He jumped. A chorus of laughter spread.

"Not funny!" she shouted. "He's a dead man."

It got quiet fast.

Clare studied the soldiers' fresh faces. As part of the volunteer Army, they had asked to serve, but in the late eighties, she imagined most thought they'd never see danger.

It took fifteen minutes for them to reach the tree she had set as a goal. She berated them severely although she thought they'd done a credible job for rookies. Gathering the group, she said, "You've probably been wondering what was in those pouches I gave you to hang on your belts."

A number of the young men and women nodded.

Clare unsnapped the flap top of her own pouch and drew out a folded ma.s.s of material that looked like silver foil. "This is your last resort in case you are overtaken by flames."

Their incredulous looks mirrored the disbelief Clare had felt when she was first acquainted with the tissue-thin Mylar shields. She shook it out and the wind caught it, making it billow like a sheet on a clothesline.

"Insert your hands through the corner straps," she instructed, spreading her arms wide. "Put your boot toes through the bottom corners." The blanket fluttered behind her like a cape. "If you have time, you'll clear a patch of bare earth to lie in. If not . . .

Clare heard Sergeant Travis mutter, "Then kiss your a.s.s good-bye."

She went down onto the ground. For a long moment, she lay still beneath the silver tarpaulin, imagining that choking smoke and superheated air seeped beneath the edges. Without an air pack, she did not believe these things could possibly save lives.

It was quiet in the sunny glade. Insects droned and the wind soughed through pine boughs. Clare imagined the roar of the Shoshone, trees exploding, without the convenience of Yellowstone Lake at her feet.

When she got up, she threw the shelter at Sergeant Travis. He took it, but instead of folding it, he crumpled the foil over his arm. "It's your turn," she told the troops. "Break 'em out and cover up."

As she watched their awkward rehearsal, a flying tanker headed in from the fires, on a line toward West Yellowstone.

Over a week after ditching, Deering was still grounded. On the tarmac at West Yellowstone Airport, he held tight to the nozzle as he filled a DC-7 tanker with fire r.e.t.a.r.dant.

None of the charter companies he'd hit up wanted help. Every turndown had cut like a blade and he imagined that his wife wielded them all. Not only did Georgia hope his Bell was lost, she'd be dancing if she knew he was a grunt on the ground crew.

As soon as the belly tank was full, the plane taxied toward another bombing run.

Deering removed his goggles and lugged the hose back to the battery of cylindrical tanks. Gary Cullen, a dough-faced youth whose father owned the local Red Wolf Motel, was already mixing bags of fertilizer and red dye for a fresh batch of r.e.t.a.r.dant. Since Deering had joined the ground team, Gary had treated him with the suspicion small town residents often extended to outsiders.

"Just gonna smoke." Deering walked off the ramp away from the planes and fuel trucks, patting his r.e.t.a.r.dant-soaked coveralls for his Marlboros. After several tries, he managed to light a limp cigarette. Georgia was always on him to quit.

That little gal Clare, he didn't think she smoked. Quick guilt slashed, for he hadn't worn a wedding ring in years, and he had failed to mention Georgia. He told himself that his reply to Clare's question about family hadn't been a lie. Summers in fire were tough on commitment.

Not exactly a lie.

Thankfully, common sense had prevailed and he hadn't left a message for her at Fire Command. On the other hand, he hadn't phoned home either, still too angry with Georgia. Last week at Old Faithful when he'd told Clare he needed to be flying, he'd been as shocked as if the words had appeared in a cartoon balloon. If he'd said that to Georgia, she would have shrieked. Saying it to another woman who understood his sense of loss made it feel doubly like betrayal.

The DC-7 he'd filled revved up in a low-pitched drone. The plane swept down the runway, gathering speed with each pa.s.sing second. With the need to get back in the air an almost physical ache, Deering pictured himself in the c.o.c.kpit with the patched concrete rushing past at over a hundred miles per hour.

The tanker's speed increased until it seemed it would be out of runway. The weight of two fifteen-hundred-gallon tanks riveted onto the aircraft's belly made it necessary for the rest of the plane to fly empty. The engines rose to a scream and finally, the pilot let the DC-7 have its nose. It swooped up and over the spiky mat of hundred-foot trees, that appeared as matchsticks from the air.

His chest ached and his anger at his wife renewed. Deering yearned for his Georgie, still in Yellowstone Lake. Not until next week did the insurance company plan to salvage it. As his claim had not been settled, the salvage outfit was gambling between two possible outcomes-payment from First a.s.surance or taking t.i.tle to Deering's helicopter.

He refused to consider that, focusing instead on the moment when he would see his prize emerge from the lake. A complete overhaul would put off flying it until next year's season, something that should make Georgia the happiest woman in Idaho.

