A Nest in the Ashes

by Christine Goff

  “Stephen, if people want to leave, let them. As for giving them their money back, you decide what’s fair.” She bounded up the steps of the front porch.

  Velof dogged her heels. “No refund is fair. It isn’t our fault they can’t get into the park. It’s an act of God.”

  “Or the Park Service.”

  “Right.” Velof held the screen while she opened the door. Stepping into the kitchen, she tossed her keys on the counter where they’d be easy to find, and headed for the bedroom.

  “Consider it a goodwill gesture, Stephen. Offer a discount.”

  “And suffer the negative impact to preseason sales figures?” Velof marched behind her, as she threaded her way through the living room and down the hall.

  “Perhaps the bigger concern is June,” she said, giving him something more to worry about. Once word of the fire spread, they were bound to see cancellations.

  Velof sniffed. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. We should institute a public relations campaign immediately. We can make flyers.”

  “You do that.” Lark spun around, blocking the entrance to her bedroom. “I need to change.”

  “Oh.” His face pinked. “Sorry.”

  As he backed away, Lark swung the door shut in his face. “I hired you because I trusted you to make decisions,” she called through the door, stripping off her shorts. “So go forth and manage.”

  “I am trying to share my concerns with you,” Velof whined. “Don’t you find it disconcerting that people are leaving?”

  “Frankly, at the moment, I’m more worried about the fire.” If it roared through town, it could wipe out everything she owned, all that she’d worked so hard to build over the past three years. Every last dime she had was invested in the Drummond and the Warbler. Her existence hinged on her habitat, not on a couple of months worth of revenue.

  She stripped off her stained T-shirt and dropped it on the floor. After yanking a clean one out her drawer, she snatched her fire clothes off a hook in the back of her closet. The outfit—made of standard issue Nomex, a fire-resistant material that allowed for little ventilation—would be bulky and hot, so she swiped on additional deodorant. Useless against the heat of a fire, but at least she wouldn’t smell rank before everyone else did.

  After donning the clean T-shirt, she pulled on the yellow Nomex shirt, then the green Nomex pants with the yellow suspenders. Grabbing a pair of wool socks, she headed back for the kitchen.

  Velof, who was still leaning against the wall, followed her back down the hall. “Where are you going?”

  “Where does it look like I’m going?” Lark grabbed her fire boots from behind the kitchen door and flopped down in a chair to pull on her socks.

  “You’re not headed up to the fire.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly where I’m going, Stephen.” Jamming her feet into her boots, she laced them quickly, then pulled her pant legs down over the tops and grabbed her fire pack off the peg beside the door.

  Out of habit, she checked the contents. Last time she’d gone out on a fire, she’d grabbed her birdwatching pack and ended up with a field guide, small notebook, pen, sunscreen, lip balm, water bottle, granola bar, penknife, and binoculars. In contrast, the fire pack contained a hard hat, goggles, knife, fire shelter, gloves, snacks, water, and an extra T-shirt. Everything else she needed by way of equipment, the Fire Department or Park Service would supply.

  Slinging the pack over her shoulder, she headed out. Velof held open the door.

  “You’re still here?” Lark asked, knowing perfectly well he hadn’t left.

  He dutifully ignored her. “I can’t believe you’re going off to fight fires. You have enough to put out right here. You’re a hotel proprietor for God’s sake.”

  “I’m also a volunteer fireman.” She bullied her way past him, leaping down the stairs two at a time.

  “When will you be back?” he asked, his voice striking a plaintive note.

  “I don’t know. When the fire’s out.” She pitched her backpack into the cab of the pickup. “Meanwhile, just make a decision.” That’s what you’re being paid for. “Trust your instincts, Stephen. That’s what I try and do.”

  Lark left Velof standing on the front porch and drove her pickup through town. Ash rained down, coating the windshield. She flipped on her wipers. The ash was not a good sign, but it didn’t necessarily mean the fire was headed their direction. Depending on the wind, ash could carry for miles.

