Montana Maverick

by Debra Salonen

  “Pretty much. And I knew the storm was coming. I told myself if I didn’t leave at that exact moment we might not be able to get out at all. And, if Mystic died and I did nothing…” The pressure behind his eyes was emasculating. He refused to cry in front of a stranger.

  “Is the helicopter insured?”

  Her tone was so nonchalant it diffused the intensity of the moment.

  “Yes.”

  “Are the kids okay?”

  He nodded, seeing where she was going with this.

  “You made a judgment call, Henry. That’s all anyone can do in a crisis. Try not to beat yourself up about it too badly.”

  He leaned back against the buttery soft leather. “You’re very wise.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. It’s easy for me to say. I don’t have to pay the deductible.” She sat forward, linking her hands. “I’m going to bed, but before you put me on a pedestal, I’ll leave you with something one of my many detractors once said about me, ‘Meg Z thinks with her heart, which is the first thing a wolf would eat if he had the chance.’”

  Hank winced, recalling his words all too clearly. “I—”

  “I framed that quote and hung it on my office wall. It reminds me to readjust my perspective from time to time.” She got up and turned toward her room. “But, for the record, wolves go for the gut, first. Liver, kidneys, the soft fleshy underbelly. But the heart is a valuable organ. High in nutrients. So, you weren’t exactly wrong.”

  He stared at her closed door for a good five minutes before he went back to bed.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the fury of the blizzard and the muffled breathing of Bravo and Mystic. Finally, he sighed, a smile forming on his lips.

  He liked Meg Z. He liked her a lot. How crazy was that?

  *

  JJ watched Meg arrange the gifts she’d wrapped to add to “Santa’s” delivery on the fireplace mantel. He’d known for years there wasn’t a Santa Claus. His mom confirmed his suspicions the Christmas after Bravo was a newborn when JJ asked one too many questions.

  “Okay,” Mom had said with a sad sigh. “You’re right. There’s no man in a red suit that flies faster than the speed of light to zoom down chimneys and leave presents for every good child in the land. But…” She’d given him a look that always had the power to make him squirm. “Now that you know the truth, that makes you responsible for being an emissary of the spirit of Christmas, which is what Santa really is.”

  An emissary of the spirit of Christmas.

  She’d made him promise not to shatter the illusion for other children before they came to understand on their own.

  “You also have to try your best to keep their belief alive for as long as possible. Not all kids are as bright and perceptive as you, my old soul son.”

  She’d always talked like that.

  He missed her so much some days his gut never quit hurting.

  He’d waited until his sister was sound asleep to creep downstairs to make sure Hank remembered to set out the gifts he’d brought. The fact his whole family was still alive was pretty amazing and a gift, but Annie and Bravo wouldn’t see it that way. They’d feel slighted if Santa forgot them, and JJ appreciated the fact his grandfather took that into mind when he packed for their flight to the hospital.

  At the time, Hank had been worried about Mystic’s fever, but nobody had expected her to start shaking and throwing up while they were flying.

  Convulsing, Hank called it.

  Hank.

  The guy tried hard. JJ had to give him credit for that. But would anything Hank did be enough to keep them all together? Would today be the day something or somebody split them up by taking away the babies? It could happen, despite his mother’s wishes—despite his and Annie’s wishes. Not that their wishes counted.

  JJ didn’t hate his stepfather. D’Vede was laid back, funny and generous with his money. But the guy was stoned most of the day. Even at age eleven when JJ met his mother’s new boyfriend, JJ had known the guy was a lightweight, not good enough for Mom.

  But after losing Dad, who was the exact opposite of D’Vede, JJ figured she’d decided she didn’t deserve any better. And D’Vede did make her laugh a lot. Until she got sick.

  He stuffed the thought back into the hidey-hole where he kept all his sad thoughts and was just about to sneak back upstairs when he noticed Hank move forward from the doorway. Had he been watching, too? The idea pleased JJ.

