it could erase Deering pulling another woman against him in the familiar way she'd thought was reserved for her alone.

Moving woodenly to the pantry, Georgia reached for the canister of herbal tea that Deering had helped her make one day earlier this summer. When she popped the tin, the dank smell of chamomile, mixed with the almost sour essence of stale rose hips smote her. She gagged and lifted the trash lid, but it wasn't enough to put it in the garbage.

Barefoot, she crossed the soft gra.s.s she'd hand watered during the drought. Beside the river, she dumped the tea, expecting the flakes to float away. Instead, the mixture landed in a clump beside a rock.

Georgia kicked at the pile. She lost her balance and almost fell into the stony streambed. "d.a.m.n you!" she cried, not sure if she meant Deering or that woman. To see the last trace of tea wash down the Portneuf, she knelt on the gra.s.sy bank and reached to stir the brew. The smell of tea mixed with tannic decaying leaves overwhelmed her.

She leaned over the bank and gagged. Bright morning receded, her world reduced to the s.p.a.ce between her hanging hair and the Portneuf. When the storm had pa.s.sed, Georgia curled up, shivering. She hoped Widow Barcus wouldn't see her lying in her bathrobe on the lawn.

This crystal morning made her think how different it was where Deering worked, of the smoky h.e.l.l above Yellowstone. Although she'd told herself she didn't care to know what he was doing, she tuned in the news every evening like clockwork.

Last night, Connie Chung had opened, "Tragic news this evening from Yellowstone National Park."

Georgia's heart had begun to race.

"Private William Harrison Jakes, nineteen, of McCall, Idaho, died when a firestorm overtook him and his fellow firefighters. The other members of the group of twenty-three survived beneath Mylar fire shelters, which miraculously shielded them from the fury of the h.e.l.lroaring Fire."

h.e.l.lroaring.

That was rich. It wasn't enough that fire warriors challenge the gates of h.e.l.l. No, they had to call the fire the h.e.l.lroaring, like kicking sand in the face of Beelzebub.

Georgia's rage made her forget being chilled and sick. She sat up, wiping cold sweat from her face with her terry sleeve.

A faint 'whop whop' came to her.

Deering often came home by chopper, landing at the local heliport near the high school across the road.

She remained on the ground, feeling dew seep though her robe. The helipad was also used for medical emergencies and by other businesses.

The chopper's sound grew louder.

Reluctantly, she pushed to her feet and walked around the side of the house. Once she got past the area where she'd watered, the dry gra.s.s felt sharp on her bare soles.

The helicopter came in low across the football field, olive drab with that same military look as the one in the newspaper photo. There was something else as well; some indefinable nuance in the approach angle that said her husband had come home.

Deering started shutting down. Karrabotsos had sounded surprised when he had radioed for permission to fly to Lava Hot Springs, but had let him go, muttering something about taking better care of that little red-haired gal.

That made no sense for Karrabotsos had never met Georgia.

How simple it had seemed when Clare challenged him. She'd managed to cut through all the bulls.h.i.t. He did love his wife, had always loved her. No matter how he pretended nonchalance, crashing his helicopter had shaken him to the core. When Georgia hadn't been there for him, he'd turned to the first available woman, the same kind of daredevil behavior he exhibited in the air.

As the rotors wound down, Deering felt the reluctance that had kept him from calling home these past weeks. Before he stepped down, he reached to the left seat and gathered up a florist's box. In the breast pocket of his flight suit rested a velvet jewel case. This morning when he'd dropped Clare off he'd hitched a ride into the town of Jackson.

With a slam of the Huey's door, he started across the gra.s.s. Before he'd gone ten steps, he saw Georgia at the edge of their yard, inside the low, wrought iron fence. Her white terry bathrobe was belted around her, that glorious copper hair curling over her shoulders.

Taking a breath of the wonderfully clear air, Deering waved.

Usually she jumped the knee-high gate, rushed across the street to the landing field, and launched herself at his neck. This morning, she stood still at his approach.

Deering came through the gate and proffered the box. He encircled Georgia with his other arm and aimed a kiss. She turned her head and his lips brushed her cheek.

"Flowers?" she asked flatly.

"Yeah, I know how much you like 'em in the garden . . . "

Her bright head was down and she busied herself with the satin ribbon. The florist had said that long-stemmed red roses were the most romantic statement a man could make. He wished with all his might that he could come home clean instead of with this dirty feeling.

"I'll put these in water." Georgia headed for the house and he had no choice but to follow.

"Hon," he tried. She was already inside the kitchen, rummaging beneath the counter for the vase he'd sent her roses in twenty years ago. Cheap florist's stock, no blown gla.s.s, she'd kept it all these years. He realized, shamefaced, that he'd never repeated the gesture.

Georgia filled the vase, wiped it with a dishtowel and set it on the wooden table. It rocked, reminding him that he'd promised to fix that shaky leg.

