by Linda Jacobs
Kyle had not been to church since Dad had driven them each Sunday in the Rambler wagon. Pastor White had exhorted them from the pulpit. When she’d spent the night clinging to a tree in stormy darkness she’d wondered if the earthquake happened because she’d let her attention wander during the sermon to the myriad colors in the stained glass, like rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.
Near the end of August 1959, there had been a memorial for the victims of Hebgen Lake, just inside the mouth of Madison Canyon. The local sheriff had vetoed a plan to meet directly on the slide and moved the site a mile west. A child psychologist who had evaluated Kyle while Franny and Zeke drove up from Arizona suggested they attend.
The mourners sang hymns and prayed, and The Bishop of the Montana Episcopal Diocese spoke. “Unto God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit you.”
She didn’t understand. Her parents must have been saved. They just hadn’t yet been located.
The Bishop intoned, “Lord, accept these prayers on behalf of the souls of Thy servants departed. Grant them an entrance into the land of life and joy in the fellowship of Thy saints.”
Kyle closed her eyes. “Dear Lord, please send Mommy and Daddy back.” Tears stung her lids. “If you do this, I won’t ever ask for anything, I promise.”
On the day of the service, there were still forty people missing. Ten of them were found alive.
Kyle never did ask God for anything else.
In the Yellowstone chapel, a woman in black robes came in bearing a large color photograph of David Mowry, one that Kyle recognized from his latest book jacket. The smiling, sturdy, bald man wore a red North Face parka.
The clergywoman arranged the photo against the back of a chair facing the congregation and went to the podium. When the last notes of the organ faded, she permitted a moment of silence before saying, “Let us pray.”
The chamber seemed to rustle as people settled themselves in their pews and bowed their heads.
“Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.”
The assembly joined in, their murmurs forming a communal growl.
Wyatt’s low baritone rumbled beside Kyle’s ear. “On earth as it is in heaven.”
She pressed her lips together. For an instant, she thought she saw the suspended chandelier move, but that had to be her imagination.
“Give us this day our daily bread,” came the never-forgotten cadence.
Kyle’s father had a saying. “All things cometh to he who waiteth.” He’d always stopped there for effect and broken into a grin. “If he worketh like hell while he waiteth.”
“Forgive us our trespasses.”
Any human trespass she could imagine paled in comparison to the night God had turned His spotlight of full moon on the Madison Valley, to better illuminate His shaking loose a mountain.
“As we forgive those who trespass against us.”
She realized she was crying in the same instant she saw the suspended chandelier really was on the move. Ever so gently, it swayed in an increasing arc while the mourners prayed on. After the colossal mistake she’d made last night, she was suspicious, but the telltale motion continued.
Kyle leaped to her feet, stumbled over peoples’ legs, and ran out of the chapel.
She was halfway across the lawn before Wyatt managed to snag her arm, realizing too late that it was her injured side.
He heard her gasp. She stopped.
“I’m sorry.” He touched Kyle’s other shoulder, gently this time. “What’s the matter?”
He’d wanted to leave the church the moment he’d seen the picture of David, hale and smiling in the red parka his wife had embraced in the clearing where he died.
Kyle rounded on him, wild-eyed, as he’d never known her. “Didn’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“The chandelier. Another quake.”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
He felt her trembling beneath his hand. A brisk breeze rattled the cottonwoods and sent more leaves spiraling. Night frosts had begun to fade the green of the irrigated lawns. “It’s cooling off out here. Let me get you some coffee.”
Placing a hand at the small of her back, he urged her toward the Resource Center.
Inside, at the receptionist’s desk, Iniki Kuni raised her head. Chief Ranger Joseph Kuni’s daughter, just eighteen and reed-thin, sported multiple piercings of ears, nose, and even her navel, visible in her waist-skimming top.
“The service over already?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Wyatt replied. “Iniki, this is Dr. Kyle Stone from the Institute in Salt Lake. She just drove in.”