  He watched Hank and Meg interact for a few minutes but he couldn’t figure them out. Were they friends or not? He’d never met a woman who would risk her life to save others. He’d never seen his grandfather on the receiving end of help.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t close enough to hear their words. He assumed Hank was thanking her again for saving them.

  His eyelids drooped and the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. A chill passed through his body reminding him of the stranded helicopter. His fault. The tightness in his chest returned and he went back to bed, where he curled into a tight ball so his tears would be absorbed by the pillow. How could this be Christmas?

  Chapter Five

  ‡

  A shrill piercing sound not of this planet dissected Meg’s dream like a laser knife. She bolted upright in bed, heart punching against her ribs. Her fire had died to a pile of powdery gray ash. The chill in her bedroom penetrated her pretty, flower-sprigged long johns.

  She cocked her head listening for the sound again. Was it her imagination? She’d relived the horror of the helicopter crashing several times in her sleep. A part of her still couldn’t believe Hank and his family survived intact.

  “Ieee.”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding. Not pain or fear. The sound was a child’s cry of glee. The kids were up. They’d found their gifts.

  She crawled out of bed, brushed her teeth and hair in her chilly bathroom and tugged on her heavy fleece robe and Uggs. She was reaching for the doorknob when a knock sounded and a timid voice said, “Miss Meg, are you awake? Santa found us.”

  Annie.

  Meg opened the door. “So, I heard. That’s exciting. Show me.”

  Annie’s hand was small and cool but her grip strong. Together, they raced the short distance to the grouping of sofas where the rest of the family was waiting—even Mystic, who was propped up in her carrier watching with big eyes and a pacifier.

  “She’s a binky girl,” Meg said without thinking.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not,” Hank said, plucking the pink and white nipple from her mouth. “Mostly, I think she takes it to humor me.”

  The child stared at Meg, unblinking.

  Meg sat in an empty space beside the carrier. A part of her could have stared into those big, blue-gray eyes for hours, but Bravo’s attention-getting cry made her look away. “Wow. That is not a sound you hear every day.”

  The twinkle of humor in Henry’s eyes said he knew what she meant and appreciated the fact she hadn’t covered her ears and cringed. “Coffee? I made myself at home. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, please. Black. Thank you.”

  He handed her one of her many wolf-themed mugs—gifts from family, friends, and students. He’d found a non-wolf mug for himself, she noticed.

  “So, who wants to go first? How ‘bout Bravo?” Henry asked. “Santa had to have been on the fly, but, hey, he found you, right?”

  Meg held her mug in both hands and studied the child as she inhaled the fragrant heat of her coffee. At three, Bravo was considerably younger than Mark, the youngest of her nieces and nephews. Markie had grown into a sweet, if slightly self-absorbed young boy, but she remembered his holy terror years.

  Austen once told her, “Our nephew is cute and all, but keeping up with a whirlwind seems like a high price to pay for make-up sex.” Apparently, Austen’s knowledge of the timing of Mark’s conception came from insider info from either Mia or Mia’s ex-husband.

  Bravo seemed to possess the same kind of excitement, but
shyness or fear kept his energy tamped down. Except when it broke through in his voice.

  “Look, Grandpa. Look what Santa brought me. Cowboys and Indians. Wow. Oh, wow, JJ, look. And dinosaurs, too. Look, Miss Meg. Want me to show you a stegosaurus?”

  She put a hand out to protect the baby when he climbed on the couch to share his booty.

  “Can you open these for me?”

  “Bring them here,” Henry said, withdrawing a small knife from his hip pocket. “I will.”

  “I want her to.”

  Meg ripped the corner of the plastic sack with her teeth then shook the set of figurines onto his lap. “Red for Indians, yellow for cowboys,” she said. “Apparently, Santa’s only as politically correct as the National Museum of History allows him to be.”

  Henry’s soft snort of laughter told her he’d heard her observation. She was a little embarrassed by her impulsive buy.

