Wild Fire (21 page)

“Applesauce. Wash your hands, please. First cocoa, then you help.”

Kara washed, then went to the stove and poured the hot chocolate into heavy ceramic mugs. She set a cup in front
of Anne. “Are you sure you should be doing this? Tia and I could handle it.”

“I am fine. It is time I go back to work.”

It was strange to see Anne in their kitchen using Mom's best paring knife. A month ago Kara would have resented it, accused her of trying to take Mom's place.

Tia was digging through a cardboard box on the other end of the table. “Hey, looks like your dad brought back some of your stuff.”

Anne nodded. “He brought Ryan's things too. You will need to clean them. Everything will do except some of the clothes.”

Kara groaned. Anne was right. Her denim skirt and white silk blouse looked like they'd been rolled in the fireplace.

Tia held up a red cotton shirt and a pair of cutoffs. “Hey, there's nothing wrong with these.” She grinned and wrinkled her nose, “If you don't mind smelling like Smokey the Bear.”

They sorted the clothes into piles—one for the trash bin and one for the washing machine. Then Kara lifted two chunks of newspaper from the bottom of the box.

She unwrapped the smallest first. Her mother's face smiled at her out of the tarnished silver frame. Tia turned away, and Anne's head bent over the growing pile of apple skins.

Oh, Mom, I miss you so much. We've had a pretty rough year
. She grabbed a cloth from the linen drawer and dug some silver polish out of the cleaning closet.

Tia opened the other package. “Hey, cool. Your great-grandfather's drawing. It's fine, see? Not even a smudge.” She looked from the portrait to Kara, then Anne. “I don't know. If your great-grandmother was Nez Perce, she sure doesn't look like Anne. Neither do you. Maybe she was from the Yana people.”

Kara took the picture and set it on the counter next to her mother's. She tried to imagine her ancestor with short, curly hair and green-blue eyes. Impossible.

“Does it still bother you?” Anne's quiet question startled her.

“I don't think so. At least not as much. But I'd still like to find out for sure someday.”

To tell the truth, she hadn't thought about it since before the fire. Was the first Wakara Nez Perce like Great-grandfather had thought, or Yana, which would explain her name? Somehow it didn't matter as much as it used to.

“She's the same person either way. And so am I. But I'm still going to read your father's book. I'd really like to know more about the Yana people.”

Anne only nodded, but Wakara was sure she saw a gleam of approval behind her smile.

Linda Shands
is a prolific writer of magazine articles and the author of four adult novels and one nonfiction book. She loves the Oregon wilderness and lives in the small town of Cottage Grove with her husband, a cat, two horses, and twin golden retrievers
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