Innocent enough conversation, I supposed. Lucky for us.
“Either way, you might come back to a rumor or two.” She winked in a crinkle of smile lines. “Want me to smudge lipstick on your collar to give you a stronger alibi?”
“No thanks.” I took an involuntary step backward, and when she laughed, it sounded so much like Jack’s carefree laugh that I flinched.
“I’m glad you’ve learned your lesson from last time. I don’t want to break your heart twice.” She looked down at the ground for a moment, and when she turned back to me, her voice was softer. “I didn’t want to break it in the first place.”
It was so unexpected, so real, that I couldn’t help saying, “And I didn’t want to divide your family.”
“No. I’m sure you didn’t.”
The truth lay unspoken between us: Despite our good intentions, we had each hurt the other anyway. Still, it felt good to say the words, like the first step toward not just being sorry but being forgiven.
CHAPTER 22
Dorie Armitage
January 23, 1945
The army had investigated the fire.
That was the part that didn’t make sense to me, like someone had taken a piece from Edith’s seaside puzzle and tossed it into a landscape of autumn leaves.
I tried to figure out where it might fit as Gordon and I walked back from the cabins. According to Lloyd, the army had come and gone in the dead of night. Why? Illegal activity was investigated by local police, so even if there had been foul play, it didn’t make sense for the army to arrive, especially when the nearest military base was at least a day’s ride away by train.
What had they been doing here?
That bothered me more than some curious eavesdropper—likely another CO who saw me hurrying into the woods in my bright blue coat and wondered where I was headed. Not exactly blending into my environment, was I?
“Hidey ho, friends!” The cheerful greeting split the quiet, and I looked over to see Shorty Schumacher striding down the path toward the bunkhouse, strutting like he’d just been given every ribbon at the county fair.
He flailed an arm at us in a wave. “So long, Wingtip! I’ll be back in time for fire season.”
Gordon stopped short. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“Wyeth, Oregon! CPS Camp #21 requested more men, and Morrissey said he could spare me till May at least. I jumped at the chance.” Shorty grinned from under his shaggy bangs. “No offense, but in Wyeth, they’ve got almost two hundred COs, plus a camp store, a library, a theater, and two basketball teams. Think about that.”
Before he could list more of the glories of Camp #21, Gordon interrupted. “Did you get a chance to talk to Morrissey? About you know what?” He leaned on the words meaningfully while giving a glance over his shoulder.
Subtle, Hooper. Real subtle.
“Oh,” he said, scratching his head like he’d all but forgotten. “Sure. Gave him back that coat of his too. Never have seen anyone laugh so hard. ‘Naked as Adam hiding in the bushes of Eden,’ he said, and that’s a quote.”
I cocked my head curiously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind,” Gordon said quickly. “What did he say about those questions?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Shorty scratched his back absently, oblivious to the fact that we were treating his every word like it was of life-or-death importance. “Jack never called in the fire. Richardson spotted the smoke above the trees after they came back from some program in another district, and that’s when they rang the bell.”
That fit the story we’d gotten from others. “And Morrissey didn’t wonder why Jack hadn’t reported the fire?”
“Didn’t say. I guess he figured what I did, that Jack tried to handle it on his own. He always was braver than the rest of us.”
“‘Courage is running toward the fire, not away from it,’” Gordon quoted darkly.
I’d heard some of the other boys mention the motto, and it always hit me the wrong way, but now it seemed especially unhelpful. “And look where that got him.”
Instantly, Shorty crossed gangly arms over his chest. “Hey now, that’s not fair, Miss Hightower. It was an accident. Not Jack’s fault. He was a real swell guy, and you didn’t even know him.”
Was it true? I was Jack’s older sister, only a year of age difference between us. I’d known him his whole life.
And yet Gordon, Shorty, and the others probably saw a side of him that I never had.
“You’re right,” I said, suddenly subdued. “I didn’t.”
