She smelled so good, a hint of the wild outdoors on her skin, the floral scent of shampoo still lingering in her hair. And the way she was looking up at him . . .
“You’re amazing on the slopes,” he said.
She smiled. “No, you are. And you’re going to be spectacular tomorrow.” Her mouth curled up in a smile. He wanted to press his lips against hers and taste them. “Thank you for the last few days. They were really fun.”
He leaned his head down, touched his forehead to hers. “It’s going to get crazy after the run. Media and lots of press—I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you . . .”
“I have to go back to Vermont anyway.” She wrinkled her nose. “My brother is turning sixteen, and my parents have turned it into a big family event. My parents are a little too doting.”
Maybe I could come with you . . .
He wanted to say it—but the words wouldn’t come. Not when she looked up at him, her eyes catching the lights.
He just couldn’t stop himself. It was like when he spotted the perfect line midway through a run and just had to take it. The wild impulsiveness that had put him on the map.
And now, that impulsiveness made him kiss her.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, right there on the dance floor. And he didn’t care who saw him, who might be taking pictures and loading them on Twitter or Instagram or even sending them off to TMZ.
Just pulled her close and lost himself for a long moment in her touch. The smell of her skin. The fresh taste of her mouth, the sense of finding something he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for.
Her hair tangled in his fingers, whisper soft and thick, and he felt her tremble, a sweet sigh of surrender as she kissed him back.
He could have stayed there forever had the song not ended, had the clapping around them—hopefully for the band—not brought them up for air.
Then, she smiled, and he knew forever had just started.
7
AS HE SOARED OVER THE GREAT EXPANSE of the back bowls of Blackbear Mountain, hanging out of the door of the Bell 429 PEAK Rescue chopper, Gage just barely reined in the desire to leap.
To land waist deep in the white, feathery cascade of champagne powder, swim to the surface, and then ride the wave down the mountain, leaving his mark, a thin scar upon the face as he hurtled—no, flew—down the mountain.
The urge filled his lungs, nearly pulled him out of the open door, and save for the ANFO bomb in his lap, he might have taken flight. He blamed it on the rush of adrenaline after a night of reliving his mistakes.
Or maybe, what had been his wild hopes. Whatever. The what-ifs and yesterdays didn’t matter anymore, and seeing Ella had only picked at the ache he’d thought had long scabbed over. So, when his patrol boss alerted the team with an early morning text, asking for bomb volunteers to take out the ledge at the top of Timber Bowl, he’d texted back his answer and hopped in his Mustang.
“Ready?” Ty sat beside him, holding the second fifty-pound bag of ANFO—ammonium nitrate mixed with fuel oil—attached to a ninety-second fuse. Enough to light up the entire ridge and send the thick, four-foot layer of fresh snow sitting on a slick foundation of surface hoar down the backside of the mountain and out of the danger areas.
Normally, they’d throw the explosives by hand by trekking up the ridges, traversing the slopes on their boards, and catching all that beautiful sun-kissed powder. But today, with the addition of last night’s snow, the piles needed unleashing from above.
“Iggie on!” Gage shouted over the thwapping of the blades as he slipped the igniter over the fuse.
Ty started the countdown.
“Fire!” Gage pulled the igniter string. He couldn’t hear the fuse sputter, the spit that evidenced a live wire, so he pulled off the iggie, took a look.
Lit and ready.
He turned, glanced at his safety tether that attached him to the chopper, then stepped one foot out of the chopper onto the skid.
The urge nearly took him again to leap, to fly, land in a puff of powder, then let the silence, the freedom of the run take him.
Let him, at least for the space of the run, escape the whirr of regret, of mistakes that kept him grounded.
Indeed, he might have if he’d been wearing his board. And not been a hundred feet above the earth.
“Throw it, Gage!” Ty yelled, and Gage jerked himself out of the moment and hurled the bag of ammo like a chest pass, out into the white.
“She’s out!”
Kacey Fairing, the pilot at the controls, veered the chopper away and to the right, hovering away to watch the explosion.
