Present day . . .
Early evening moonlight bled into the room and onto the floor where elders, both men and women, sat around the glowing coals of a fire, discussing the welfare of their people. One space sat empty. It represented a clan that tradition said would provide a leader, one who had much to do with religious practice.
“We’ve known this day would come,” a white-haired man said.
“Yes,” another answered. “But Anna was certain another would follow her. Her death is unexpected.”
“But it is something we should have expected. If her clan is now extinct, we are left with a hole in our society . . . in our social fabric. Do we know why she thought another would come? Are we sure there is no one?”
A gray-haired woman sitting to the east nodded to herself, then spoke. “There are no men. None initiated into religious societies, none with teachings or authority. It is possible there is no one surviving who knows the traditions and secrets of the clan. But, there is a girl. One girl.”
—·—
A few miles away:
The moon peered over the canyon rim, casting light over the pool. A wall across the way stood in shadow, but flickers of light intruded even there from the shimmer of moonlight off water and travertine. The sounds were of water falling, of tree frogs and birds calling, of gentle down canyon breezes in the leaves of the cottonwoods. A man and woman floated in the shallows, giving attention to none of it.
The night was warm, as was the water, but in time the water would bring chill and they would need to escape it. When that time came, Jack Chastain swam to a flat-topped boulder, gave a kick, and hefted himself up on both arms and out of the water. No trepidation, he stood, tall, his lean shadow cast over the rock. He watched Kelly Culberson swim to water’s edge and emerge. She brushed her dark hair back and blew the water from her lips. Her skin glistened in the moon light, and droplets trailed down the length of her body. She noticed him watching. She smiled.
She came around to the boulder, climbed up and stood, and gave him another embrace, then lay down and sank into the warmth of the rock.
He sat beside her. She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes to the moon. He stole the moment to enjoy the sight of her.
She let minutes pass, then turned onto her side. “Tell me what happened in Montana.”
Jack looked away.
“You can’t keep secrets.”
“Don’t intend to. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Look at what’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, in the past few weeks, in the past year. The fire, the warring factions, the trust you lost, then regained tenfold. You’re past all that. Surely you can also get past what happened in Montana.”
“Hope so.” He stared into the shadows. “But I’m not sure all wounds heal.”
“Why can’t you let go?”
“Some things are harder than others. When there are those you count on, that you want to count on you, and things happen that tell you they’re in it for themselves. When it should be obvious, but isn’t. How do you get over that?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“No one you know.”
“Tell me about Montana. It might help you forget.”
“Forget? Sure, let’s forget it.”
“No, I mean, it would be good to talk about it, right?”
He kissed her forehead. “I do not want to talk about Montana.”
Chapter 1
Jack Chastain tipped the drip torch forward and burning oil dribbled out, setting fire to a clump of sagebrush. The flames grew, engulfed the sage, and flashed toward a thicket of oak brush. He dipped the torch forward again to the same effect.
Wind, from nowhere, pushed back, blowing heat in his face. He stood up right. The holding crewman to his left stepped back, ready to stand his ground, but looked more surprised than prepared.
The wind died away.
Between the fire line and advancing front of flame, the strip of black was no longer narrow. It was growing. That could be good or bad, a buffer to stop the main body of the now-named, Pistol Creek Fire, or a potential problem. With so much fire on the ground, it would be hard to control if winds came early. The forecast said tomorrow, not today.
Jack raised his eyes to the horizon.
A gray zone of smoke rose up along the ridgeline. Two columns poked up above the trees, trying to come to a boil.
This had better work. The fire cannot be allowed to move this direction. Not this close to the boundary. Even doing good things to the west, there would be hell to pay. Explaining why this fire was seen as potentially good after starting under suspicious circumstances—a pickup found burning on the desert and quickly extinguished, but not before starting a spot fire on the plateau—would not be easy. Explaining the decision to manage the fire—or allow it to burn—would be difficult with evacuations occurring or houses burning. Heads would roll.
Johnny Reger’s plan seemed good, until now. The small number of firefighters from which to draw hadn’t seemed a major concern—it was so early in the year, before the worst of the fire season. A few firefighters from nearby parks, reinforcing the fire staff from Piedras Coloradas National Park, and a little help from Jack, and that seemed enough. Until now, with the wind.
One day. That’s all that’s needed. One day to secure this stretch before forecasted winds arrive. Then the fire can move north and west. Monitored and allowed to burn. Allowed to do good things.
But not if we lose it here.
Jack checked the others. As the wind died back, the firers pressed on, their line of fire heating up, flames lapping back. The holding crews leaned into their shovels and waited, ready.
Up the way, outside the line, a firefighter stood between the fire and a scratch line cut to protect a sandstone outcropping and a small population of rare plants, a wallflower, proposed for endangered status. It had to be protected. Once the burn advances past where the woody-stemmed plant grows—its roots penetrating cracks at the base and up the face of the rock—the firefighter can move down the line to help elsewhere. Procedure. Johnny was being thorough.
Jack moved northwest, along the edge of the black, lighting off more brush. The sweat on the back of his neck turned cool. Another wind shift. He stopped and raised the drip torch.
He exchanged glances with Johnny Reger, who gave him a serious look, the sparkle gone from his usually jesting eyes. Sweat matted dark strands of hair falling below the brim of his helmet. Nerves.
“Where did this come from?” Jack shouted.
He shrugged. “Phantom winds. Said nothing about ’em in the forecast.”
Tops