His office door stood open, the desk piled with papers threatening avalanche. He showed Kyle inside and crossed the hall, trying not to look at David’s nameplate and vacant office.
In the kitchen, he checked the pots for coffee. Iniki pampered the staff, buying beans at a coffee shop in Gardiner and grinding them fresh. Today’s selection was featured in purple calligraphy on a lavender index card. Viennese Cinnamon, David’s favorite.
Wyatt pulled down the nice guest cups, thick white mugs with the Yellowstone Park logo, a mountain peak above the boast Oldest and Best. How long before it was superseded by Wonderland?.
Automatically, he stirred in a touch of cream the way Kyle liked it.
Back in his office, she stood where he’d left her. He moved a paper pile and slid a hip onto the corner of his desk. This erased his slight advantage of height and put them on the level. “So why is a tiny tremor such a big deal?”
Her lips moved in a bitter twist. “Believe me, you haven’t got the time.”
He was reminded of the evening in the Red Wolf when she’d refused to explain her tears. At the time, he’d felt rebuffed. Today, he determined to break down her defenses. “I’ve got all the time you need.”
Her eyes reflected a deep pain. “Last night I woke up and panicked, thinking the Wasatch Fault had let go a huge quake.”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible.”
She shook her head. “I climbed out the window into a terrific rainstorm and roped down the side of the building.”
The image almost made him smile.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” she threatened.
He maintained a solemn expression. “I’m not.”
“Your eyes are smiling.”
“Maybe.” He grinned.
Kyle gulped her coffee. “I scared my neighbor pounding on her door, telling her to get outside.”
Wyatt kept his tone reasonable. “Maybe I did feel like smiling. It sounds to me like you overreacted to a bad dream.”
“And again today.”
“Maybe.” She bowed her head. Her sleek hair was divided by a part above a faint widow’s peak.
“Tell me the rest,” he urged.
When she did not speak, he started putting things together on his own. Her panic attack last night and again when the chandelier swung, the hysterical note to her laughter after the earthquake on Dot Island, the odd way she’d acted at the Earthquake Lake Visitor Center, as though she thought the mountain might begin shaking again.
“Kyle,” he said, “if you’re afraid of quakes, why do you put yourself in places where they happen?” He propped his hands on the desk on either side of her, suddenly aware that mere inches separated their bodies.
She looked at him; her eyes clear green-blue. “Wyatt…”
With a pounding heart, he lifted his hand and cradled her cheek. Gently, he moved his thumb over the silky skin beneath her eye. A bluish shadow there bespoke her night terrors.
Someone rapped the office door in sharp staccato.
“Yee haw,” a man said jovially. “Am I interrupting anything?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SEPTEMBER 19
The intruder laughed lightly, the sound of a man who seldom took things seriously. Kyle’s view of the entry was blocked by Wyatt, but she’d have known that voice anywhere.
Already unnerved b
y the tenderness in Wyatt’s touch, she vowed not to drop her cup.
Wyatt backed away, his face flushing, and turned toward his guest.
In jeans and a blue work shirt, tanned, with sun-streaked tousled hair, the ghost from her past stood in the doorway.
“Hello, I’m Nick Darden.”
Kyle’s heart started to race.
Nick took a few steps closer with a compact catlike grace that still set him apart. His tawny-greenish eyes glinted with what could only be termed polite interest. “I’m looking for a Dr. Ellison.”
A dreadful suspicion seized her. “I’m Dr. Stone of the Utah Institute.” She ignored Nick’s outstretched hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said without a trace of recognition.
Through the years, Kyle had played a hundred scenarios. Perhaps they would meet at a convention icebreaker and trade banalities while half a dozen colleagues looked on. It might be more public, as she announced the speakers’ awards at a banquet and found his name on the list.
She had never considered he might not remember her.
“This is Dr. Wyatt Ellison,” she introduced. Feeling cold all over, she watched the two men shake hands, Wyatt taller and leaner.