Ninety seconds felt like a century as he watched.
And in that space, Ella tiptoed in, sat down across from him at a table, dressed in a crisp white shirt and pencil skirt, her beautiful copper hair pulled back and up. “Hello, Mr. Watson. I’m here as representative for the family of Dylan McMahon.”
The explosion discharged with a puff of white, like a breath in the massive expanse of the slope. The concussion of it, however, rocked the chopper, the window bowing just a fraction.
Then the trickle of release and the snow started to run. The slab at the top broke away slowly, as if resisting the tear from its moorings. It moved en masse, gaining speed, then broke into pieces as it slammed against boulders, cliffs, and, lower into the bowl, tree trunks. On the way, the run of snow triggered smaller slides, trickles of snow rivers that took out pine trees and saplings on its way to the bottom. A cloud of powder lifted from the chaos, obscuring the tumble of snow, but Gage didn’t have to see it to know the power of it.
He knew what it felt like to feel the rumble of the avalanche in your bones a second before it cascaded over you. The fight to ride it, stay on top, avoiding trees, boulders, your heart caught in your throat as you struggled to stay upright. Then, the taste of your own blood in your mouth as you fell, catapulted into the flood, swimming to stay above the current until the tumult slowed.
The snow pressing in, encasing your arms, your legs into icy cement, the cold filling every pore. The real fear now was suffocation and the battle against panic as you fought to build an air pocket, praying your beacon wasn’t dislodged or lying forty feet downhill.
You prayed for a rescue dog while you dug for the surface, hoping desperately that you weren’t in fact upside-down. And you counted down the precious fifteen minutes of the golden zone, the highest chance of survival.
In truth, once an avalanche took you, there was little hope of escaping.
Unless, of course, someone found you.
“I think we’re clear,” Ty said into his mic. He shoved his bag into the cargo area behind the seat. “Take us in, Kacey.”
Kacey affirmed his assessment, and soon they were banking, heading over the ski area, which was just now coming to life with cars in the lot and a few early morning enthusiasts hiking up to the chalet.
She put them down in a controlled area near the ski patrol hut and turned off the chopper. “Chet said we should probably sit tight in case we have any calls today,” she said as she got out. As the only SAR chopper in the area, PEAK Rescue hired out for all sorts of jobs to help fund their SAR efforts. The budget from Mercy Falls EMS just didn’t stretch far enough. Thankfully, they’d scraped up enough to buy a pair of late-model Polaris snowmobiles, perfect for backcountry rescues.
Hopefully, however, they’d stay locked up, pristine and unused this season.
Gage followed Kacey and Ty into the ski patrol headquarters, located in an outbuilding not far from the main compound.
The patrols had already been deployed to ski the slopes, check the runs. A few probably also headed to the ridge to rope off the back slope.
By tomorrow, the avalanche pack would settle and they could reopen the slope.
He walked past the empty front office—probably Emmett, his boss, was out on the slope, gathering snow conditions. He’d call everyone in for a briefing before the resort opened.
The main area housed four padded picnic tables, first-aid gear, and a few thermoses and lunch boxes piled in the middle. A television tuned to the weather channel displayed the low-pressure system coming in from the west.
Another storm front, and this one might hit them by tonight.
Hopefully Ella had talked some sense into her brother.
Gage pulled off his gloves and helmet and wandered over to the kitchen area to pour himself a cup of coffee. Jess stood in her black ski pants and a purple fleece, her golden hair caught back into a braid. She shoved a bag lunch into the ancient yellow fridge.
“Hey,” she said. Her gaze ran back, behind him, and landed on Ty. She smiled, and Gage knew it wasn’t just for him. Or perhaps not for him at all.
He didn’t know what exactly was going on between Ty and Jess, but it seemed, from Jess’s smile, that Pete was a distant memory. At least at the moment.
“Hey, Jess. I didn’t know you were on patrol today.”
“I asked Emmett to give me a few more hours. I need to buy some carpet for the upstairs bedrooms.”
