What was he assessing so intently? Her worthiness to accompany his passengers?
She looked toward the downed bird again. Who does he have in there? Santa Claus?
“JJ will help Annie and I’ll put Bravo on my back. But I’ll need you to carry Mystic,” he said. “She’s four months old and eleven pounds at her last checkup.”
Meg’s mind seized for a moment. Surely, not. Please no… “Your passengers are children?”
He opened the door wide enough for her to pop her head inside. The emergency lights revealed a young teen in the co-pilot seat. In the back, a girl a few years younger comforted a child of three or four. Beside them sat an infant car seat with a blanket covering it. No movement or noise came from the baby.
Meg’s heart rate hit triple digits. “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed, pulling back to look at him. “Henry Firestone, what were you doing out on a night like this with four little kids?”
His eyes went wide with surprise for a half a second then his head tilted and he studied her face. “Meg Zabrinski? How is that possible?”
She brushed aside his question. “Where’d you get a baby?” Possibilities bounced around her already primed imagination.
She could see by his scowl he interpreted a couple of the less flattering ideas.
“They’re my grandchildren. My daughter, Laurel, passed away in August. I have custody.”
For now, she thought she heard him add under his breath.
“The baby’s sick. I was taking her to the hospital.”
His answer came out as a gruff growl, as defensive as hers would have been if someone had accused her of doing something this stupid.
“They’re dressed for winter and, although they’re shook up, they’re strong and capable. Aren’t you, kids?”
Since Meg had been so shocked, she’d failed to close the door. When she looked back, she saw every head nod, even the littlest one in the bright red stocking cap.
The little guy held onto to his big sister the way Meg’s brother, Paul, used to cling to Meg when he needed reassuring.
She looked at the boy in the co-pilot’s seat. She saw fear in his eyes—and his determination not to show it.
Meg was the oldest, too. She had three siblings. She knew the sense of responsibility this boy must be feeling at this moment. As the eldest, she’d always known her role was to do anything in her power to keep her brothers and sister safe.
She wasn’t going to let this family down. “Then let’s get you off the mountain and into a nice warm cabin.”
*
Meg Zabrinski.
Alone.
Their rescuer was the woman his father once called “that goddam wolf woman,” and, apparently, she’d left the safety and comfort of her mountain cabin to come to their aid.
Hank couldn’t make sense of that, nor did he have time to try. Every second they stood around doing nothing meant more heat loss. Shock. Hypothermia. His grandbabies needed that warm cabin she promised.
Even though a part of him wanted to shake a fist at the sky and yell, “Why Meg Zabrinski of all people?” he had no choice but to get busy.
“Stay put, kids. We’re heading out in a few minutes, but first I need Meg’s help unloading a few things.”
He motioned for her to follow him to the rear of the chopper. Over the years, he’d refitted the body of the silver and black beast, which he’d purchased at a Forest Service auction for a song, to accommodate his needs on the ranch.
For most of her life Betsy only had two seats. He’d added the new bench seat last spring when he began setting up his agro-tourism business.
“Even downhill, it won’t be an easy walk,” Meg told him. “Just take what you really need.”
Really need? Babies need everything. “You don’t have kids, do you?”
How someone as brilliant, successful and beautiful as Meg Z remained single was a question he’d asked himself many times over the years. Unless that status had changed recently…which didn’t seem likely since she was out here in the cold alone—something that sure as hell wouldn’t happen if she was his wife.
“No. I don’t.”
“Well, trust me. Nowadays, babies travel with more crap than a rock band.”
He trained his flashlight on the rear compartment of his poor old bird. Cuss words ran close to the surface, but he kept his mouth closed. We’re lucky to be alive, he reminded himself. That’s all that matters right now.
He moved quickly, fighting the chill that was making its way past his initial shock. “There should be another pair of snowshoes back here. I never take them out. And an emergency sled, too. Help me move the cage, will you?”
She stepped closer and peered into the cargo hold. Her gasp was part surprise, part outrage. “You trap my wolves?”