For a moment, Gordon turned to look at me, concern in his eyes. Please don’t. Now wasn’t the time for me to fall apart.
To my relief, he focused back on Shorty. “Anything about why they took Jack to an army hospital?”
“Just said we’re War Department property, and anyway, army doctors have more experience treating burns that bad. Made sense.” He hitched a thumb toward the bunkhouse. “Listen, Wingtip, I’ve got to pack. The truck’s going to be here by supper to pick me up.”
Something about the timing bothered me. “One more thing,” I interjected. “When did you ask Mr. Morrissey these questions?”
“Right before calisthenics—got me out of at least fifteen minutes of running.” He grinned at his own brilliance.
“And when did he tell you about the transfer?”
“Just now. Which is why I’m in a hurry.” Shorty tousled Gordon’s hair, then bowed in my direction, all formality. “It’s been fun. But hot diggity, a real basketball team!”
I watched him scamper down the trail before I turned to Gordon. “So. Shorty goes in to dig up information for us, comes up with nothing. Now Morrissey is transferring him to a different camp. What does that tell you?”
He looked reluctant but delivered the answer I’d been hinting at, the only reasonable one. “It means Morrissey doesn’t want anyone asking questions. So that’s a dead end.”
I let out a breath of frustration, a puff of white in the air. “Isn’t there any way to get more information without going straight to Morrissey? Did Jack keep a journal?”
“We thought he did. But it was just the radio plays, and I looked through all of those before sending them to your parents.”
Except the one he’d sent to me. Full of clichés and bad dialogue, sure . . . but so like Jack that it had made me ache.
Stop it. There’s no time for that.
“Did he write a letter to anyone where he might have mentioned something?”
Gordon shook his head. “I doubt it. He once joked that his family disowning him saved him a fortune on stamps.”
“Hilarious.” I made sure my tone was completely devoid of humor. Because I couldn’t think about that, couldn’t let the guilt come back again. I’d nearly broken down writing to my parents, telling them I couldn’t come to the funeral.
“So there’s no written record of anything he might have said, seen, or done before the fire?”
“I don’t think . . .” Gordon paused, staring blankly, then snapped his fingers. “Wait. There’s a log.”
I gestured to the forest. “Something different from the thousands of other logs around us?”
He gave me a flat look. “A log like a leather-bound book, not a chunk of wood.”
“When you think about it, a book really is a chunk of wood,” I pointed out.
Gordon looked significantly less appreciative of my cleverness than my usual male audience. “Some fellow back in the thirties started an observation log up at the fire tower. Not for the weather or fire data that we put in official reports. Lookouts will write their name, the date, and . . . well, anything interesting. Some fellows will copy out a quote from a book they’re reading, draw wildlife they’ve spotted, or even write poetry.”
“You think Jack might have recorded something that would help us?”
Gordon nodded, his words coming faster. “Not everyone used the log. But Jack did. His entries were usually the p
hilosophical sort. Musings. Quotes. Sometimes Bible verses. If something was on his mind when he went up to that tower . . .” He trailed off.
Who’s the dramatic one now, Gordon?
But it was fun, seeing the light of curiosity leap into his eyes. Yes, Gordon Hooper would make a decent detective’s sidekick after all.
“Fine. You’ve sold me. Let’s convince Morrissey, and then I’ll pay a social call to your crow’s nest. Maybe even stay overnight.”
His eyes bugged out at me. “Overnight? But . . . I don’t think that would be . . .”
The stutter and unease on his face reminded me that I hadn’t given him all the details of getting called in to Morrissey’s office the day before. “You don’t know who the lookout is, do you?”
“No,” he said slowly. “Who?”
I could feel a smile spreading across my face. “Sarah Ruth Morrissey.”
CHAPTER 23
Gordon Hooper
January 23, 1945
Of all things, Dorie insisted I get permission from Morrissey for her to go up to the lookout. “I get the feeling he doesn’t trust me” was her explanation, which I wanted to say was pretty smart of him.