Every penny she earned went to fixing up her 1902 Victorian fixer-upper in Mercy Falls.
Ty poured himself a cup of coffee and followed Gage back to the main area. Jess stayed in the kitchen with Kacey, and Gage took the opportunity to glance at Ty and raise an eyebrow.
“What?”
“So, I don’t get it. Do you or don’t you have something going with Jess? Ever since last summer, you two seem to be hanging out more, much to Pete’s ire. You should see the way he looks at you.”
Ty’s mouth tightened around the edges. He looked away.
“See, that’s what I mean. Are you two dating or—”
“Jess and I are just friends.”
His tone, quiet and dark, cut Gage off. He glanced at Jess. “Why? Jess is a knockout. And she’s perfect for you. Solid, down to earth. She likes you, which . . . no offense, but you’re not exactly Casanova.”
“I’ll leave the lineup of women to Pete,” Ty said. He got up, glanced at Jess, then back at Gage. “Let’s just say that Jess needs me, and if that means you and the team think we’re dating, then . . . well, that’s what teammates are for. Standing beside each other even if it doesn’t make sense. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about Ella.”
Gage was about to answer something along the lines that there was nothing to talk about when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled the phone out. The area code looked familiar.
Recognition slid into him a moment before he answered. He dove right in. “Oliver, you’d better be calling me to tell me you’ve called off—”
“It’s Ella.”
Her voice came through the line wobbly, and it was the tiny gasp of breath that made him stop, slow down.
Listen.
“Oliver is gone.”
His tirade had alerted Ty, who turned around, listening.
“What do you mean, Oliver is gone?” Gage asked. He sent Ty a look, a shake of his head.
“We went out looking for him, but we didn’t find him. When we got home, he was already in his room. I know he took the semester off to be a ski bum, but I thought for sure he was just kidding about skiing Heaven’s Peak.” She paused, and her breath caught. “Oh, Gage, I think he did it.”
He closed his eyes, her voice tunneling through him, finding root. He imagined her pacing, wrapping a finger around that beautiful red hair, staring out the window at the mountain.
He found himself walking to the window and also staring at the mountain. The skies overhead arched blue, but in the western horizon, dark, gunmetal-gray clouds hovered, slowly rolling in.
“All his gear is gone, and Bradley’s is gone too,” Ella was saying.
“Maybe he’s come over to Blackbear?” Gage said.
“You took his ski pass.”
“He could go over to Big Mountain.”
“There are no bowls there. No powder.”
In other words, no danger.
“Calm down, Ella. Just take a breath here. In order to get up to Heaven’s Peak, they’d have to get a chopper ride. Going-to-the-Sun Road is closed past McDonald Lodge. And there just aren’t that many heli-ski pilots around. I’ll get on the horn and see what I can find out.”
“Seriously? Oh, Gage, thank you so much! I know”—she swallowed—“I know this isn’t your problem, and I appreciate it.” Her voice pitched low. “Thank you. I meant it when I said you were a good man.”
He didn’t have any response to that, feeling suddenly raw, wounded. He took a breath, kept his voice cool, unaffected. “I’ll get back to you, Ella. Don’t panic yet.”
He clicked off.
Ty had sat on the picnic table. “That kid is gone?”
“According to Ella, she woke up and found her brother missing.”
“Who’s missing?” Jess asked, coming to sit beside Ty.
“This kid who Gage chased down yesterday. Gage had to take away his ski pass, and that’s when the kid recognized him. Apparently Gage is his hero.”
The way Ty said hero, with a little singsong lilt, sent a smile up Jess’s face. See, Ty was a charmer—he just didn’t know it.
But a guy didn’t have to be a charmer with the right girl. No, the right girl made him say the right things, feel like he could stand on top of the world. The right girl laughed at his jokes and met his eyes with a smile that said he could do no wrong.
The right girl turned a guy into a bona fide hero.