“When they get too close to my cattle, yes.” He yanked on the heavy metal box, dragging it into reach.
She stepped beside him. Pocketing her flashlight, she flipped on a headlamp to free up both hands. She was well equipped. He gave her that.
And strong. She matched his effort, grunting when they lifted the heavy cage over the edge of the helicopter’s frame.
They both stumbled out of the way when it tumbled upside down.
“Ugly thing,” she muttered.
“But functional. It kept Rook safe when we went down.” He gave a quick whistle and the dog appeared a second later, emerging from the dark, menacing shadows of the trees.
“Good boy.” He petted his dog’s wide, strong back. “I wish I’d packed his harness. He could have pulled the sled for us. The guy I got him from was training him for the Iditarod ’til one of the other dogs attacked him. Left him partially blind in one eye.”
Hank worked as fast as possible, tossing backpacks and a couple of special totes onto the snowy ground. “Here it is,” he said with a grunt.
When he turned to pass her the nose of the sled, he realized Meg stood just inches away—a surgical nurse to his doctor.
Salvage the donor organs, he thought. The patient is dead.
Her headlamp stayed trained on a jumbo-sized package of diapers. “Better bring the whole thing,” she said. “It may be days before a SAR team gets up here. I’m well-stocked with provisions, but no diapers.”
“Days?” Good God. “But Mystic’s sick. That’s why were in the air. She had convulsions.”
She reached for the diaper bag. “I’m a trained Wilderness EMT. I’ll look at her when we get back to the cabin, but in the meantime, it’s in God’s hands, now.”
In God’s hands. All his life, Hank had rebelled against that sort of fatalism. Hell, he should have sold the ranch and given up ranching the day he heard about the wolf relocation plan. But he didn’t have an ounce of capitulation in him.
“Not if I have any say about it,” he muttered.
He used a stretchy net he’d forgotten he owned to lash the kids’ backpacks, the diaper bag, the extra diapers and the couple of presents he’d hidden in his old Search and Rescue duffle to the sled.
He’d rashly promised Annie and Bravo that Santa Claus wouldn’t forget them, no matter where they were. JJ, the resident cynic, would get a gift, too, even though he’d already informed his grandfather that “Santa doesn’t exist any more than God does.”
Once the majority of their junk was on the sled, Hank paused for a moment to look at his poor broken helo. It broke his heart to see Betsy gutted like this, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“Almost ready,” he said. “But we can’t leave without Mystic’s carrier. Unfortunately, getting it in and out is a royal pain in the ass.”
He’d cursed a blue streak the whole time he was hooking it up, but, now, the clumsy molded plastic shell was his favorite thing in the world because it kept her safe when they went down.
“If I’m carrying her, why do we need it?” Meg asked.
“It’s the one place she actually sleeps. I gave up on putting her in the crib weeks ago.”
/> Meg followed him to the rear passenger door. “Okay, but hurry. Do you want my headlamp?”
“Um…yeah, sure. Why not?”
They both leaned in at the same time and bumped heads. A zing that had no basis in reality shot through his body. No physical touching took place, but Hank felt the contact all the way to his gonads.
In the few seconds it took for Meg to undo her fur-lined hood and release the elasticized band, he saw more than he wanted: strength, beauty, intelligence.
Meg Z. His private and very secret fantasy.
He couldn’t name how many public meetings over the years he’d survived by daydreams about what he’d do if he and Meg Z ever wound up stranded on a desert island together.
He pushed the completely inappropriate memory away as he tugged on the headlamp and squeezed behind the seat to grapple with the half-frozen metal hooks.
Bravo, who was on Annie’s lap, turned to watch him. “Whatchdoing, Grampa?”
“Getting Mystic’s carrier ready. We’re going for a walk. Wanna ride on Grandpa’s shoulders?”
The child nodded seriously.
A couple of minutes later, he said, “Okay. Got it. Meg, go around to the other side. The wind might not be as bad.”
