He'd climb the worn stairs to his small corner office, awash in morning sun and cluttered with stacks he called his piling system. He always savored days devoted to research. Only in winter when park visitors were few could an interpretive ranger find that kind of luxury.

After a few days spent snowed in, the s.p.a.ce between the walls always seemed to narrow. That was when he and Moru would head off on snowmobiles into the park interior. Jouncing over the washboard surface formed by the machines, they were warmed by insulated snowsuits, gloves, and helmets, even while traveling fifty miles per hour through subfreezing air.

On the return, he never failed to thrill at the way the world changed at the innocuous notch that edged the vast white expanse of Swan Lake Flat. In the narrow apex of Golden Gate Canyon, the road began a seemingly endless spiral, through the jumbled giant blocks of white travertine called the Hoodoos, sidehilling beside a sweeping vista at least thirty miles up Blacktail Deer Plateau. Winding past the terraces of Mammoth Hot Springs and the old military cemetery, onto the parade ground and . . .

Home.

Clare had been the catalyst; the seed to renewed hope when she'd challenged him not to destroy himself. Now he determined to stay sober for all that was important in his life.

He slid off his boot and it clunked to the carpet. To underline the point he pulled off his socks.

In the bathroom, he dashed double handfuls of cold water on his face. He had lost the spare tire and his muscles were defined from the summer's work. His hair wasn't ever going to get any thicker, but what there was bore gold sun streaks. His face was bronzed and the puffy bags beneath his eyes had disappeared.

Coming out of the bath, he stopped and looked at the connecting door. Clare was behind it, wearing that silly grizzly shirt or maybe nothing at all. His breathing deepened, or maybe it just seemed the air grew dense. This new, heavy atmosphere defined his body, making him aware of all his sensations. The carpet felt soft beneath his bare feet. His jeans rode low, looser in the past weeks, well-worn cotton against his skin. He ran a hand over his stomach and chest and stared at the thin panel that separated him from Clare.

She was probably in bed now.

He began to pace, as best he could in the small room, a few feet toward the nightstand, about face and around in front of the silent TV to the other side of the bed. If he had any sense, he'd turn on the set to distract him.

He kept moving.

The king bed looked vast and empty, while just beyond that wall Clare was equally alone. On each circuit, he had to pa.s.s the door, not once, but twice.

He would never know what had been between her and Deering, but she'd told him it was over. She could have stayed at the Storm Creek camp with the pilot the other night, not gone home with him to Mammoth. She could have let him leave that night in Jackson, instead of sharing her and Devon's room, sleeping trustfully near him.

Last night, she'd come into his arms. His hands felt full with the pulse of wanting to touch her again, to feel her bare skin full length against him.

Steve slowed his pacing. He was never going to sleep knowing how close she was. He found his palms pressed flat against the door. Slowly, he bent and put his ear against it to hear if she had put on the TV. All was silent.

If he opened this side, ever so quietly, he could see if she had her lamp on. Before he could change his mind, he twisted the turn b.u.t.ton on the lock and pulled the door open. The k.n.o.b-less facing panel looked odd, beveled like a door, but one without promise. If he knocked, she might tell him to go away. Perhaps she would not.

He told himself that it didn't make sense to start something that was doomed to end with them separated by half the continent.

But for him it was already begun. After four years on ice, it was time to start living again.

With her hand on the k.n.o.b of the connecting door, Clare jumped at the soft knock. Relief turned her knees to jelly as she opened the door.

Steve leaned against the jamb as though he had all the time in the world, but she felt the fallacy in that; saw the tautness in the muscles of his bare arms and chest. Her heart pounded.

"Steve." She backed up, fl.u.s.tered. Her hand went to the pulse at the base of her throat. "Why didn't you tell me downstairs that you wanted to talk to me?"

He hooked his thumbs inside the belt loops of his low-slung jeans. It hitched them down to reveal his navel, encircled with a whorl of golden hair. "We can talk if you like . . . but . . ." His gray eyes were smoky.

It seemed at once a long time and yet might never last long enough, while Steve simply looked at her. His gaze drank in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the grizzly bear T-shirt, down to where it draped boyish hips she'd hated in high school. The way he crooked a brow said he didn't think her hips were a bit like a boy's.

He came to her in three swift strides as though he'd forgotten the pain in his knees. Her mouth opened beneath his as if they'd had years of knowing each other rather than a single kiss.

Her fears for Devon were still with her, could never be far from the surface, yet Steve compelled her to lose herself and be sh.o.r.ed up with his strength.

He deepened the embrace and she felt his need. His hands defined her in a way she had never thought possible. This might be another brainless decision of the body, the kind of stupid mistake she'd almost made with Deering, but how strong this sense of right.

She was vaguely aware of him stripping off his watch and dropping it onto the bed behind her. That simple gesture touched her as he tried to protect her from being scratched by the buckle.