He couldn't help but think again of Clare. If he got a flying gig, she'd help him celebrate.

Another tanker landed and he recognized by its blue-on-white paint job that he knew the pilot. Adam Parker was a fellow veteran of Vietnam from the fixed-wing side. Adam and his copilot moved off the ramp for a smoke while Gary Cullen helped Deering drag the heavy hose. After coupling, it took under five minutes to load several thousand gallons of r.e.t.a.r.dant, then quick-release.

When the crew came back to board, Deering said, "Hey there, Parker." He removed his goggles and bandanna so Adam could recognize him.

"Deering!" Adam's broad face, splotchy from the heat, broke into an astonished look.

"The h.e.l.l you doin'?" He gestured at Deering's soaked coveralls and tapped his younger copilot on the shoulder. "Last time I saw this guy, he was flying his own helicopter."

Deering's face warmed. He hoped the other pilots would chalk it up to the scorching afternoon. "I had to ditch in Yellowstone Lake when the Shoshone came through Grant." He tried to sound casual, but he was sick of explaining the accident.

"Why aren't you flying for one of the other charters?" Adam asked.

"I talked to most of them and the word was they had help."

"h.e.l.l, talk to them again. Folks are gonna need relief."

"Yeah." Deering looked at the DC-7. "Even this lumbering giant is starting to look good."

Helicoptering could be a risky business, but flying tankers was even more dangerous. Taking their large size and heavy payloads so close to the ground, not one season had pa.s.sed since they started in 1956 without the loss of one of the fifty or so tankers. Everybody in the close-knit community had lost at least one person they knew.

"It's a b.i.t.c.h out there," Adam declared. "Like clockwork, every day at noon the temperature inversion breaks and all h.e.l.l with it."

"Tell me about it," Deering chimed in as though he were still flying.

"See that fellow there?" Adam pointed.

Deering recognized Demetrios Karrabotsos. The stately, silver-haired owner of Island Park Helicopters seemed to lead with his chin as he strode toward a mess tent. Deering had heard that he was a veteran of both Korea and Vietnam. Although he'd seen the older pilot from a distance, they had never met.

"I heard that Island Park is understaffed," Adam went on.

"I've tried to see him, but he's always out."

The tanker pilots climbed back aboard and Deering watched as before, until the blue and white fuselage became a silver spark against the sky. When he blinked and could no longer find it, he ignored a dark look from Gary Cullen, and dogged Karrabotsos toward the concession area.

Despite the warming day, he bought a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee, sipped and found it bitter. Sighting his quarry straddling a flimsy folding chair, he approached. "Demetrios Karrabotsos?"

"Yeah?"

"Chris Deering, of Deering Charters over in Idaho." He tried to keep his outstretched hand steady and not to stare. Although the older pilot must have once been a handsome man, his face and neck were deeply incised by shiny scars that had to be burns. In his bulky flight suit, he looked formidable.

"Heard of you." The voice was gravelly, as though flames had seared his vocal cords as well. Black eyes studied Deering until he felt like a target in a gunner's sights. "I go by Karrabotsos," he finally offered, belatedly shaking the hand Deering had in the air.

Pulling out a chair, Deering sat and held his cigarette by his side. "Pretty wild fire season."

"Worst since the blowup of 1910," Karrabotsos agreed.

"This drought and wind keep up . . . " Deering sipped his coffee nervously. More small talk might be in order, but, fingers crossed, he started his pitch. "I'm a one aircraft service and I've been grounded since I ditched my Bell."

"Heard that." Karrabotsos did not sound quite as neutral as before.

Deering took a deep drag on his Marlboro. "I wonder if you might need a pilot."

"Nope."

He exhaled smoke. "This is going to get worse before it gets better. Your craft . . . You have four of them, don't you, will be busy day and night. Even if you have a full staff . . . " He paused to allow Karrabotsos to admit he did not.

The two men stared at each other. It went on so long that Deering concluded either Adam was mistaken about Island Park being understaffed, or Karrabotsos did not want to admit it.

"Your men will still need relief," Deering said.

Karrabotsos studied him again with eyes shiny as ripe olives. "How'd you wind up in the drink?"

Sweat broke out in Deering's armpits. "Bad luck. We've all been there, especially us vets." He forced a smile to include Karrabotsos. If those burns had come from combat or a crash . . .

The other man's face stayed stony. "Word has it you had a park ranger on board. Seems this fellow told a bartender friend of his, who told a member of a tanker crew, who told one of my pilots . . ."

"What is this, some G.o.dd.a.m.n game of kids' gossip?" Deering's face warmed.

"He said you're reckless."

