He swallowed. “We’ve had successful fires since the Cerro Grande.”
Linda Verbiscar smiled. “Yes, but how do you personally feel about prescribed burning?” She held up a copy of his report recommending against the Beaver Meadows prescribed burn. “Didn’t you state in an advisory report that this particular fire was a mistake?”
Eric glanced at the line of fire advancing across the meadow. “Yes, but not because I don’t believe in burning.”
“Then why?”
“Because it’s the only prime habitat within the park that supports green-tailed towhees and Virginia’s warblers.”
His response caused her to pause, then she turned back to the camera. “Well, there you have it, Dan. According to Eric Linenger, fire is bad for the bird population.”
“That’s not—”
She stepped away from him, anchoring a view of the fire behind her left shoulder. “That’s all from the scene. We’ll keep you apprised of any unusual developments. Now, it’s back to you in the studio, Dan.” Verbiscar plastered a smile on her face and tapped her toe five times. “And clear.” She signaled a wrap to the cameraman, and stuffed the microphone back in her coat pocket. “Let’s head down to the containment area.”
“Excuse me, Ms. . . . Verbiscar,” said Eric. “You misquoted me. I never said fire was bad for all birds.”
“No? That’s what I heard you say. Isn’t that what you heard, Charlie?”
The cameraman nodded.
“What I said was, that this particular fire is bad for two species of birds. There are other species that thrive in burned-out areas.”
She tucked a strand of bleached hair behind her ear. “Well, I’m glad we clarified that. Let’s go.” She signaled to the cameraman, who headed along the road.
Eric had started after them, when a gust of wind kicked up a dust devil, spitting dirt and gravel against the back of his legs.
Gusts hadn’t been predicted.
He stared out at the fire. Then, amidst a shower of embers, a three-foot flame shot into the air.
Chapter 2
The wind freshened, driving hard out of the northwest, swirling ash, spark, and smoke from the blackened area into the unburned shrubs of the meadow. Sagebrush and bitterbrush erupted in fire. Flames rose in leaping columns, rolling through the grass in waves of orange and red, like a flash flood, headed straight for Eagle Cliff Mountain.
This is bad.
Eric scanned the tree line in the distance. If the fire grabbed hold in the ponderosa, the whole mountain would go up in flames. “Butch, do you copy?”
The handheld radio squawked. “Yo.”
“We’ve got a situation here.”
“Tell me about it.” The stress in Butch Hanley’s voice was audible. “Where the hell did this wind come from? Didn’t Nora check the weather forecast before giving the go?”
“Of course I did,” snapped Nora, her voice heating the airwaves.
Eric looked, but didn’t see her at the turnaround. She must have followed the crew down to the other staging area.
“This wasn’t on the menu,” she said.
“Yeah?” replied Butch. “Well now it’s the blue plate special.”
After a beat, she asked, “So, guys, tell me, where do we stand?”
“We’ve dug a three-foot hand line in front of the trees, but. . .” Butch’s voice trailed off, and Eric raised his binoculars, panning the far edge of the meadow until he located the holding boss through the lenses. Butch mopped his face with a handkerchief. “At the speed this fire’s moving,” he said, “we ain’t stoppin’ it here.”
“He’s right,” said Eric. By his own estimate, the rate of burn had jumped to over one hundred chains—or ten acres—an hour. The fire would hit the hand line in under forty minutes; the Visitor Center in a little over an hour. “We need to order a water drop now.”
“No!” declared Nora. “We’re not wasting resources unless we have to.”
Eric watched a gust of wind bolster the flames. The fire surged forward. Adrenalin urged him to action, but he could do nothing to curb the onslaught of flames. “We can’t afford to wait. We have no other option.”
“Sure we do,” said Nora. “The crew can run a black line next to the hand line. That’ll give us a six-foot buffer, and hopefully buy us—”
“Are you nuts?” hollered Butch. “We’ll just be adding more fire.”
“Yeah, well, do it,” she ordered. “I’ll have Bernie light a backfire to suck air from the burn. Hopefully, that will slow this puppy down. Butch, you have the remaining crews narrow the field by forcing the burn in on either side. Then, when the fire reaches the trees, put everyone on the line.” Nora paused. “We can contain this sucker.”