Nick gave an easy smile. “Colin Gruy sent me from Volcano Hazards at USGS. I’ve brought some seismographs, extra GPS receivers, you name it.”
Kyle remained standing while Nick took a seat and pulled his foot in a scuffed hiking boot up onto his thigh. Somehow, it underscored his casual air, especially with Wyatt sitting across from him in dress uniform.
How was it possible for Nick to have changed so little? Sure, there were crinkles around his eyes, his hair wasn’t as shiny, but the attitude was still that of field camp court jester. His eyes darted around the office, skipped over Wyatt’s rock collection on the windowsill, and lit briefly on a rodeo trophy with a gold bronco rider spurring his kicking mount. The plaque proclaimed Wyatt Ellison All-Around Cowboy at the Bozeman Summer Roundup, 1979.
Nick turned back to Wyatt. “Colin sent me alone rather than calling a full deployment team alert. He and I are sure there’s nothing unusual going on.”
Wyatt glanced out the window toward the Yellowstone Chapel, where the friends of David Mowry were beginning to disperse, and then back to Nick. “We all know about opinions. Now, are you here to help or tell us our business?”
Nick settled back and crossed his arms. “A bit of both, I imagine.”
He was even cockier than he’d been as a student, but considering his position in Volcano Hazards, Kyle wasn’t too surprised. Although career advancement within the USGS and academic halls was traditionally based on the principle of ‘publish or perish,’ the mavericks accepted their upward mobility as stagnant. They asked only to be called to the next hotspot around the world.
Kyle decided it was time she used her vocal cords, lest Nick conclude Wyatt had the only brain in the operation. “We need to get up into the backcountry as soon as possible.”
“By helicopter?” Nick asked, his eyes once more passing over her without expression.
Wyatt snorted. “You kidding? On our budget, I was planning to pack in with horses.”
“Horses?” Nick’s voice rose.
“Unless you’ve got the money for a chopper?” Kyle suggested hopefully.
“No,” Nick said. A little silence fell.
“I fucking hate horses,” he went on after a moment.
Wyatt raised a dark brow.
Nick nodded toward the rodeo trophy. “I take it you’re a pretty good rider?”
“In Bozeman, I used to compete every Friday night.”
“Barrel racing?”
Wyatt crossed his arms, matching Nick’s pose. “Bronco riding, bulldogging, a bit of everything.”
“Real cowboy, eh?”
The two men stared at each other.
Wyatt broke the standoff. “What do you know about Yellowstone, Darden?”
“I did geology field camp down the road at Alpine.”
“So did Dr. Stone.”
From the corner of her eye Kyle saw Nick swivel his head toward her.
“What year were you there?” His pleasant tone exempted her from his clash with Wyatt.
“A long time ago.” She looked directly at him for the first time, her expression even.
The impact of his eyes sent a shaft of longing through her. Despite, no, because he was no longer youthful and untried, he seemed even more aware of his power to interest a female. He might not remember her, but she decided he was damn well going to. “The 4-H camp’s bunkhouse was pretty spare, but I actually spent the last three weeks sleeping in a tent.”
Nick’s green gaze froze. A beat of silence passed while he digested her words. Then his expression sharpened.
“My God!” He shook his head. “Kyle.”
The familiar warmth of his voice, one she’d never wanted to hear again, made something twist inside her. Her mouth went dry.
“I feel like a damned fool.” His eyes, formerly pale chips of glass, upon meeting a stranger lighted. He studied her with an intensity that embarrassed her.
“Don’t.” She lifted a hand to tuck in a stray strand of her hair. “I’ve changed a lot.” Nick hadn’t, though. He still reminded her of Southern California sunshine.
She turned to Wyatt. “We went to camp together.”
“Small world,” he said flatly.
Nick’s voice shifted to his old familiar banter. “So how the hell are you? Married? Kids?”
“Fine, and no.” She twisted her hands. “You?”
“I took a swing at being married. Twice. Now I’m afraid of striking out.”
“Why don’t we take a look at the equipment you’ve brought?” she suggested coolly.
