“Mrs. Colby.” He came in without invitation, smiled, showing a lot of big white teeth.
Gull decided he didn’t like the man’s tie, and helped himself to a cold can of ginger ale.
“If I could just have a moment in private.”
“We’re working.” She shot a warning glance at Lynn before the woman could ease out of the room. “This is as private as you’re going to get.”
“I know you’re very busy, and cooking for so many is hard work. Demanding work.”
“I get paid for it.”
“Yes.” Latterly stared at Gull, let the silence hang.
In response, Gull leaned back on the counter, drank some ginger ale. And made Marg’s lips twitch.
“Well, I wanted a word with you as you’re Dolly’s direct supervisor and—”
“Was,” Marg corrected.
“Yes. I’ve spoken with Mr. Little Bear, and I understand his reluctance to forgive Dolly’s transgression.”
“You call it a transgression. I call it snake-bite mean.”
Latterly spread his hands, then linked them together for a moment like a man at prayer. “I realize it’s a difficult situation, and there’s no excuse for Dolly’s behavior. But she was naturally upset after Miss Tripp threatened her and accused her of . . . having low morals.”
“Is that Dolly’s story?” Marg just shook her head, as much pity as disgust in the movement. “The girl lies half the time she opens her mouth. If you don’t know that, you’re not a very good judge of character. And I’d think that’d be an important skill to have in your profession.”
“As Dolly’s spiritual advisor—”
“Just stop there because I’m not overly interested in Dolly’s spirit. She’s had a mean on for Rowan as long as I’ve known her. She’s always been jealous, always wanted what somebody else had. She’s not coming back here, not getting another chance to kick at Rowan. Now, L.B. runs this base, but I run this kitchen. If he took it into his head to let Dolly back in here, he’d be looking for another head cook and he knows it.”
“That’s a very hard line.”
“I call it common sense. The girl can cook, but she’s wild, unreliable, and she’s a troublemaker. I can’t help her.”
“She is troubled, still trying to find her way. She’s also raising an infant on her own.”
“She’s not on her own,” Marg corrected. “I’ve known her mother since we were girls, and I know Irene and Leo are doing all they can for Dolly. Probably more than they should, considering. Now you’re going to have to excuse me.”
“Would you, at least, write a reference for her? I’m sure it would help her secure another position as a cook.”
“No, I won’t.”
Gull judged the shock that crossed the man’s face as sincere. Very likely the reverend wasn’t used to a flat-out no.
“As a Christian woman—”
“Who said I’m a Christian?” She jabbed a finger at him now, pointedly enough to take him back a step. “And how come that’s some sort of scale on right and wrong and good and bad? I won’t write her a reference because my word and my reputation mean something to me. You advise her spirit all you want, but don’t come into my kitchen and try advising me on mine. Dolly made her choices, now she’ll deal with the consequences of them.”
She took a step forward, and those hazel eyes breathed fire. “Do you think I haven’t heard what she’s been saying about Rowan around town? About me, L.B., even little Lynn there? About everybody? I hear everything, Reverend Jim, and I won’t give a damn thing to anyone who lies about me and mine. If it wasn’t for her mother, I’d give Dolly Brakeman a good swift kick myself.”
“Gossip is—”
“What plumps the grapes on the vine. If you want to do her a favor, tell Dolly to mind her mouth. Now I’ve got work to do, and I’ve given you and Dolly enough of my time.”
Deliberately she turned back to the stove.
“I apologize for intruding.” He spoke stiffly now, and without the big-toothed smile. “I’ll pray the anger leaves your heart.”
“I like my anger right where it is,” Marg shot back as Latterly backed out the door. “Lynn, those vegetables aren’t going to prep themselves.”
“No, ma’am.”
On a sigh, Marg turned around. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m not mad at you.”
“I know. I wish I had the courage to talk like that to people—to say exactly what I think and mean.”
“No, you don’t. You’re fine just the way you are. I just didn’t like the sanctimonious prick.” She aimed a look at Gull. “Nothing to say?”
“Just he’s a sanctimonious prick with too many teeth and an ugly tie. My only critique of your response is I think you should have told him you were a Buddhist woman, or maybe a Pagan.”
“I wish I’d thought of that.” She smiled. “You want some pie?”
He didn’t know where he’d put it after the fudge cake, but understanding the sentiment behind the offer, he couldn’t say no.
LUCAS’S STOMACH JITTERED
when he walked into the bar, but he assured himself it would settle once they started talking about whatever she wanted to talk about.
Then he saw her, sitting at a table reading a book, and his tongue got thick.
She’d put on a dress, something all green and summery that showed off her arms and legs while her pretty red hair waved to her shoulders.
Should he have worn a tie? he wondered. He hardly ever wore ties, but he had a few.
She looked up, saw him, smiled. So he had no choice but to cross over to the table.
“I guess I’m late. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.” She closed the book. “I got here a little early as the errands I had didn’t take as long as I thought.” She slipped the book into her purse. “I always carry a book in case I have some time on my hands.”
“I’ve read that one.” There, he thought, he was talking. He was sitting down. “I guess I figured doing what you do, you’d be reading educational books all the time.”
“I do plenty of that, but not with my purse book. I’m liking it a lot so far, but then I always enjoy Michael Connelly.”
“Yeah, it’s good stuff.”
The waitress stepped up. “Good evening. Can I get you a drink?”
When she shifted, Ella’s scent—something warm and spicy—drifted across the table and fogged Lucas’s brain.
“What am I in the mood for?” she wondered. “I think a Bombay and tonic, with a twist of lime.”