“It’s too risky,” Eric insisted. Smoke clouded the valley, stinging his eyes, burning his nose. She needed to act now. “I say—”
“Hey, Mr. Linenger,” bellowed Linda Verbiscar, clambering back from the road with cameraman Charlie in tow. Eric greeted her with his back.
“—call in the chopper,” he finished.
“No!”
Eric shivered through his sweat. “You’re making a mistake, Nora.”
“It’s my decision.”
The radio fell silent. All Eric could hear was the roar of the fire, like a train barreling along at high speed. One bump, and the train derails. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s your call. But I think you’re making a mistake.”
“Duly noted.”
Another silence, then the radio hissed and Butch Hanley’s voice broke the tension. “Okay, then, I’ll get the crew on it.”
Eric signed off. After drawing a deep breath, he turned to Linda Verbiscar. She was peering at him through dark, wide set eyes rimmed with heavy eyeliner. Mascara, softened by the heat of the fire, puddled on her face, creating dark circles under her eyes. Red lipstick spidered into the crevices around her mouth. She looked melted. Yet, oddly, despite the wind, her hair remained perfectly coifed.
“What are they planning to do?” she asked, signaling Charlie to keep filming the fire.
A spate of orders burst from the radio. Eric turned down the volume. “They’re going to put it out.”
“How?”
He stared out at the fire, his gaze resting on the charred bush where the towhee had nested, and explained Nora’s plan.
“Will it work?”
“Off the record?” He didn’t really trust the woman, but he wasn’t going to lie.
Verbiscar hesitated. “Sure.”
“I don’t know.”
•••
As much as Eric hated to admit it, Nora’s plan seemed to be working. Within an hour, the backfire had slowed the pace of the original burn by fifty chains, Butch Hanley’s black line had widened the buffer zone to six feet, and the crews had narrowed the burn considerably. Now, as everyone stood ready to defend the line, all any of them could do was hope the efforts were enough.
Eric scanned the edge of the meadow with his binoculars. Several spot fires smoldered in the bordering trees, and soot-streaked firefighters hustled to contain them. Fire lapped at brown bark. Chain saws buzzed. Shouts, and the crack of Pulaskis striking wood, echoed across Beaver Meadows.
Seconds later, Howard Stevens, the fire observer, loomed into view in the lenses, his shoulders blotting out the fire scene as he scribbled notes into a small, ringed binder, recording every detail of what happened—down to who did what, when, where, and on whose authority. If Nora was lucky, her plan would work. If not, a written record would detail everything she’d done wrong.
As Eric watched the fire sweep toward the line, a gust of wind rocked him forward, onto his toes. The wind lifted ash and embers from the meadow floor, curled them into a fist, and delivered a blow to the flames. Men and women scattered. The wind howled through the valley. Fire rocketed into the trees.
Chapter 3
A gust of wind buffeted the deck of he Warbler Café, yanking a paper plate out of Lark Dru
mmond’s hand. The plate soared like a Frisbee into the parking lot, spewing jelly and half-eaten scones like sparks off a pinwheel. A to-go cup teetered, then tipped over on a nearby table, splashing lukewarm coffee across the plastic surface and onto the redwood deck. Napkins danced in the air like overgrown confetti.
Lark eyed the mess with dismay. What a disaster!
Adding to the ambiance, the Park Service had been burning in Rocky Mountain National Park since 9 a.m. In under an hour, the smell of charred grass and pine pollen had saturated the air. To the west, a gray haze settled over the mountains; and smoke had wormed its way into the valley, depositing a thin coating of dust on Elk Park.
Lark tackled the cleanup for a second time, snatching up a dusty ceramic mug and sloshing coffee across the front of her lemon-yellow tee in the process.
Ick!
She lunged for a napkin and dabbed at the coffee, adding a streak of raspberry jam to the stain.
Shoot. Partner or no partner, she should never have agreed to fill in for Gertie Tanager today. It wasn’t part of the deal.
Nine months ago, when Esther Mills, the Warbler Café’s managing partner, was murdered, Lark had agreed to handle the financial end of things—ordering, payroll, and billing. It made sense. She was the only one of the four remaining partners with any business experience.