  Along the streets, tourists huddled under the eaves of the buildings, some staring incredulously at the sky, others peering into the shops that lined Main Street. Many of the stores were closed. Several sported “Gone to Fire” signs in the window.

  Turning left at the intersection, she accelerated up U.S. 36. The stores and people dropped away, replaced by scattered houses tucked among the trees. Elk grazed like horses on the front lawns. Bluebirds flitted from fence post to fence post.

  The first sign of trouble came as she rounded the bend onto the straightaway that led to the park. A National Park Service truck blocked the westbound lane, guarded by a young ranger. The ranger stepped forward and raised her hand.

  Lark braked and rolled to a stop, lowering her window.

  “You need to turn around, Ma’am,” said the ranger, a young girl in an oversized hat covered in soot. “The park is closed to all traffic.”

  Since when had she become a “ma’am?” In her mind’s eye she wasn’t much older than the ranger. “I’m a volunteer firefighter,” Lark explained.

  The ranger eyed her skeptically. “I don’t see any emergency markings on your vehicle, Ma’am, and I’m under strict orders not to let anyone through except official emergency personnel.”

  Lark glanced down at her attire. What, did she look like she was on her way to a birdwatching convention?

  Rather than say something flip, she tried reasoning with the girl. “I’m wearing fire gear. I have my pack.” She gestured toward the seat beside her. “What more proof do you need?”

  “I need to see some credentials, Ma’am. Do you have a badge?”

  “No,” answered Lark. Though, come to think of it, they’d given her a card when she passed her training. She didn’t know she was supposed to carry it. No one had ever asked to see it before.

  “Do you have anything proving you’re a firefighter?”

  “Aside from the clothes?” asked Lark. The girl was starting to get on her nerves. “No. But why else would I dress like this?”

  “I don’t know, Ma’am. Perhaps to gain access to a restricted area.”

  Vehicles started stacking up behind the pickup. A few sported the red flashing emergency lights designated for volunteers, but most ran bare. A horn blared. Susie eyed them nervously, but stood her ground.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I can’t let you through. That’s what they told me. Only official emergency personnel.”

  “Look, Ranger . . .” Lark grappled for words, unsure how to reason with someone so young and determined. “Susie. There isn’t time for this. I am official emergency personnel. The sirens went off, I called in, and was told to report to Prospect Point. We all were.” Lark jerked a thumb toward the line of cars behind her. “Now you can either let me pass, or I’m going to run your road block.”

  The girl stepped back, then moved in front of Lark’s truck, placing her palms on the hood. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that, Ma’am.”

  The absurdity of the situation struck Lark as funny, and she struggled not to laugh. “Get out of the way,” she ordered.

  “No.” The girl planted her feet a foot apart, hands on her hips, lips set in a hard line.

  “Then at least stop calling me Ma’am.”

  That drew a smile.

  Encouraged, Lark pushed open the door and climbed out of the truck. The ash pelted her head and slicked the asphalt. “Use your head, Susie. Why else would we all be up here? Sure, one of us might be bluffing. But all of us?” She held her hands wide, pal
ms up, and shook them toward the lineup of vehicles.

  A horn blast punctuated Lark’s point. More horns blared. Several cars pulled forward using the eastbound lanes. The ranger backed up to straddle the gap between her truck and the ditch.

  Harry Eckles, a volunteer fireman who taught biology at the University of Colorado in Boulder, inched his red compact up alongside Lark’s truck. She knew him best through his association with the Elk Park Ornithological Chapter. He’d been an EPOCH member for years. Sandy-haired, muscular, with blue eyes, which he covered only when wearing his reading glasses, she’d found him attractive at first. It had taken her six months of flirting to figure out he was gay.

  “What the holdup?” he asked, craning to see Lark out the passenger window.

  She leaned down, crossing her arms on the sill. “We’re not official enough.” Lark recapped the conversation with Susie.

  “She’s telling you the truth,” Harry called to the ranger.