“And you, sir? Sir?” the waitress repeated when Lucas remained mute.
“Oh, sorry. Ah, I’ll have a beer. A Rolling Rock.”
“I’ll get those right out to you. Anything else? An appetizer?”
“You know what I’d love? Some of those sweet potato skins. They’re amazing,” she told Lucas. “You have to share some with me.”
“Sure. Okay. Great.”
“I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
“I so appreciate you taking the time to come in,” Ella began. “It gives me an excuse to sit in a pretty bar, have a summer drink and some sinful food.”
“It’s a nice place.”
“I like coming here, when I have an excuse. I’ve come to feel at home in Missoula in a fairly short time. I love the town, the countryside, my work. It’s hard to ask for more.”
“You’re not from here. From Montana.” He knew that. Hadn’t he known that?
“Born in Virginia, transplanted to Pennsylvania when I went to college, where I met my ex-husband.”
“That’s a ways from Montana.”
“I got closer as time went by. We moved to Denver when the kids were ten and twelve, when my husband—ex—got a difficult-to-refuse job offer. We were there about a dozen years before we moved to Washington State, another job offer. My son moved here, got married, started his family, and my girl settled in California, so after the divorce I wanted fresh. Since I like the mountains, I decided to try here. I get fresh, the mountains, and my son and his family, with my daughter close enough by air I can see her several times a year.”
He couldn’t imagine the picking up and going, going then picking it all up again. Though his work had taken him all over the West, he’d lived in Missoula all his life.
“That’s a lot of country, a lot of moving around.”
“Yes, and I’m happy to be done with it. You’re a native?”
“That’s right. Born and bred in Missoula. I’ve been east a few times. We get hired off season to work controlled burns, or insect eradication.”
“Exterminating bugs?”
He grinned. “Bugs that live up in tall trees,” he explained, jerking a thumb at the ceiling. “We—smoke jumpers, I mean—are trained to climb. But most of my life’s been spent west of St. Louis.”
The waitress served their drinks, and Ella lifted hers. “Here’s to roots—maintaining them and setting them down.”
“Washington State, that’s pretty country. I jumped some fires there. Colorado, too.”
“A lot of country.” Ella smiled at him. “You’ve seen the most pristine, and the most devastated. Alaska, too, right? I read you fought wildfires there.”
“Sure.”
She leaned forward. “Is it fantastic? I’ve always wanted to see it, to visit there.”
For a minute, he lost the rhythm of small talk in her eyes. “Ah . . . I’ve only seen it in the summer, and it’s fantastic. The green, the white, the water, the miles and miles of open. All that water’s a hazard for jumping fire, but they don’t have the trees like we do here, so it’s a trade-off.”
“Which is more hazardous? Water or trees?”
“Land in the water with all your gear, you’re going to go down, maybe not get up again. Land in the trees, land wrong, maybe you just get hung up, maybe you break your neck. The best thing to do is not land in either.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah. I hit my share of both. The worst part’s knowing you’re going to, and trying to correct enough so you’ll walk away from it. Any jump you walk away from is a good jump.”
She sat back. “I knew it. I knew you’d be perfect for what I’d like to do.”
“Ah—”
“I know they give tours of the base, and groups can see the operation, ask some questions. But I had this idea, specifically for students. Something more intimate, more in-depth. Hearing firsthand, from the source, what it takes, what you do, what you’ve done. Personal experiences of the work, the life, the risks, the rewards.”
“You want me to talk to kids?”
“Yes. I want you to talk to them. I want you to teach them. Hear me out,” she added when he just stared at her. “A lot of our students come from privilege, from parents who can afford to send them to a top-rated private school like ours. Everyone knows about the Zulies. The base is right here. But I’ll guarantee few, if any, unless they have a connection, understand what it really means to be what you are, do what you do.”
“I’m not a jumper anymore.”
“Lucas.” The soft smile teased out the dimples. “You’ll always be one. In any case, you gave it half of your life. You’ve seen the changes in the process, the equipment. You’ve fought wilderness fires all over the West. You’ve seen the beauty and the horror. You’ve felt it.”
She laid a fisted hand on her heart. “Some of these kids, the ones I’d especially like to reach with this, have attitudes. The hard work, the dirty work, that’s for somebody else—somebody who doesn’t have the money or brains to go to college, launch a lucrative career. The wilderness? What’s the big deal? Let somebody else worry about it.”
She’d tripped something in him the minute she’d said he’d always be a jumper. The minute he saw she understood that.
“I don’t know how me talking to them’s going to change that.”
“I think listening to you, being able to ask you questions, having you take them through, from training to fire, will open some of those young minds.”
“And that’s what your work is. Even though you don’t teach anymore, you’ll always be a teacher.”
“Yes. We understand that about each other.” She watched him as she sipped her drink. “I intend to talk to the operations officer at base. I’d like to, with parental permission, have a group, or groups, go through training. A shortened version obviously. Maybe over a weekend after the fire season.”
“You want to put them through the wringer,” he said with a glimmer of a smile.
“I want to show them, teach them, bring it home to them that the men and women who dedicate themselves to protecting our wilderness put themselves through the wringer. I have ideas about photographs and videos, and . . . I have ideas,” she said with a laugh. “And we’d have all summer to put the project together.”
“I think it’s a good thing you’re trying to do. I’m not much good at speaking. Public speaking.”
“I can help you with that. Besides, I’d rather you just be who you are. Believe me, that’s enough.”
She picked up one of the potato skins the waitress had served while she’d laid out her plan.