But, she’d agreed on the condition she would never have to work the floor. Between operating the Drummond Hotel and serving as hospitality chair for the Elk Park Ornithological Chapter, Lark figured she had enough on her plate. Luckily, everyone else had concurred.
It was an arrangement that had worked well, up until today, when Cecilia called in a panic. Gertie Tanager had called in sick, no one else was available to work, and the Warbler was unseasonably busy.
Of course, by the time Lark had arrived, the rush was over.
Giving up on the raspberry-coffee collage, she pitched the napkin toward an oversized trash can standing near the wall. Another gust of wind caught the wad of paper in midair, slamming it to the deck, and tumbling it across the planking. Deck umbrellas flapped and bowed. A table overturned, and cups and flatware skittered across the redwood deck.
As Lark scrambled to right the table, the whop, whop of a helicopter overhead shook the umbrellas. Lark glanced up and watched the helicopter churn westward until her gaze rested on the dark cloud of smoke billowing over Rocky Mountain National Park.
Lark’s heart hammered in her chest. Releasing the umbrella crank, she jerked upright.
Like fog boiling onto the land, the smoke tumbled into the valley, obscuring everything in its path.
Her stomach churned. Something was wrong.
“Oh, my,” said Cecilia Meyer, coming outside to join Lark at the deck railing. “You don’t suppose that fire got away from them?”
“I hope not.”
Until the Cerro Grande burn had roared out of control in Bandelier National Monument, Lark had never linked danger with prescribed burning. Rocky Mountain National Park conducted three burns a year. Three uneventful burns, that she would never have known took place, except for the notices printed each spring in the Elk Park Gazette.
But this fire was different. It had made its presence known from the git-go.
Lark had no doubts there’d be guests at the Drummond who complained—if not about the smoke, about the noise of the helicopters, about the dust, or about the road closures in the park. Frankly, she was more worried about her friends on the fire line. Eric in particular.
Cecilia reached out an age-spotted hand and patted Lark’s arm. “Now, don’t you fret, dear. I’m sure he’s all right.”
Lark stiffened. Did she look that worried?
She scrunched her face around, trying to smooth out her brow. Her relationship with Eric was still in its fledgling stage. The last person she waited to discuss her feelings with was Cecilia, Elk Park’s self-proclaimed matchmaker.
“Honestly,” continued Cecilia. “I’m sure he’s just fine.”
There was no point in pretending not to comprehend what she was talking about. “I’m sure they all are,” said Lark, infusing her voice with a false bravado. Think positive.
“Just so long as no one tries playing the hero,” persisted Cecilia, worrying her fingers along a seam in the tail of her blue shirt. “That’s what happened to my Jimmy, you know.”
For what seemed to Lark like the millionth time, Cecilia recounted the story of how forty years ago she had met and married “Jimmy” Meyer; how three days after their wedding he’d shipped out for Korea; and how several months after that, he’d been shot down under heavy fire.
“He was flying medical evac. They found the wreckage of his helicopter, but no body, so. . .” Cecilia drew a ragged breath. “They listed him missing-in-action. Just like that—” she said, snapping her fingers. “My Jimmy was gone.”
Cecilia sighed, patted her shirt tail into place, then stared at Lark with wet eyes the color of the hazy sky. “You know they never found him. The last time I saw Jimmy was when he waved good-bye.”
Lark’s thoughts flashed to the last time she’d seen Eric. He had stopped by the Drummond last night on his way home from Bird Haven. They’d sat on the porch swing, shared a cup of coffee, and talked. Banal conversation about work and sunsets and birds. As she recalled, he’d expressed some concern about the effect of today’s burn on the habitat of the green-tailed towhee. But he hadn’t mentioned a word about the fire danger.
He’d stayed less than an hour.
“Funny coincidence, this fire,” said Cecilia, cutting into Lark’s musing. “I’ve just been reading an article about Storm King Mountain. You remember that, don’t you?”
Lark nodded. Everyone who lived in Colorado knew about the Storm King fire. Fourteen firefighters had lost their lives battling that blaze.