Wrong. He’d forgotten how crazy and unpredictable gusts could be at this elevation. The door practically flew out of her hands when she opened it.
A piercing arrow of icy wind shot through the aircraft. Everyone—even Mystic—cried out in shock and dismay.
“Sorry,” Meg said. “It got away from me.”
She climbed aboard and somehow—through sheer willpower, he decided—tugged the door closed.
She was panting when she said, “Let’s have a quick powwow before we take off. Who needs an energy bar?”
She pulled off both gloves and set them on the seat before reaching into her pocket to produce three packaged bars of some kind. She tore one open with her teeth and broke off a bite-size piece and handed it to Bravo. She quickly opened two more and gave them to JJ and Annie.
“I’m Meg, by the way. My house isn’t far, but the snow and wind will make it feel like a very long way.
“But I promise we’ll get there, okay? There’s a warm fire and lots of blankets and food. Sound good?”
The younger kids nodded.
JJ got to his knees, already shouldering his backpack. “I can carry Mystic.”
The kid reminded Hank of himself at thirteen. Too damn serious.
Annie made a little peeping sound. Hank read the alarm in her eyes. Quiet, watchful, always worrying. That was his sweet Annabelle Lee Landry.
“I’m going to need your help with the sled, Jazz.” The nickname Laurel had called her eldest child. “Meg and I will break a path with our snowshoes so you and Annie should be able to walk without punching through.”
“Who’s carrying the baby?” Annie asked.
“I am,” Meg answered. “Everybody take a sip of water before we leave. I’m hoping to make it all the way to my place without a break, but we’ll stop if we have to.”
Hank leaned down to look out the damaged window. No hint of dawn in the sky. No help coming. What choice did they have?
“Then, let’s get moving. Now—before Mystic wakes up.”
Hank was impressed by the way Meg stuffed the wrappers in her pocket and re-fastened the Velcro tab. Leave no trace, the seasoned outdoorsman knew.
The waterproof material of her coat looked hard-core—and expensive. And broken in. She unzipped her outer jacket and looked down as if gauging how to fit a baby in the space. “If I tighten the drawstring around my waist and keep one arm under her, I should be able to carry her.”
Hank shook his head. “No. She’s bigger than you think and your center of gravity will be off. Besides, you need both hands for your poles.”
He looked around until he spotted the tie-dyed ergo carrier Laurel had used with Bravo. “My daughter used to swear by this. It’ll fit over your parka and we can line it with the alpaca receiving blanket one of Laurel’s friends gave her.”
He handed her the faded swatch of cotton and nearly laughed at Meg’s look of trepidation. “Don’t worry. JJ can show you how it works. He taught me.”
While Meg and JJ were busy prepping the ergo carrier for Mystic, Hank made a spot on the sled for the infant car seat. “Okay, I’m ready for her,” Meg said, turning to face him.
The children watched intently as Hank passed their baby sister to this stranger named Meg. Hank probably should have been worried, too. He didn’t really know Meg Zabrinski, but he respected her as a person of conviction—even if she was wrong. And the fact that she found them in the middle of a blizzard spoke volumes. Trust didn’t come easy to Firestones, but he had faith that Meg would get them to safety.
“She’s so cute in that little snowsuit,” Meg exclaimed in a hushed whisper. “Just darling.”
Hank had dressed Mystic in the down snowsuit-slash-bunting he’d ordered online. One-piece, with a hood, it framed Mystic’s sweet little face. Did her cheeks look too pink? Does she need more fever reducer? Did I bring the bottle?
His stomach clenched from a jolt of acid. Panic careened through his system until he pictured the brand new bottle of pink liquid in the diaper bag.
“Does this look right?” Meg asked, kneeling on the seat since there wasn’t room to stand.
Hank noticed a twist in the shoulder harness and stretched across the space to fix it. Here, sheltered from the wind, he could smell her perfume—or shampoo. Something exotic. The scent confused and intrigued him.