One of his hands slid down her back and found the bottom of the thin T-shirt. She thought with longing of turquoise lace, tossed into a trashcan at the Storm Creek Camp. Raising her arms, she let him draw the single garment over her head.

She stood before him as naked as the desire in his eyes. She'd imagined them taking it slow; savoring each step that had been too long denied, but her hunger was as fierce as his.

"My G.o.d," he said with undisguised appreciation. He was beyond savoring the view, shucking his jeans and underwear in a single motion to reveal his impatience.

She brushed her palms across his chest and he pulled her to him. The warmth of skin against skin made her shudder deliciously. "Remember when you were younger and this was a huge deal?" she whispered.

He stroked her bare shoulders and lowered his mouth to her ear. "I don't know about you," he nipped her lobe, "but for me, it's as special . . . and as important, as ever."

"That's what I was getting to." She ran out of words as he took her mouth. They went down together onto the bed, she on her back. She was ready, so ready, and he knew.

She reached to touch and found him powerful and equally prepared. He poised above her, seeking, and their eyes met.

He smiled.

As he pressed into her, she felt tight around him, another sign that it had been too long. Her hands roamed and discovered skin as smooth as she'd imagined. He smelled clean, yet the earthy scent of musk rose as she met him. His breath was fast against her cheek and he moaned. The sound of his voice drove her harder.

Dear G.o.d, it had never been like this. The urgency of his touch spoke to a sweet sense of yearning in her. This man, this place, this improbable set of circ.u.mstances, even her fear for Devon, combined to carry her along like a sweeping wave. Faster and hotter, Steve built to a frenzied motion. Sweat-slicked, driving, driving, until he said in her ear, "With me, Clare."

She was there. A feeling so piercing and intense that tears filled her eyes, while the clench of her sent him to the brink.

Steve awakened in darkness with his arm around Clare, her body against him so that they fit together like a puzzle ring. Those intricately woven bands were a lot easier to take apart than they were to put together.

Yet, how complete he felt. The neon glow coming in around the drapes made him give thanks that it was not morning. Nights alone sometimes seemed interminable, but he wanted this one to last.

He remembered telling Clare, not once, but several times, of the glories of winter in Yellowstone. He'd shared the splendor of the Lower Falls, frozen into a three hundred foot cone of ice, Norris Geyser Basin steaming like a small city, and the sight of a mother moose breaking a path through March snow for her newborn calf. He'd not realized himself what he was doing, but with Clare warm and firm beside him, he admitted that he wanted more than this night.

She stirred and murmured his name. He loved the way it sounded, as though he were rediscovering value long forgotten. Today, she'd saved his life by turning on those sprinklers, and when he reached the parking lot . . . and her, he'd felt like a player rounding home base. How stupid he'd been to get hung up on Deering when she had been waiting for him.

Clare turned into his arms, her mouth finding his unerringly in the firelike glow from the windows. Impossible, but he wanted her again. Would keep wanting her if the way he felt tonight was any indication.

They moved together, less frantically than the first time. He was not as desperate for touch long missed. The memory of Susan, the luxury of their time together, was pushed aside by the sweet ache that strove and climaxed with his and Clare's mingled cries.

When they lay together, hearts pounding, he knew he'd been right to open that door. Like the spring crocus from the soil, reborn in a single night, he said hoa.r.s.ely, "You make me feel alive, like I haven't been for years."

Steve's words made Clare realize she'd had her life on autopilot since Jay had left.

Sure, there was plenty of Brownian motion like molecules vibrating in a science lab. She'd become a firefighter and helped others, gotten Devon through high school, but what had she done for herself?

"When you knocked I had my hand on the doork.n.o.b," she confessed.

He chuckled, their bodies still joined. "After how childishly I acted about Deering, you were ready to do that for me?"

"For you . . . and for me."

With his weight pressing her into the mattress, it was hard to remember her reservations. She reveled in sensation until he caught his breath and rolled off her.

Then she came back to earth. He'd had a c.o.ke this evening while she and Garrett sipped at beers, but could he stay on the wagon?

It went deeper than that. Being in bed with him was no guarantee he was getting over Susan. Men and women thrown together during fire season met, coupled, and parted by the hundreds.

Neon light from the window was joined by the faintest graying of sky. "Oh, G.o.d," Clare said. "Morning and still nothing from Devon."

"I'll help you," Steve's hand gripped hers. "Whatever happens, you don't have to face it alone."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

September 8 Georgia Deering came out of the bathroom, wiping her face with a damp washrag. Feeling better after throwing up, she was almost hungry for bacon or sausage instead of her usual cereal and fruit.

"How long have you known?" her sister-in-law Anna asked from her place at the kitchen table. Her blue eyes were bright with what looked like merriment.

"Known what?"