  “Unless you can prove you’re a fireman, I cannot let you pass,” said Susie, bottom lip quivering. Determination, or fear? Her eyes widened when one of the drivers behind Harry revved his engine. “Please, don’t.”

  Watching Susie, hearing the fear in her voice, caused Lark’s anger to evaporate. She suddenly remembered she’d once been in a similar position.

  Years ago, when she was a college freshman home on vacation, Lark’s father—the senior senator from Connecticut—had come under scrutiny for having an alleged affair with a campaign worker. Her mother, at her father’s urging, had thrown a party for some two hundred of their closest friends in order to quash the rumors. Lark had been charged with checking the invitations at the door in order to keep out the press.

  Things had gone fine, until one very good-looking young man without an invitation, and claiming to be the aide to the senator from Delaware, cajoled her into letting him pass. He’d turned out to be a Washington Post reporter. Her father had never forgotten.

  Lark shook off the memory. “Who gave you your orders?”

  A pained expression crossed Susie’s face. “I know this is going to sound dumb, but I don’t remember his name.”

  She was right. It sounded ludicrous.

  “Do you remember what he looked like?” asked Lark. “Was he NPS?”

  “Yeah.” She flailed her arms, signaling the cars creeping up to turn around. “He was tall. Cute, in a craggy sort of way. Like an older, skinnier Ben Affleck. And he had an accent.”

  The cars and trucks pressed forward. Several drivers pulled into the ditch, throwing dirt off their tires as they peeled around the roadblock. Several others had gotten out of their vehicles and were advancing from the rear. Mob mentality. Lark could read it in their faces. The majority of firefighters worked on a mixture of adrenalin and testosterone. Not a great combination.

  Lark exchanged glances with Harry. “What do you think?” she asked. “I’ll bet it was Eric.”

  “That would be my guess.” Harry climbed out of his vehicle and headed back to stave off the advancing crew.

  “Susie, do you have a radio?” Lark asked. “In the truck, but—”

  Lark didn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence. Car horns blared. Voices shouted angry epitaphs.

  Grabbing the radio off the front seat, Lark keyed the mike. “Eric, this is Lark, over.”

  “I copy,” came back.

  Relief washed through her at the sound of his voice. She breathed a huge sigh, then said, “We have a situation.”

  Chapter 7

  Eric followed the buses down Highway 66, making sure the road was open and they reached Prospect Point. He turned his truck around a mile short of the pull off. So far the fire had remained clear of the road, but somewhere on the back side of Eagle Cliff Mountain, a fire burned out of control.

  Smoke lay thick in the canyon. Ash still tumbled from the sky, reminding him of the day Mount St. Helen’s erupted. He’d been crossing White Mountain Pass on his way from Seattle to Denver. The smoke and ash created a flat light, then the sky had darkened, turning purplish, and the ash had fallen in blizzard-like conditions. The mountain had made its own storm.

  Fire also created weather, generating wind by breathing in oxygen along the ground and spewing it thousands of feet into the air along with smoke and flames. The results were often deadly.

  Eric parked on the asphalt. No one except Mountain Search and Rescue would be allowed on the road. They could easily get around him here.

  The thought of the missing boys tied his stomach in knots. It was bad enough to be lost in the woods without the added danger of fire. The nights were cold. Unless one was prepared, hypothermia and dehydration could kill a man overnight.

  His thoughts flashed to when he was eleven, living in a house in Lillehammer, Norway. There had been a knock on the door. A policeman stood in the entryway.

  “There’s been an accident, the policeman had told them. Eric’s father and three other climbers had been trapped on the mountain by an avalanche. Rescue crews were attempting to reach them, but it was getting dark . . .

  Eric shrugged on his pack and clipped his radio to a loop-on strap, making it easier to monitor. If the search team hadn’t found the boys by the time he was finished, he’d scout the second ridge looking for them.

  He finished checking his tools, repositioned the binoculars, and slammed the car door, when Lark’s voice crackled across the radio. Eric turned up the volume. He’d spoken with her earlier regarding the young ranger from the Visitor Center. The situation had been straightened out, he’d put Lark and Harry in charge of the roadblock until an officer showed up to relieve them. Susie had been demoted to backup.