“But what if he sends me away like he did Shorty?” That would be the end of our little investigation.
She brushed my objection aside. “I’m going to be the one snooping, not you. Gollee, Gordon, loosen up. Even if he did, it might do you some good to get a change of scenery, instead of being stuck here, where . . .” She waved her hands at the trees in general. “I mean, doesn’t this place remind you of him?”
Of course it did. There was the birdhouse Jack had helped Thomas put up outside the bunkhouse window. The fire pit where he presided with stories and jokes and games every Friday night. The fence where he and Shorty had held a balancing contest—and both tumbled into a snowbank. Memories of Jack were everywhere here.
Maybe it would be easier to start over with a pack of strangers who wouldn’t talk about Jack or give me a pitying look whenever I passed by.
“That’s the thing,” I said slowly, speaking it as I thought it. “I want to remember.”
Something passed over her expression that I couldn’t quite read, but then she blinked it away and patted me on the arm. “Well then, just remember that Jack would do anything to help his sister, and you should too.”
That was true enough, so I swallowed hard and set off in the direction of the ranger station, knocking on Morrissey’s office and explaining Dorie’s whole scheme in practically one breath.
“So,” I said, clasping my hands behind my back and trying to sound casual, “will you let her go?”
Morrissey considered this, scratching the overgrown beard stubble on his usually cleanshaven face, like he had already made up his mind but was searching for a by-the-books reason to back up his answer.
Then a slight smile tilted on his face, gone in the next second like an ember blown out.
“As long as you can get Sarah Ruth to agree, I won’t stand in your way.” He gestured to the telephone on his desk, and suddenly the shiny black earpiece cradled there looked like a torture device.
I’d have to ask Sarah Ruth? I swallowed. “Phone lines probably have trouble in the winter, don’t they? Ice and all.”
“Sometimes. But it’s forty-two degrees out right now, son.”
Never try to best Earl Morrissey with a nature-related question. He could probably sniff the air and tell you the temperature, the atmospheric pressure, and the latest three woodland creatures to amble by.
“Sure.” I traced the number used to connect to the lookout tower, written in a list by the phone, and prayed she’d be out trapping rabbits or whittling a tree limb or whatever Sarah Ruth did when she was alone on a mountain.
“Hello?” Crisp, tense, like a soldier waiting for orders. She must have thought it was her father calling with official news.
“Hi, Sarah Ruth?” Of course it’s her, who else would it be? “This . . . this is Gordon. Hooper.”
The voice on the other side turned considerably chillier. “What do you want?”
How was I going to lead into this? I’d had a plan once, but the words completely fled my mind, with Sarah Ruth snapping at me and her father staring at me. “H-how are things at the lookout?”
If her voice had been cold before, now it was like something left out overnight in a snowbank. “Don’t you think I’ve got better things to do than shoot the breeze? This forest is under my watch. So, if that’s all . . .”
“It’s not all,” I interrupted. Come on. Just get the words out. “You see, the WAC who’s visiting the camp wants . . . well, she asked if she could stay the night at the fire tower.”
Clearly, from the crackling silence, she hadn’t expected that. “The girl with the red lipstick and heels?”
Even over the crackling line, I heard the skepticism in her voice loud and clear. “That’s the one.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
Finally, a question I’d prepared an answer for. “She told me she wants to get the full smokejumper experience for her report.”
Though it wasn’t a lie, it still felt too close to deception for me to feel comfortable, so I changed the subject. “I’m sure she won’t be any trouble.”
Actually, come to think of it, that was even closer to a lie.
“Isn’t she already poking her powdered nose into our business?”
“Well, not much trouble anyway,” I amended.
Sarah Ruth grunted and stayed silent for a long moment. I could practically picture her expressive eyes narrowing. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
Not the question I’d been expecting. “Sure,” I blurted. “I mean, isn’t it good to show people as much truth as we can?”