“Sounds good.” Wyatt pushed back his chair. Before they headed out, he took off his dress jacket and hung it on the back of his door, replacing it with a fleece one with Park Service insignia.
Behind the Resource Center sat a white panel truck labeled United States Geological Survey. Nick opened the back and displayed a wealth of equipment. “What’s your pleasure, Ma’am? GPS receivers, portable seismographs, electronic tiltmeters? Doctor Nicolas has brought ‘em all.”
Kyle laughed. Sliding open the door of the Institute van, she revealed her own cache of seven seismographs.
“I thought you were out of equipment.” Nick sounded surprised. “Colin said it was all dedicated to the Wasatch Fault.”
“There was a custody battle.”
Her euphoria evaporated as she caught sight of the last traffic leaving the memorial service. Out on the main road there were still some press vans.
“What’s with all the action?” Nick asked jovially. “I remember this place as pretty quiet.”
“A colleague, David Mowry,” Wyatt said, “whom you may know from his books, dove into a hot spring that wasn’t supposed to be hot. I got there just in time to watch him die.”
Nick’s smile disappeared like a conjurer’s handkerchief. “That’s tough. I heard about him on the news when I was driving over.”
“His memorial service was in the chapel today,” Kyle explained.
Nick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is it true the spring was cold the day before?”
“It is.” Wyatt folded his arms over his chest. “You want to think again about there being nothing going on here?”
Nick slammed the back of the truck, dusted off his hands, and looked at Kyle. “I’m starving. How ‘bout some chow?”
To her surprise, it was after five. She tried to think of when she’d last eaten and realized it had been dinner last night. After her predawn panic, she’d driven to Yellowstone on a single Coke.
“You two go ahead.” Wyatt turned away. “I’m heading home.”
“No,” Kyle said quickly. “Come with us.” Too late, she realized he might be meeting Alicia.
Wyatt demurred, his hands shoved deep in jacket pockets. “It sounds as though you
and Nick have a lot to catch up on.” He walked toward his Park Service Bronco.
“We’ll come by your office in the morning,” Kyle called after him. She waved, but he wasn’t looking back.
Nick’s grin flashed familiar. “I don’t think the cowboy likes me.”
As the Bronco drove past, they walked together across the parking lot, then between the stone headquarters building and the Chief Ranger’s historic quarters next door. With the sun dipping toward the mountains, the chill began to settle in earnest. Fallen leaves made small tearing sounds beneath their feet.
When they reached the street, three television crews were filming a man with a halo of curly hair. Behind him was the backdrop of Mammoth Hot Spring’s terraces.
“Here’s trouble.” Nick’s familiar tone suggested he knew Brock Hobart well.
The freelance earthquake predictor, dressed casually in jeans and a light jacket, sat on a picnic table surrounded by press. When he’d gotten lucky with Sakhalin, his cult following had swelled.
Carol Leeds of Billings Live Eye, who’d interviewed Radford, Wyatt, and Kyle earlier, was at the forefront. “I understand you predicted the earthquake in Sakhalin last week, right before it happened.”
Brock smiled. “Yes. If Monty Muckleroy hadn’t invited me on his show, I would have been a lone voice making predictions on the Internet.”
“What a PR hound Brock’s turned into.” Nick leaned his shoulder against a tree and watched.
“Fishing for a return engagement on Mornings with Monty,” Kyle agreed.
“I understand your prediction at Sakhalin had to do with some alignment of the planets,” Carol prompted.
“Actually, it’s the sun, moon, and earth that were in alignment. This happens twice a month with the new and full moon. At this time, the ocean and solid earth tides are at maximum,” Brock lectured. “Quakes that have occurred during alignment include Bishop, California in 1912; Anchorage, Alaska in 1964; and Kobe, Japan in 1995.”
Everyone listened, including the ponytailed cameraman.
“And last, but certainly not least,” Brock spread his hands. “Your own Hebgen Lake in 1959.”