“It’s a fascinating article. All about how they study fires to learn how to prevent them. The author spells out in detail everything that went wrong up on Storm King, then compares it to a fire that happened in Montana back in the forties. The Mann Gulch fire.” Cecilia fluffed her mouse-brown hair, and frowned. “Funny how history repeats itself. Those two fires were nearly identical.”
Lark didn’t want to hear anymore. “Those were wildfires, Cecilia. Both of them. This is a prescribed burn. A controlled burn. A burn designed to prevent catastrophic fires like those from happening.”
“Is that so?” Cecilia sounded dubious. “Well, tell that to the people of Los Alamos, New Mexico.”
The Cerro Grande burn. No one had died in that fire, but thousands of acres of land and hundreds of homes had been destroyed, not to mention the thousands of people who’d had to be evacuated.
Cecilia pushed back from the railing. “Oops, we have a customer.”
Once her business partner had bustled away, Lark hurried to pick up the remaining dishes and throw away the rest of the trash. She refused to worry. Eric was a trained firefighter, among a crew of trained firefighters, and Beaver Meadows was predominately open shrub land. Everything would be okay, unless . . .
She cast a glance at the billowing smoke.
. . . the fire reached the trees.
Bracing against another blast of wind, Lark scooped up her tray and pushed through the doors of the Warbler Café. Inside empty tables and chairs cluttered the hardwood floor, making navigation next to impossible in the dim light. Once her eyes had adjusted, she spotted Jackie Devlin, Eric’s boss’s wife, near the cash register.
“Can you believe all the smoke?” asked Lark, making a beeline for the kitchen.
“No,” replied Cecilia and Jackie in unison.
“I hope everything’s okay up there,” said Lark, maneuvering her way to the counter.
Jackie shrugged, creasing her ash-blond bob. “I’m sure Wayne has everything under control. He’s been concerned enough about the fire conditions for all of us. In fact, he’s been out and out anal about them.” She stepped forward to study the bins of coffee on display, a
nd blocked Lark’s path.
Lark stopped and repositioned the tray, balancing it against her shoulder while she waited for Jackie to move.
“At any rate,” continued Jackie. “He went in early every day this week, and he left for work early again this morning. He was gone by five-thirty.”
“Why?” asked Cecilia.
“Why did he leave early?” asked Jackie. “Or why was he concerned?”
“Both,” chimed in Lark. Talk about anal.
“Who knows? When he left, he was mumbling something about wanting to, quote, check the humidity on Eagle Cliff Mountain, unquote. I think he was afraid it was already too dry up there, especially after this last winter.” She arched a penciled eyebrow. “He must have changed his mind. After all, they lit the fire.”
“I guess, but—”
“Anyway,” she said, interrupting Lark and pointing to the coffee bins. “I need two pounds of Jaltengo. It’s Wayne’s favorite. And some Colombian decaf for Tamara’s graduation party.” She paused as though expecting a comment. “Haven’t you heard? She’s valedictorian of this year’s senior class.”
“Oh my,” said Cecilia, reaching for a coffee scoop. “I didn’t know. Congratulations!”
With the conversation taking a new tact, Lark grew tired of holding the tray. “Excuse me,” she said.
Jackie didn’t budge.
Lark tried squeezing past, clipping Jackie with the lip of the tray.
Jackie flinched, then moved aside, swatting at the back of her L. L. Bean jacket.
“Sorry,” said Lark. Outside the sky had darkened, and a smokey odor permeated the room. Under her breath, she mumbled, “I still say something is wrong up there.”
“Trust me,” snapped Jackie. “Wayne has been fighting fires for years. He knows what he’s doing.”
So did most of the guys up there. “I didn’t mean anything per—”
“Though, it would have been nice if he’d waited to burn Beaver Meadows until after Tamara’s party.”
Was that all that bothered her? The potential impact on Tamara’s big bash? No doubt the party was weeks into the planning stages. Jackie was a Martha Stewart aficionado. She even looked a little like Martha. So Jackie would be checking, rechecking, and worrying every detail until everything—right down to the cut flowers, quilted bedspreads, and clean garage—was perfect.
A Nest in the Ashes Page 2