Another pause, and I glanced over to see Morrissey pretending not to listen, the way he watched me over the top of his file folders the only giveaway.
“Well . . . all right,” Sarah Ruth said at last. “As long as it’s only one night.”
Only Morrissey’s eyes on me kept me from jumping in victory. Yes! It had worked. Dorie would be thrilled.
“You’ll need to tell her I’m not a tour guide or her nanny. If she wanders off and gets mauled by a bear, that’s her own fault. I’m on fire watch duty.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
For a moment, I thought she’d ended the call. Then she sighed. “Listen, Gordon, I’m sorry for being rude. It’s just that, there was a time when I . . . I used to take social calls on lookout duty. But I shouldn’t have. It’s not right.”
“I guess not.” Although this deep into January, it wasn’t likely she’d spot another fluke fire. “But no one doubts you’re the most responsible one of all of us.”
“Thanks for that, Gordon.” For a moment, her voice actually softened. Then it was back to its usual gruffness. “So you’re coming tonight?”
“As soon as she’s packed and ready.”
“I’ll watch for you, then.”
And with that, the line went dead.
I twisted around to see Morrissey staring at me, dumbfounded. “She said yes,” I clarified.
“I gathered.” He shook his head at this unexpected development, and I waited for him to make up some excuse, to tell me a meddling WAC had no place in his beloved forest. But not Earl Morrissey, dutiful district ranger and keeper of his word. “Best get started if you want to be back before dark.”
“Yes, sir.” I started to duck out of the office before he could ask any more uncomfortable questions, then paused.
Should I?
“Just curious, sir, but did you assign Sarah Ruth to lookout duty?”
As soon as Dorie announced it, it had made sense—after all, I hadn’t seen Sarah Ruth around the camp for days. The news of Jack’s death had put me in such a fog that I hadn’t thought to ask why. Even if I had, with the vehement way Sarah Ruth had told Charlie and me she wouldn’t be going back to lookout duty, it wouldn�
��t have occurred to me as an option.
Morrissey barked out a laugh. “Hooper, no one ‘assigns’ my daughter to anything. She pretty well does what she wants—and she was dead set on this.”
Strange. I’d have guessed the opposite, but who could understand women anyway?
All I knew for sure was that having Dorie and Sarah Ruth trapped together for a full night would be a sight to see.
CHAPTER 24
Dorie Armitage
January 23, 1945
By the time night fell and it was too late for Sarah Ruth to give me the old heave-ho off what you’d think was her own personal mountain, we’d completely run out of things to talk about.
When I’d huffed my way up three flights of stairs to the top of the tower and knocked on the lookout door, she was barely cordial. “Why are you here again?” she’d asked, and my cheerful explanation of the army report didn’t lower her skeptical eyebrow even a twitch. Neither did my attempts at interview questions or my compliments on her knowledge of the wilderness.
Never mind. I don’t have to win her over, just sneak past her.
“The stars are lovely here, aren’t they?” I attempted. “Like diamonds against a black-velvet evening gown.” That was the one benefit of glass houses jutting into the sky—you could see for miles in all directions.
Sarah Ruth continued to brush her auburn hair—surprisingly pretty when it wasn’t tucked under her ugly, slouching hat. “They’re lovely everywhere. You can just see them better from here.”
“Well, yes. I suppose.” And silence reigned once more as Sarah Ruth set her brush down to clean the pearl-handled pistol she’d used to kill our supper. I’d forced a few salty forkfuls down without risking a question about what sort of meat, exactly, it was. Better not to picture it with fur on.
How could this hawkish female possibly be related to Edith “Betty Crocker” Morrissey? And how had I thought, from our brief encounter at the ranger station, that she was sweet and polite?
I tried again. “You really didn’t need to leave me the cot, you know. I feel just awful about stealing your bed.”
The Lines Between Us Page 19