Anna laughed and sipped the coffee she'd made, taking over Georgia's kitchen the way she ruled the roost in her own house. "Aren't you the one who's wanted to get pregnant for years?"

Georgia lowered the rag to her side and stared at Anna. She felt a quietness inside as though the world had paused and she with it.

Then . . . of course.

Last night, she had awakened alone as she had since July. Outside the bedroom window, cottonwoods etched charcoal against the slate sky. In a few weeks, the shadowed moon would grow round. So many times she and Deering had lain and watched the trees transform from blackened lace to silver filigree. Moon by moon, they'd marked the years.

Now, with each pa.s.sing moon she was no longer alone.

"How far along are you?" Anna persisted.

Georgia considered. With Deering gone, she had not even consulted her calendar. The last time he had been home was the second weekend in July. "Nearly two months. I've lost weight, not gained."

"Of course you have," Anna agreed. "I used to do that when I had morning sickness."

Georgia groped for a kitchen chair and sat. "He called me yesterday, said he was coming home last night." Speaking of it brought back the ache she'd felt, straining for a sound in the darkness. Waking and hoping she had missed the chopper's landing and that any moment, his key would turn the latch.

"Where is he then?" Anna asked.

"I don't know." Her cheeks flushed. "I'm afraid I wasn't very nice when he called."

"You two are beginning to make me lose patience."

Georgia tried to ignore Anna's steely glare. It wasn't as though Deering was innocent. "He admitted to chasing that woman. Clare, the paper said her name was."

Anna did not relent. "Does he love her?

"He said he loves me." The kind of tears that stung filled her eyes. "I want our lives back together."

"Well then . . ." Anna prompted.

Georgia put a palm on her still-flat stomach and tried to imagine a baby in there. What would Deering say when he found out? Lately, they had given up even talking about it.

Anna went on. "It's past time you came to your senses. Deering's going to fly no matter what you say. And if you love him . . ."

"I do." Flashes. .h.i.t her of a whirlwind courtship that had enticed her to forget he was a pilot. Of wedding white and the sweetness of her first married kiss. Of a man who'd worn his military uniform to marry before heading back to Vietnam.

"If you love him, you need to realize that that boy," Anna nodded toward Georgia's midsection, "is gonna want to fly with his daddy more than anything."

Georgia had always thought if she had a child, it would be a girl. Someone small, pink and sweet smelling. Kendra would be a champion quilter and biscuit maker, winning ribbons all the way to the Idaho State Fair.

For the first time, she considered the possibility of a boy. Georgia had never known the rough and tumble of a brother, but she'd watched John and Anna raise their raucous brood. If she and Deering had a boy . . . or a girl . . .

You'll want to fly with your daddy. She smoothed her stomach.

The telephone rang and her heart started to pound. She answered, "Hon?"

"Mrs. Deering." The deep voice was made soft by a Southern inflection. "This is Garrett Anderson with the West Yellowstone Fire Command."

She wished she could turn back the clock, crawl into bed and go to sleep. Maybe she would dream that Deering had his arm snug around her. "He's not here," she managed.

"Yes, ma'am, I know. I'm calling to tell you that he flew out yesterday afternoon and we haven't heard from him."

Georgia dropped the phone from nerveless fingers and heard it clatter and ding. She was vaguely aware of Anna picking it up and talking to the man on the other end. Last time Deering had been AWOL she'd seen him come back . . . with that Clare.

But he'd sworn that was done. Yesterday, he'd promised to come home and if she'd mistaken the love and remorse in his voice, she was never going to trust her instinct again.

Anna put down the phone and the look on her face said it all. This time they didn't think he was held up at some spike camp by the wind. They never would have called unless they thought he'd gone down.

Clare struggled from her dreams and picked up the telephone in mid-ring. The clock beside her bed at the Stagecoach said it was nearly nine.

"Yeah," she managed in a sleep-ravaged husk. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Steve stretched out beside her with the sheet draped over his bare hip. His mussed hair spoke of midnight pleasure and his eyes said he'd not had enough.

"It's Garrett," said the distinctive voice on the phone.

"Yeah." Clare ran a nervous hand through her newly shorter hair.

"Some good news. Those hikers were sighted down in the Lamar Valley by Johnny Arvela when he was flying in around sunset. I just got word." His somber tone said there was more and it wasn't pretty.

"That is good." She twisted the phone cord and noted a patch of beard burn on her left breast. A surreal feeling split her into two women, one who wanted to hang up and crawl back into a coc.o.o.n with Steve, and a mother screaming inside for news of her child.

Garrett went on. "The rangers at Old Faithful questioned the firefighters after the North Fork pa.s.sed. When Deering's chopper took off, a number of persons said they counted two pa.s.sengers."

A shudder went through her. Steve touched her arm. If Deering was down somewhere in the mountains . . . "Who would be with him?"