  “My brother, Austen, had a set of those when he was a little boy,” she told Bravo. “He always insisted on being the cowboy, and my sister and I were Indians. Personally, I liked being an Indian because I could crawl on the ground and sneak up on people. But one time he roped Mia and tied her to a fence post. When our mom found out, she gave his toy figurines and his rope to the church.”

  “Is Mia your sister?” Annie asked. She held her two gifts on her lap like a fifty-year-old churchwoman holding her Bible and purse.

  “Yes. She and Austen are twins.”

  “Grandpa would never let me tie up the other kids,” JJ said. “Even if they deserve it.”

  “You’re next, Annie.”

  She opened Henry’s gift. A book. One Meg had never heard of but Annie was over the top excited to add it to her collection. “Santa must have read my letter.”

  JJ rolled his eyes but a look from Henry kept him silent. “What did Santa bring you, JJ?”

  The thirteen-year-old ripped off Meg’s flashy red and green paper. He gave a small yip of surprise.

  “What is it, JJ? What did you get?” Bravo asked.

  “A speed cube. Competition ready. Wow. This is so cool. How’d—” A nearly imperceptible shake of Henry’s head made the boy swallow whatever he’d planned to say. “I don’t know how Santa knew I wanted one. Somebody broke my old one.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Bravo said, looking ready to cry.

  “Mystic’s turn,” Henry said, snatching the gift he’d brought off the mantel. “Here, Meg, you help her.”

  Their fingers touched for the briefest of moments but that same crazy zing she’d overanalyzed all night passed through her fingertips and raced straight to her girl parts. A real, authentic zing. Definitely not her imagination, as she’d tried to convince herself earlier.

  She didn’t look at him or acknowledge the sensation. She hoped it was one-sided. Please, let this be a by-product of my hormone injections, she silently prayed.

  “Okay, baby girl, let’s see what the big man in red thought you wanted.”

  She tore open the paper and removed the lid of a box. One by one, she extracted four colorful cloth objects. “Puppets?” she asked looking from Henry to Annie and back.

  Annie clapped with glee. “Oh, look, Grandpa, it’s the cute little sock and wrist rattles I showed you online. Do you think Santa shops online?”

  “Merely a coincidence, I’m sure,” Henry said, his deep voice tinged with humor.

  After Meg removed the tags, Annie placed all four on her baby sister’s limbs.

  Mystic kicked over and over, her gaze drawn to the brightly colored zebra and bunny. A moment later, the elasticized rattles went into Mystic’s mouth.

  “Wow. That Santa is one smart cookie,” Meg said. “Speaking of cooking, who’s hungry? I make a mean pancake.”

  “I’d rather have a nice one,” Annie said, seriously.

  “I do those, too. You can help.” She held out her hand and the two headed toward the kitchen.

  Bravo looked up from the life and death confrontation taking place between his plastic figures. “But, we’re not done unwrapping presents.”

  “They’ll be there when we’re done with the dishes,” Meg said, drawing on her mother’s catch phrase.

  “Christmas is the only time of year I get volunteers in the kitchen,” Mom said every year.

  And true to form, the youngsters jumped up and raced to the kitchen island where she’d served them cocoa the night before.

  Henry gave her an approving nod then reached past her to pick up the baby carrier and join his family.

  *

  Hank had barely finished his last bite of pancake, which as promised was light and delicious—and nutritious, according to Meg, since she used almond flour and coconut milk in the recipe—when Meg’s cellphone rang.

  She wiped her mouth on her paper napkin and walked to the lamp table to pick up her phone.

  His gaze followed. Hank couldn’t not check her out. As much as he wanted to deny what was going on in his mind and body, he was attracted to her. Always had been—in a so-not-gonna-happen kind of way. The kind of crush teenage boys had on movie stars or cool teachers.

  He’d secretly admired her from the far side of the conference table, but he’d never had the balls to go up and talk to her because…honestly? Why start something that could go nowhere? They were oil and water. Cattle and wolves. Rancher and tree hugger.

  But looking wasn’t asking, he’d told himself back then.