She arranged the roses, cutting them to different lengths with a crosswise knife cut. This time of year, she usually had that vase full of blooms from her garden. Her task complete, she said, "I was just going to make myself some tea." She sounded as though he were a guest in his own kitchen.

"Tea sounds good."

Georgia brought out orange pekoe. Deering wondered what had happened to the herb blend she usually liked. With her back to him, she put on the kettle and looked out the window.

He reached to his pocket for the jewel box. Georgia was October born, the opal birthstone, and he'd found a simple gold band set with a glowing bluish-purple cabochon.

He held out the velvet case. Georgia took it.

The teakettle whistled.

She set the case on the counter and removed the pot from the burner. Steam rose from the tea, wafting a sharp aroma. Georgia reached for a cup, stirred and pulled the tea bag onto a saucer. He wondered where his cup was.

"Aren't you going to . . .?"

She rediscovered the jewel box and slowly opened the lid.

Now, she'd smile and throw her arms around his neck.

Georgia's mouth twisted. "It's funny." She set the case down without removing the ring. "I read in a magazine last week that when your man shows up with flowers and gifts, he's guilty of something."

Deering felt as though he stood in a cold draft. "You believe everything you read?" He took her shoulders in his hands. Even through the bulky robe, she felt as though she'd lost some weight.

Georgia backed until the kitchen sink stopped her. "I didn't have to read about this. Anna convinced me to come up to West Yellowstone and find you. That nice Mr. Karrabotsos let me wait at the airport in the middle of the night until you finally showed up."

No wonder Karrabotsos knew what Georgia looked like. "So, why didn't I see you there?"

Georgia reached to one of the roses and plucked off the top. The petals fluttered to the floor. "You didn't see me, but you sure saw somebody. You put your arms around that woman, the one from the news photo."

She ripped off the top of another rose and let the petals fall.

Deering felt as though the air were a thick liquid that he swam through. "No." He couldn't think of anything that wouldn't be a lie, and he was through lying. Another rose ended up on the floor. "It's not what you think," he managed.

Georgia put out a stiff arm and shoved the vase she'd treasured for twenty years, and he'd never realized why until today . . . off the table. It tumbled to the floor, bounced once and smashed.

"Go back to her," she said. "Fight your d.a.m.ned fires."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

September 5 Within the peaceful town of Jackson, nestled at the base of a b.u.t.te, it was hard for Clare to believe that war raged on a hundred fronts to the north. She wanted nothing more to do with it.

After she'd told Deering good-bye at the Jackson Hole Airport, she had rented another car, shopped for clothes that weren't green and yellow Nomex, and checked into a motel. Then she'd walked, window-shopping turquoise jewelry and bronzes, and sat beneath the town square's antler arches.

Deering had gone to try and make things right with his wife, as it should be. That left things all wrong with Steve. Last night, after they'd talked for hours, she'd almost believed the spell of his Susan was weakening. And if Deering's call had made him jealous, maybe that was a good sign. She pa.s.sed a pay phone, but what could she say if she called? Devon would be here within hours.

Thinking of family and watching the tourist stagecoach circling the block reminded her that she wanted to learn about her ancestors. Such ties extended beyond death, like Steve's to his wife and child. If she didn't have Jay anymore, she at least had her daughter and the people who'd gone before.

Recalling the Yellowstone historian's recommendations, she searched out the Jackson Hole Historical Society. It occupied an authentic-looking log building on a quiet side street. When she opened the door, a bell tinkled.

The man who emerged from the rear room might have been a weather-beaten seventy or a well-preserved eighty-five. His ruddy face beamed beneath a shock of silver hair. "Don't get many folks here." Filled from floor to ceiling with ancient volumes, the dimly lit cabin was not exactly the average tourist destination.

"Asa Dean." Her host peered owlishly through gla.s.ses and extended an age-spotted hand.

"Clare Chance."

Some of the books were thick leather-bound tomes with pages edged in gold; others had seen better days. Wildflower books were filed alongside old novels. When she trailed her finger along the edge of a water-stained spine, Asa offered, "A souvenir of the 1927 flood."

"I've not heard of that," Clare said.

"Back in twenty-five, old Sheep Mountain got tired of holding herself up and slid down into the valley of the Gros Ventre." Asa's voice lapsed into the cadence of telling a familiar tale. "Dammed the river and created Slide Lake . . . until the wet spring of twenty-seven. On May eighteenth, the earthen dam let loose and a fifty-foot wall of water wiped out the town of Kelly."

"Were you here then?"

"I was born in Kelly in ought-seven. Moved to Jackson after the flood."

"I had some family that lived near the Tetons. My grandfather left for Texas in twenty-seven."

"Mayhap 'cause of the flood." Asa toyed with his suspenders. "Would you like coffee?"

Clare checked her watch. She'd called the airport and been told that Devon's flight was delayed several hours. "That would be nice."