Georgia would have cheered.

"A dangerous hot shot," Karrabotsos went on, "who didn't need to trash a million dollars' worth of helicopter."

"Haywood's a f.u.c.king liar!"

"That may be." Karrabotsos shrugged. "I'm not willing to take a chance."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

August 3 Clare woke in her cabin at Old Faithful. She checked her watch that she slept in from force of habit at the fire station. Ten minutes to her four-thirty alarm, not enough time to get back to sleep.

Disjointed snippets of dream played on her mind's dark canvas. While she slept, she'd visited a world that had existed before July 1. In the firehouse kitchen, she'd been helping Frank test drive a chili recipe for a charity cook-off.

Clare had looked up from slicing onions, her eyes watery.

Frank pointed with the knife he was using to cut sirloin. The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled. "Don't let the boys catch you being a crybaby."

Sage advice, even from a dream, and now upon waking, she planned to follow it. Especially with Sergeant Ron Travis, whose c.o.c.ky manner said he was always alert for weakness.

In another midnight excursion, she and Frank had been showing a group of Special Olympian kids around the fire-house. As usual, one of the tour heights was sliding down the pole.

Frank waited at the bottom, ready to catch a slip of a girl around eight. Clare demonstrated wrapping legs and arms around the pole and supervised getting the girl in position. "Ready?"

A tight and wordless little nod stirred the child's strawberry blond bangs.

"Set . . . go." Clare let her slide.

A joyful trill echoed in the cavernous garage.

When Frank caught the girl, she metamorphosed into a boy of around two with hair like black silk. "He's with me now," Frank called, suddenly wearing full turnouts, air pack and mask. The apparatus bay began to fill with drifting smoke.

Every instinct said to slide and rescue Frank and the little boy. From somewhere in the haze, a woman's voice cried, "My baby! Please help my baby."

Clare hesitated. In that bare second, smoke blotted out everything. From below, Frank sounded far away. "Once you start down you can't come back."

In her bed at Old Faithful, gooseflesh p.r.i.c.ked Clare's arms. With an exclamation of disgust, she threw back the covers and put her feet to the chilly boards. Morning could be frigid, especially with this coldness inside her.

She tried to conjure up Frank's face. There was his st.u.r.dy frame, his tough hands with thick fingers. His head, set atop shoulders strong from weightlifting, was a blur. It was too soon to lose her picture of him. Her Timex's date indicated August already, just over a month, and if she couldn't see him now . . .

With pounding heart and a dry mouth, she tried to call up bits and pieces. Frank's ruddy cheeks bore spider veins from years of subjecting his fair complexion to the outdoors. There was the scar above his left brow, where he'd scoped himself with his Winchester while whitetail hunting with his Dad. All of sixteen, he'd refused to leave the field to get st.i.tches.

No matter how she tried, Clare couldn't see Frank's eyes. In her nightmares, they bore the opaque sheen of death.

She'd talked to people whose dreams of the deceased comforted. Her mother Constance had told of awakening in bed with the palpable sensation of her father's arms around her. Frank had watched cancer waste a friend to emaciation, yet in his sleep, his friend came and shook his hand, restored to former health and vigor.

How much Clare would give for a sign from Frank, that he did not blame her.

Since the night she'd seen Steve Haywood drunk, she'd thought a bit about how people handled things they didn't want to face. Too bad he thought a bottle could solve his problems, whatever they were.

Steve woke to a pounding that matched the throbbing in his head.

He'd done it again.

Some folks stopped drinking by taking it one day at a time, but he simply kept on, one day and one drink at a time. Today brought yet another defeat.

The pounding continued.

Someone at the door, he realized through a fog. Whoever it was seemed d.a.m.ned determined.

The small, dark bedroom of his house in Mammoth Hot Springs spun. The bottom of this hangover was out there, waiting to give him the shakes and the sickness. It would seize him maybe twelve hours after he'd found himself playing inarticulate, discordant chords at Susan's piano, with tears pouring down his stubbled face.

How could he have let himself come to this? After Susan and Christa died, he'd thrown himself into his work back in Washington. A few months later, he'd discovered that only when he drank could he imagine what life would be like if they hadn't died.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he pulled on a pair of shorts and a dirty T-shirt from the floor. The clock beside his picture of Susan said eleven-thirty. Ancient venetian blinds leaked light around the edges.

Jesus, he'd missed half the day.

He tried to think. Determined to take on Clare Chance's challenge to get sober, his resolve had remained in place until Sat.u.r.day when he'd driven to Old Faithful. He had intended to present himself, sober, and thank her for saving him, no matter how worthless he felt. Returning without finding Clare, the four walls stared him down. He paced and wondered why he'd gone.