  And he liked looking at her.

  He’d sipped his second cup of coffee at the dining room table his focus bouncing between watching JJ twist and turn his modern Rubik’s Cube game with blinding speed and studying the charming curve of Meg’s ass in her thermal yoga pants.

  She moved with surprising grace for a person who claimed to be chained to a desk.

  “I haven’t been in the field for so long I feel like a stranger in a strange land,” she’d replied a few minutes earlier when he asked about her day-to-day connection to the wolves she’d advocated for with such passion.

  He wasn’t sure what that meant, but even though the media had lost interest in the wolf issues beyond the occasional photo-op sighting, and Hank’s involvement in the anti-wolf push had waned, he still felt their basic disconnect would never go away. She’d supported animals over people. He didn’t get that. Never would.

  She picked up the phone as she glanced at the name or number on the display. “Crawford County Search and Rescue,” she muttered. “Darn. I forgot about them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I called 911 when I heard you coming down.”

  His pancakes reacted poorly to a shot of acid.

  “Merry Christmas, Ken,” she said, a fake cheerfulness Hank could see right through.

  Ken Morrison. Had to be. Hank had heard through the grapevine Ken had taken over SAR.

  He and Ken Morrison had been buddies at one time. Until Ken had an affair with Glory. Hank didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him…unless they were standing on top of Mt. Chisholm.

  “As a matter of fact, I did find the helicopter. Everyone onboard is safe and sound. Not a single drug runner among them.”

  Hank gave her a “what are you talking about” look. Her easy smile turned tense as she listened.

  Was Kenny giving her a hard time about going after him? He would have, too. Her single-handed rescue attempt was dangerous, foolhardy and could have added one more to the body count. But that didn’t happen. Meg saved them, and he wasn’t going to let someone who was only concerned with his stats and bureaucratic crapola give her a hard time.

  He set down his mug harder than he should have, splattering a few drops. Annie hugged her dolly to her chest and shrank back. A common reaction for her, but one that nearly broke his heart.

  He touched her shoulder and smiled before walking to Meg’s side. “Is that Ken? I’ll talk to him.”

  He expected her to balk, but she laid the phone in his palm as if it were one of Mystic’s stinky diapers. “Be my
guest.”

  “Ken, it’s Hank.”

  “You were flying that bird last night?” Ken cried, his voice going all squeaky the way it did when he got excited. “I was hoping someone stole it. What the hell were you thinking, man? Do you have any idea how many calls we had last night? Stupid I expect from flatlanders, but from you…what the f—?”

  Hank turned on one heel and walked into the laundry room where Rook launched to his feet, obviously thinking he’d see some action, so Hank opened the exterior door and followed the dog onto the deck.

  The sun sparkled on the fresh, undisturbed snowpack like a carpet of crystals—until his ninety-pound snowplow hit it. “I had—have—a sick baby, Ken. My granddaughter. Not quite four months. My power went out when the ice hit. My generator only does so much. My landline was down and my cell barely works at the ranch on a good day. From everything I heard on the shortwave, the roads were shit, the pass was closed and ground traffic was frozen…literally. I figured if I could get above it, I could make Cheyenne.”

  “Hey, Buddy, I got news for you, you were headed in the wrong direction.”

  Ken’s smug cynical tone made Hank’s grip tighten on the phone. “Because Mystic started convulsing. My thirteen-year-old co-pilot was so terrified he could barely hold the stick steady while I kept his baby sister from choking to death in her car seat as her two terrified siblings looked on.

  “I made a judgment call. I changed course for the closest town with a helipad. Was that a bad idea? In hindsight yes, but it felt like the only option I had at the time.”

  “Well, you’re damn lucky you’re not all dead.”

  Hank couldn’t refute that fact, but he sure as hell didn’t need Ken Morrison to remind him.

  “How bad is the damage?”

  “I won’t know until I see it in daylight.”

  “If you’re on Forest Service land, the recovery fee may wind up costing you a pretty penny—not to mention a hefty fine.”