  “This is Lark Drummond. Officer Klipp is on scene. Harry Eckles and I are requesting a new assignment, over.”

  Butch Hanley replied. “Mountain Search and Rescue needs more help up at the Youth Mountain Camp. They have two juveniles missing. You and Harry report there.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Eric stepped across the ditch, relived she wouldn’t be on the fire line, disappointed when she signed off. He liked the husky sound of her voice. Face it, he liked her.

  Pushing Lark out of his thoughts, Eric scrambled up the embankment and focused on choosing the best route up the mountain. Pasqueflowers sprouted in profusion on the lower hillside. Yellow monkeyflowers grew in clumps beneath groves of aspen. Wind rattled the trees, and Eric watched them sway and bend. Several nesting cavities were visible, but no birds flitted about anywhere. It was as though they sensed impending doom, and had hunkered down.

  Turning up gulch, he braced himself for a climb. Brush and juniper bushes clung to the lower slopes, giving way to heavily forested ground that rose at a six-percent grade.

  He’d climbed about a hundred yards, when he thought he heard his name called. He stopped and listened, hearing only the rush of the wind in the trees.

  He started climbing again, then stopped, convinced he’d heard his name called again, “Errrrrickkkkkk,” the syllables of his name drawn out in a monotone. It was Lark’s voice.

  “Up here.”

  He searched for a sign of her below him. “Where?”

  A thrashing in the brush precipitated her arrival. Even fire garb accentuated the round curves of her body. Her blond hair was braided loosely down her back, wisps sneaking out to curl gently around her face and soften the harsh edge of the orange hard hat perched on her head. Harry Eckles appeared on her heels.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “Ouch,” Lark said, either at the tone of his voice or because a branch had scratched her. “I thought you’d be happy to see us.”

  “You’re supposed to be at the Youth Mountain Camp.”

  “We know,” said Harry. “But we saw your truck and thought maybe they’d moved the operation down here.”

  Eric shook his head. “There’s a spot fire burning.” He noticed Lark rubbing the ankle she’d broken the summer before. “Are you all right?”

  Sh
e nodded, spitting on her hand and rubbing vigorously at a spot under her sock near her boot line. “Stinging nettle. So where’s this fire?”

  “Somewhere up there.” He jerked his head toward the summit. “You two should go back.”

  “Why?” asked Harry. “It looks like you could use some help.” Harry patted the head of the Pulaski—a combination hoe and axe tool—that hung from his belt. Eric noticed Lark carried one, too. They must have been outfitted at Prospect Point.

  “Because they’re expecting you at the Youth Mountain Camp.” And because, where he was headed was apt to be dangerous. In all honesty, while he would relish Harry’s company, he didn’t want to place Lark in any danger.

  “We can radio them our change of plans,” said Lark, yanking her pant leg down firmly over the top of her boot. “The missing boys headed this way, right? Maybe we can head them off at the pass.”

  Harry nodded.

  She made sense. Short of ordering them to go back and admitting to be the chauvinist he was, Eric had little choice but to notify Butch Hanley that Lark and Harry were with him. If he’d hoped Butch would tell them to report as previously ordered, he was disappointed. The go-ahead was given, and the three of them climbed.

  They followed the first wash until it dead ended in a tangle of juniper and berry bushes and they were forced to backtrack. Not much was said. Everyone seemed to be saving their breath.

  The next effort proved more successful. The second gulch wormed its way up the mountain, the slopes rising steeply on either side. Snags and dead trees littered the hillsides, and they huffed and puffed over fallen logs and around large moss-covered boulders.

  “Wait,” said Lark.

  Eric turned to find her leaning against a large boulder, holding her side. “Tired?”

  She made a face, and pointed. Three-quarters of the way up the trunk of a dead pine tree, a male three-toed woodpecker pushed grass into a nesting cavity.