Storm Peak

by John Flanagan

  Today was also the day when Abby would leave the hospital and return to Denver. Somehow, Lee knew that Jesse would be going with her. And as she knew it, she shook her head angrily, knowing that Jesse and Abby, no matter what they had between them, were simply not as right for each other as Jesse and she.

  She knew it. Was sure of it. Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Jesse and Abby, she knew, might last a few more years together. But inevitably, they would drift apart and break up again.

  But this time, knowing Jesse as she did, he would be too proud to return to her. She smiled sadly as she thought about it. Would she be too proud to have him back if he did, she wondered? Then she admitted, no, she wouldn’t. Pride was all very well. But it had no place between two people who were so right for each other.

  There was a tap at the door—a light double tap that she knew was Jesse’s.

  “Come in,” she called, and he stood there, a little awkward, his weight not fully on his wounded right leg, smiling at her, tearing her heart.

  “Just dropped by,” he said, gesturing vaguely to indicate that he was here.

  She nodded.

  “Abby’s … kind of … on her way back to Denver. Flying out of Hadley at one o’clock,” he said.

  She nodded again, and for the sake of something to do, glanced at her watch. It seemed appropriate, since the time of day had just been mentioned.

  “Should be an easy run out to the airport,” she said. “Road’s clear, I guess.”

  Jesse walked to the window and looked at the traffic outside. “I guess so,” he agreed. “Been no snowfalls in forty-eight hours, so I guess the road’s clear.”

  Silence. Awkward, tangible. It stretched on, then Jesse finally said, “Abby would probably like to say good-bye, you know? And say thanks for what you did.”

  She made a dismissive little hand gesture. “No call for that,” she said. “She already said all that and anyway”—she glanced around at the nearly empty desktop, looking for Ned Puckett’s crumpled up memo—“I’ve got paperwork I’ve got to catch up on.”

  She thought she could just get through saying good-bye to Jesse. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if Abby were here, thanking her. She was uncomfortably aware of how she’d been tempted to shoot Mikkelitz and take the chance that he might or might not pull the trigger on Abby. The thought had only been there for a microsecond, but it had been there.

  “Just tell her good-bye from me,” she added.

  Jesse nodded two or three times. “I’ll do that,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I’m going with her.”

  Lee rattled open the top drawer of her desk, making a production of finding a felony report form and a ballpoint pen, keeping her eyes down and away from Jesse’s as she spoke.

  “I kind of figured you would be,” she said. She looked up, felt herself smiling like a death’s head. “I guess you’d better be going then.” She looked quickly down, beginning to fill in meaningless details on the form.

  Jesse frowned, looking at her, hesitated for a few seconds. “Yeah, I guess so. Be seeing you, Lee.”

  “Yep.” Just the one syllable, bitten off, delivered head down, still writing. “Be seeing you.”

  He let himself out. She heard the door click softly shut behind him, finished writing her name in the space for “reporting officer,” wrote after the name “Sheriff, Routt County, Colorado,” then set the pen down and put her hand over her eyes and wept silently.

  She didn’t hear the door re-open. Didn’t hear Jesse enter the office and stop, watching her shoulders shake with grief. She didn’t hear anything until he spoke her name.

  “Lee?” he said. “Are you okay?”

  He’d gotten halfway down the corridor, wondering at her strange, over-bright behavior and her abrupt manner. Something was wrong, he knew, and he turned back to see what it was.

  Now the hand dropped away from her eyes and he could see the tears running down her face as she made no effort to stop them. And the eyes, those gray, uptilted eyes that he’d loved since he was seventeen, had a depth of sadness in them that looked fit to tear the heart right out of his chest.

  “Jesus, Lee,” he breathed, moving toward her. “What’s the matter?”

  But she stopped him, one arm flung up, palm out, as if to hold him back.

  “Just go!” the words were wrenched from her. “Just go, please. Go to Denver with Abby and, for Christ’s sake, be happy.”

  He frowned at her. Not understanding. “Denver?” he asked.

  She nodded, the tears still running. “You said you’re going with her. Just go! Now! Please, Jesse?” The last two words were a helpless plea and suddenly, he understood.

  “I’m going with her to the airport,” he explained. “That’s all. I’m seeing her onto the plane, then I’m coming back here.” He hesitated, then finished, “If you want me.”

  She stopped sobbing, choked in disbelief. “If I—” she started, couldn’t finish the sentence, shook her head in wonder and tried again. “If I want you? Oh, Jesus God, Jesse, of course I want you, you damn fool!”

  He grinned foolishly at her, relief and pleasure mixed in the expression. “Anyways,” he said, “I figured if I stuck around for another eighteen years or so, with any luck, I might get you back into bed again.”

  She was out of her chair and around the desk in one movement and his arms went around her as she buried her face into his neck. He smelled the natural fragrance of her hair, felt its softness against his cheek, felt the press of her body against his and he kissed her.

  She responded enthusiastically. So did his body, and she pressed herself harder against him, twining one leg around his to hold him closer to her. He winced. Luckily she’d chosen his left leg, but the movement sent a shaft of pain through his wounded right one as he set more weight on it. She didn’t notice, so he didn’t bother to tell her, afraid she might pull away if he did. Her tongue explored his mouth, found his, and he forgot about the leg.

  Neither of them heard the door open as Tom Legros entered. He stopped, startled. His sheriff had her back half to him, her shapely, jean-clad butt was resting on her desk and she had one long leg twined around her deputy’s. Their arms were around each other and their faces locked together.

  Just a little embarrassed, Tom looked away from the scene by the desk. Neither of them seemed to have noticed his arrival. He wasn’t quite sure how to cope with the situation. Maybe they had noticed him after all. Maybe he should say something. Tentatively, he cleared his throat.

  Lee disengaged her lips from Jesse’s by a few millimeters and said, rather indistinctly, “What is it, Tom?”

  Tom cleared his throat again nervously. Still looking to one side, not looking directly at them, he rotated his Stetson in his hands.

  “It’s Miz McLaren again. Seems she’s got another guest complaining about those boys on the snowmobiles. Wants to talk to you, but I guess—” He hesitated. He wasn’t quite sure what he guessed. He continued.

  “Anyway … what do you want me to tell her, Sheriff?”

  Lee leaned back a little in Jesse’s arms. She considered her reply for a few seconds, then, more distinctly, said, “Tom? Tell her, fuck her.”

  He leaned forward a little, not sure that he’d heard her right. “Tell her?” he hesitated apologetically.

  “Fuck her,” Lee repeated, a little more distinctly.

  Tom nodded nervous agreement. “Tell her … fuck her. Yep, I’ll do that, Sheriff. I’ll … get on it right away.” He backed apologetically out the door, closing it behind him. In the corridor, he took a deep breath, set his Stetson squarely on his head, and started back to the phone.

  He figured he’d maybe paraphrase Lee’s message, just a little.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Steamboat Springs and Routt County are real places. Many of the shops, hotels and bars named in this book are real as well. The characters, of course, are all fictitious.

  In addition, as authors some
times do, I may have taken a few liberties with the organization of law enforcement agencies in the town to suit the purposes of my narrative. I hope the real-life law officers of Routt County will forgive this minor self-indulgence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John A. Flanagan, now a full-time author, is a former advertising and television writer. His adventure series for young adults, Ranger’s Apprentice, has spent more than five months on the New York Times best-seller list.

  Background for the Jesse Parker series came from his many visits to the ski fields of Colorado and Utah. He lives with his wife, Leonie, in Manly, Australia, on Sydney’s northern beaches.