“I’m no hero,” Gage said. “And if this kid follows in my tracks, he’ll get himself—and his buddy—killed.”
“What tracks?” Kacey said and stuck a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth.
“Gage’s epic run down Heaven’s Peak. Some kid he met yesterday wants to duplicate it,” Ty said, neatly leaving out their visit to the kid’s condo last night and Gage’s connection to his sister.
“I saw that run on YouTube, Gage.” Kacey raised an eyebrow. “Scared the air out of me.”
Gage allowed himself a smile. “I was younger, dumber, and braver. It’s a bad combination.”
“And exactly the combination of this Gage wannabe,” Ty said. He slid off the table. “But before we jump to conclusions, let’s check the lodge, see if he’s simply slunk back here and tried to get his hands on a new ski pass.” He thumped toward the door.
Gage followed him and pulled out his phone to scroll through his local heli-pilot contacts. All three of them.
Because he’d once been Oliver Blair. And without a doubt, Gage knew the kid was up on the mountain.
Brette Arnold could spot a great story. Especially when it appeared in the lip-biting, pacing, muttering form of her former housemate and best friend, state senator Eloise Zorich Blair.
“Are you okay?” Brette said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
Ella glanced at her, her lips a tight, grim line.
Yep, there was a story behind those tired eyes, that wan look. And it most likely had a great deal to do with a handsome, long-haired ski patrol. “It’s my fault he’s a has-been, working ski patrol, chasing down hooligans like my brother instead of winning national championships. I wrecked his life.”
Those words sat in Brette’s head like bait. She simply couldn’t shake them, despite her hope of letting it go.
And she hated that it all tasted like a juicy filet mignon of a story, something she desperately needed if she wanted to put juice back into her writing career.
A career that seemed a little like the deflated T. rex she’d found this morning on Ollie’s floor. Sure, she could go back to writing speeches for Ella, and if Ella decided to run for reelection, she would put together a set of cover articles—or yes, even a biography—that would have Ella winning favor the likes of Duchess Kate. And it wouldn’t be lies—Ella had a heart of true compassion. But if Ella didn’t run, well . . .
Ever since Brette had lost the contract on her biography for Senator Carlyn Lynch, a woman intending to run f
or president, she hadn’t found one decent story, and especially nothing that would be worthy of a Time magazine or National Geographic spread.
It wasn’t Brette’s fault—the minute she’d unearthed proof that Carlyn had creatively diverted election funds to her personal account, Brette had been forced to confront Caryln. The woman had the good sense to withdraw from the race.
She took with her Brette’s faith in the honor and integrity of those in public office, not that she had much to begin with. If it weren’t for Ella, she might give up on politicians indefinitely.
Thankfully, Ella was one of the good ones. And not just with politics but with her inheritance too. She defied the odds that money corrupted.
But maybe Ella was exempt, having not been born into it. She could vividly remember the cost of food, clothing, a home.
Memories Oliver clearly didn’t share.
Ella was one of the few people who still possessed integrity. Who believed in and fought for justice. A true hero, someone who put others ahead of herself.
A rare find in today’s world.
Which was why her words about being the cause of Gage’s downfall wedged into Brette’s brain and wouldn’t shake free.
She came over to Ella, blowing on her coffee.
“What did you mean when you said you’re the reason he lost everything? That Dylan shouldn’t have been out there that day?”
Ella shot a look at her. “Wow, you don’t forget anything, do you?” Her bloodshot eyes betrayed a long night, and she’d bitten her nails down nearly to the nailbed, a habit she’d fought to break for years. She wore yoga pants and a long brown sweater. She sighed and added softly, “I probably shouldn’t have said anything . . .”
Brette pointed at her forehead. “Iron trap up here. I don’t forget faces, events, or details. And I have a gut sense when someone’s not telling me everything, especially you, El. Sure, Oliver might be missing—but let’s be honest. He probably sneaked back into Blackbear, went early to hike up some slope, and is probably sitting at the top of Timber Bowl, eating a power bar.”
A Matter of Trust Page 8