Nest in the Ashes (5 page)

The shriek of the
fire siren unnerved Lark, sending a series of shivers along her arms and curling the hairs along her neck. The wail could only mean one thing. The burn was out of control.

Lark looked toward the window. The sky had darkened appreciably, smoke blotting out the sunshine, and large flakes of ash lashed the windows, reminiscent of a late-spring snow.

Slamming the cash register drawer shut, she shoved a handful of coins into Jackie’s cupped hand. “Here’s your change.”

“Oh my.” Cecilia emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “How bad do you suppose—”

Lark cut her off by snatching up the phone and dialing the firehouse.

A small town measured its heart through its volunteers. And, despite its transient nature, Elk Park had a big heart. Excluding the paid fire chief and a handful of paramedics, Elk Park County’s Fire Department was a one hundred percent volunteer operation with one-third of Elk Park’s households represented. Fire was a major threat along the Front Range. Those who were able served. Those who weren’t provided backup services.

Lark had signed on the year she bought the Drummond Hotel. Since surviving the training, she’d fought several house fires caused by someone leaving a stove on or a cigarette burning, fought several restaurant fires caused by grease, worked hand line on the Bobcat forest fire, and assisted Mountain Search and Rescue in finding numerous lost tourists in the park.

The phone was answered on the second ring. “Fire dispatch.”

“This is Lark Drummond.”

“They’re asking all available volunteer personnel to report to Prospect Point for briefing.”

“I’m on my way.” Lark hung up the phone and reached for her jacket, rooting in her pocket for her truck keys. “They want everyone,” she explained.

A bad sign. Usually after a call went out, a number sufficient to man the equipment showed up, and the remaining volunteers were put on standby.

Cecilia laid the dish towel on the counter. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Jackie furrowed her brow. “Why Prospect Point? I thought the burn was in Beaver Meadows.”

“
Was
being the operative word.” Lark hugged Cecilia. “Try not to worry. I’ll call you as soon as I’m back.”

Peeling out of the parking lot, Lark headed to the Drummond to pick up her fire gear. No sooner had she pulled up in front of the carriage house than Stephen Velof, the Drummond’s manager, marched across the parking lot to her door.

“Lark, we have a problem.”

“We always have a problem, Stephen. Right now, I’m in a hurry.” She tapped her ear and pointed at the air. The siren still blared.

“That’s the problem. Some of the guests are worried. A few have checked out early, and several are demanding refunds for previous night’s stays.” His clipped words fit his stiff persona. Velof’s blond hair rose in a bristle of small, fashionable spikes. Piercing blue eyes peered out above a hawkish nose.

“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 of 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,” Lark answered. 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?” Lark asked. 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 roadblock.”

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, palms 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, Lark’s anger evaporated. 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?” Lark asked. “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 adrenaline 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 epithets.

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.”