His fingers shook—he’d blame the cold, if anyone asked—as he tugged upward on the faded material. The only spot of hot pink he could see was the tip of a mitten-covered hand pressed right below Meg’s collarbone. He tucked that under the protective cloth. “It’s perfect,” he said, looking into Meg’s eyes. “Thank you.”
He’d switched his headlamp to red when he picked up the baby so the glare wouldn’t hurt the children’s eyes accidentally. Meg could look at him without squinting. “Don’t thank me yet. This isn’t going to be easy.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
When they looked into each other’s eyes, Hank saw everything he’d always liked about her: intelligence, compassion and, above all, determination. “Nothing’s been easy for a long time,” he said, giving in momentarily to the fatigue he felt all the way to his bones.
Becoming the sole provider for four kids under the age of twelve immediately after losing his beloved only child had changed him. He wasn’t ready to throw in the towel, but the crusader who was determined to hang onto his family’s ranch at all costs was a ghost he barely recognized when he saw himself in the mirror. He no longer cared about his land, his cows or the wolves that might be picking off his calves at this very minute. Right now, he’d settle for three hours of uninterrupted sleep.
“Oh, shoot. I forgot about my snowshoes. I’ll need help, Henry.”
Henry. Nobody called him that anymore. His mom had, but to everyone else, he was Hank.
He located her snowshoes and secured them to her boots. Then he quickly added the empty baby seat to the pile atop the skinny, lightweight plastic sled—a reminder of his Search and Rescue days back when he’d still believed he had options. Until his dad had a stroke and his mom needed him to take over the ranch.
Light years ago.
Now, he was raising his four grandchildren while working to keep their heritage and birthright intact. The ranching way of life had been under attack for years on too many fronts to count. But he had four kids counting on him, so he kept going. Giving up wasn’t an option—and neither was dying on a snowy mountaintop on Christmas Eve.
Chapter Three
‡
The walk—if you could call it that—was a million times tougher than her hike up the mountainside had been. Each step a challenge to keep her balance and—worse—her head in the game. Was it just the additional weight of the miniature furnace resting, h
eart-to-heart, across her chest? Or was it the pressure to get these sweet, damaged children to safety? Life had done a number on them. She’d sensed that without knowing the whole story. They were too good, too quiet, and too tearless.
Hell, she was on the verge of a full-out weep every time she glanced over her shoulder and saw the brother and sister holding hands as they followed the path she and Hank broke for them. Whenever possible, they retraced Meg’s original path, but since she’d done a back and forth sweep looking for wreckage, in some places it was more expedient to break a new trail. Often through knee-deep powder.
Henry took the lead without hesitation.
Henry Firestone. Her archenemy…or so the media liked to think. She’d never hated the man or his cause. She could empathize with the ranchers’ fears. They had good reason to worry. Some of the men in Henry’s faction brought photos or power point programs documenting the cattle kills they claimed were the result of wolves.
Sometimes, wolves were to blame, but not always. The ranchers at those meetings painted with a broad brush. They characterized the wolves as executioners, a blight that would destroy their livelihood and way of life.
Though few would believe it, Meg sympathized with the ranchers’ plight. None wanted to hear her opinion—that diminishing return on their cloven-hoofed goods was to blame for most of their problems. Wasting precious resources by raising a commodity that couldn’t feed the world in an economical manner just didn’t set well when you were watching your way of life fade like an old photo.
So, the ranchers invented a pariah. A bogeyman on four legs. And Meg deflected their barbs and arrows as much as possible to allow the wolf a chance to regain a foothold in a land it once hunted freely.
But never, in all their years of locking horns, had Henry Firestone come across as a hard ass, narrow-minded bully. Many times, he’d been the only member of his contingent willing to seek middle ground. Not that he was a pushover. Henry Firestone knew who he was and what was worth fighting for. She admired that about him. And his broad shoulders and rugged good looks often followed Meg home after those grueling meetings. She’d sit down with a glass of wine and think about him. She never crossed that imaginary line between her side and his in the real world, but in her fertile imagination, which seemed to be working overtime at the moment, they’d connected. Big time.
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