was talking anxiously into his radio, calling for more chemicals and water.
The wind, shifting almost wildly, blew smoke their way, blinding them, causing Mary to cough as it burned her throat. Then it blew another way, briefly burying the entire valley in an inky pall. Moments later the pall lifted, blurring the stars and revealing the disaster below.
More fires burned now, individual blots of orange and red in the darkness. And the conflagration was creeping toward the pass.
Huge tongues of flame leaped upward, more than twice the height of the trees. Even at this distance an occasional loud pop could be heard as a tree exploded in flames. And on the wind they could hear the distant roar, like that of a hungry beast.
A shoulder brushed Mary’s, and she looked to her side. Elijah Canfield stood there, staring at the fire. “Where’s Sam?” he asked.
“I think he’s still down with the crew building the firebreak. He didn’t come back up after he took food down.”
His eyes, intense even in the dull red glow that was lighting the night, fixed on her. “Doesn’t anyone know for sure?”
Mary felt a stirring of impatience, accentuated by her growing anxiety. “That’s the last we heard from him. If you don’t believe me, there’s George Griffin.” She pointed. “Why? Are you worried about him?”
Under any other circumstances it would have been an unthinkable question to ask a father, but this father…well, he deserved it.
His gaze seemed to burn into her, but he didn’t answer. Instead he strode away toward George.
Maggie spoke from behind her. “Chilly sort of guy.”
“That’s Sam’s father. The Reverend Elijah Canfield.”
“Whew.” Maggie looked toward him. “Sam never mentions him.”
“I’m beginning to understand why.”
Maggie faced her. “Trouble between those two, huh?”
“I guess so.” She didn’t feel free to share what Sam had told her privately, so she opted for vagueness.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. Sam is one of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet, but he’s closed off, if you know what I mean. He was that way even before his wife died, except maybe with her.”
Mary felt the kick of interest. “Did you know her?”
“Sam’s wife? Sure. We weren’t best friends or anything, but Earl and Sam have been great friends from the instant Sam moved to town. So Earl would invite me and my late husband over sometimes, and Sam and Beth would be there. She was fun. Outgoing, unlike Sam. Young.”
“Young?”
“Not in years. She was close to Sam’s age. But…I don’t know. She always impressed me as being about eighteen.” Maggie shrugged and flashed a grin. “Probably because I had a daughter and she didn’t. I was buried in responsibility, and she was still having fun being married and in love. You know what I mean. No criticism, by the way.”
“I know.” Mary felt the hovering black cloud that never quite left her reach out for her heart. She hadn’t told a soul in Whisper Creek that she’d had a son. Not one. She couldn’t bear to explain. Or to be reminded.
“Or maybe,” Maggie said after a brief pause, “it wasn’t that she was young. Maybe it’s that I was so emotionally old at the time myself. Going through bad things. Maybe I just envied her vivacity.”
Mary nodded. She could understand that. She felt as old as the hills herself in some ways. Too old to laugh easily, too old to take pleasure in much. Too weary. But she didn’t want to think about herself. “What was going on?”
“Oh.” Meg shrugged. “It’s still hard to talk about. But my first marriage…well, we were going through a rough time back then. I was feeling isolated and pretty down.”
Mary nodded again. “I can identify with that. Things have a way of…going sour, sometimes.”
“They sure do.” Maggie sighed. “Then, of course, my husband died, and there was no way to fix anything. Thank God for Earl.”
“He’s a nice man.” Although Mary didn’t know him very well. She’d pretty much kept to herself since taking the job in Whisper Creek. Her friendships were all superficial, extensions of her job. She didn’t want anyone getting close enough to find out the truth about her. Not only because she felt so guilty, but because she felt so ugly.
“Yes, he is.” Maggie smiled. “And so’s Sam. I’m glad he and Earl are friends. Well, maybe you can drag Sam out of his cocoon.”
“Me?” The thought made Mary blanche. Dragging anyone out of their cocoon meant she would have to come out of hers, and she wasn’t about to do that.
She had a sudden, vivid memory of a caterpillar one of her students had brought to her classroom in Denver. Back then, she’d been teaching third grade, awaiting an opening at a nearby high school.
The girl had brought the caterpillar in a mason jar, along with a small, leafy twig. It was a pretty caterpillar, probably why the girl had liked it. Before the morning was over, the caterpillar had started spinning its cocoon.
The excitement in the classroom had been palpable, so instead of asking the girl to let the poor beast go when she got home, Mary had allowed her to keep it in the classroom as a science lesson. They’d all been surprised by how fast the cocoon was created.
Then had come the morning when the butterfly had emerged. Everyone had crowded around the jar, watching excitedly. The creature was weak, its wings folded and stuck together.
At that point, Mary’s compassion had overborn the necessity of teaching a science lesson. She’d suggested they let the little butterfly go free. Everyone had agreed.
Outside, they’d waited and watched as slowly the wings had dried and spread. But one of them was deformed, and that butterfly would never leave the ground. Seeing what was coming, Mary had swiftly herded her students back to the classroom.
An hour later she went out to check. As she had feared, the butterfly had been killed by ants because it couldn’t escape. There was little of it left.
And that, Mary thought, was why she needed her cocoon. Her wings were deformed. She knew it. The ants would kill her if she ever emerged.
“Why not you?” Maggie asked, her cheerful voice penetrating the haze of Mary’s memory. “You’re the right age, you’re pretty, you’re nice, and Sam seems interested.”
“He’s not interested,” Mary blurted before she could stop herself.
Maggie peered at her, the shadows on her face highlighted by the limited range of the kerosene lanterns. “Not interested? He was bringing you to dinner.”
Mary shrugged. “That was…well, it wasn’t a date. We agreed on that.”
“Oh, my word,” Maggie said, and fell silent.
Mary chose not
