by Teri Wilson
He felt sick, literally physically ill. How had this happened? This was exactly why he didn’t let himself get close to anyone—he wasn’t prepared to lose another loved one.
And he refused to lose one now.
Brock propelled himself into action. He wrapped Dolce’s leash around the tree trunk two more times and pulled it tight, speaking in soft, reassuring tones to the frightened dog as he did so. “Don’t you worry, little one. I’m going to find her.”
He had to find her. Failing wasn’t an option.
“Let’s go, Sherlock.”
Brock ran toward the clearing with Sherlock on his heels. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice told him to slow down and breathe. He needed to conserve his energy for the dig. But he couldn’t seem to make himself go any slower.
When they reached the debris field, he forced himself to come to a stop so he could look for clues to Anya’s whereabouts. He shielded his eyes from the sun and couldn’t help thinking how odd it was that his life had been reduced to tatters on such a beautiful morning. The bruised sky of earlier in the week was nothing but a memory now, but the heavy snow they’d had from the recent storms had undoubtedly contributed to today’s disaster.
He swept the area with his gaze, praying for a glimpse of mitten...scarf...anything.
Please, God, please.
The settling powder cloud and the bright sunshine weren’t helping matters. Glittering crystals swirled around him, obscuring his vision. Brock couldn’t see a thing other than white. Snow was everywhere—beneath his feet, hanging in a suspended cloud over his head and even in the air he breathed.
“Find Anya,” he ordered Sherlock. “Find Anya.”
At the sound of the familiar name, Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he let out a loud bark of recognition.
“Find Anya,” Brock repeated, his voice growing hoarse.
Sherlock lifted his head. Brock could tell he was attempting to air-search for her scent. The dog trotted ten or twelve feet uphill, then doubled back. He went in another direction, turned a circle and once again returned to Brock. He cocked his head and released a frustrated-sounding whine.
Brock’s hope took a serious hit. The dog was confused. And why wouldn’t he be? Anya’s scent was all over this mountain. They’d trained here as recently as yesterday.
What was taking Cole so long? And where were the others? He needed a probe pole team out here. He had no other choice. Without any clues and without any scent trail for his dog to follow, Brock hadn’t the vaguest idea where to start. But Brock knew as surely as he knew the sky was blue that everything in his life had led to this morning—all the mountains he’d seen, all the training, all the rescues, all the piles and piles of snow. Now he knew. All the while he’d been preparing to rescue the woman he loved. He knew it down to his bones.
He also knew that despite a lifetime of preparation, he wasn’t up to the task. He couldn’t do it—not alone anyhow. There was too much at stake.
He sank to his knees, broken and desperate.
God, please. I need You. I know I don’t deserve Your help, but she does. I’m begging You...
God had been chasing him since the day he set foot in Aurora. Brock knew that now. The church, the Bible in the ski patrol cabin, the woman with the violet eyes who’d found her way to his doorstep on that very first day. God had orchestrated all these events. And Brock had turned a blind eye to every one of them.
Had he really been so stubborn that it came down to this?
Yes, he had. But not anymore. He was done going it alone. He’d made a mess of things. He couldn’t imagine how he’d lasted as long as he had without God.
I’m Yours. No matter what happens here, I’m Yours. But please help me find her.
He lifted his head and, off in the distance, he caught a glimpse of an unmistakable flash of red.
He scrambled to his feet and ran toward it, his thoughts screaming thank You, thank You, thank You as he went.
“Brock?” Cole called out from somewhere behind him. “Have you spotted someone?”
Brock had never been so happy to hear Cole’s voice. He’d take all the help he could get right now. “Over here. Hurry!”
The flash of red grew closer. When Brock reached it, he still wasn’t altogether sure what it was—something knitted. A scarf maybe? He tugged at it and realized it was a hat. A comically oversized hat, like an old-fashioned sleeping cap, only with crazy mismatched stripes. Brock had never seen it on Anya’s head before, but it had her name written all over it. So much so that he smiled as he reached inside his pack for his snow shovel.
Sherlock’s nose dropped to the ground, and no more than two feet away from where Brock had found the hat, the dog alerted. He barked, pawed at snow and barked some more.
“Good dog,” Brock somehow managed to say, even though his throat was so thick with emotion that he was rapidly losing his ability to speak at all. “Good boy.”
He speared the spot Sherlock had indicated with his shovel. Cole appeared at his side the moment he scooped away the first shovelful of snow. Brock was so happy to see him, he nearly wept.
Cole took in the scene: Brock digging like there was no tomorrow, and Sherlock digging too, almost half-buried in snow. “Whoa! You two have found a victim.”
“Not a victim.” Brock shook his head and heaved another shovelful of snow over his shoulder. Something in him snapped. He couldn’t take hearing her referred to that way. “Anya.”
Cole froze. “Anya?”
“Yes, Anya.”
Neither one of them said another word after that. They just dug and dug. Even the dogs dug. And all the while, Brock prayed like he’d never prayed before.
“I’ve got a foot,” Cole yelled.
Brock turned and saw the familiar toe of one of Anya’s snow boots. It wasn’t moving.
Please, God.
His biceps burned from digging through snow as hard as concrete, but he plunged his shovel into the snow with renewed vigor. And when he lifted it up and away, he was rewarded with a glimpse of Anya’s beautiful face.
“Cole, help!”
He threw the shovel down, tore off his gloves and began pushing the snow back from her face as fast as he could. Her eyes were closed, her lovely dark eyelashes coated with snow. Brock’s chest seized. He couldn’t tell whether or not she was conscious. He just hoped they weren’t too late.
Once her head was fully exposed, Brock cradled her face in his hands. Her cheeks were freezing cold to the touch, but the moment his fingertips brushed across her skin, her eyes fluttered open—those violet eyes that never failed to take his breath away.
She was alive.
The sight of those familiar, lovely eyes peering up at him, shining with life, brought forth a gentle healing in Brock. He could no longer feel the broken place that had been inside him since he was a scared, lonely kid. Finally his soul had found rest.
She blinked, a slow sweep of her lashes. “Brock?” she whispered as he swept the snow away from her lips. “I was afraid you’d gone.”
He shook his head, too full of emotion to speak. He cleared his throat and realized he was crying. He hadn’t cried since Drew had disappeared. But he was crying now. Crying like a baby, in fact. And this time they were tears of joy.
Thank You, God. Thank You.
“Not me,” he said, when at last he was able to speak. “I’m not going anywhere.”
* * *
Anya had been sure she was dying.
It had started with a fierce burning in her chest and the accompanying urge to cough. At first she’d been able to resist it, too frightened to waste what precious little air she had left. But before long she just couldn’t help it. She’d coughed once, twice, her heart beating furiously against her ribs, and she’d realized she was panicking.
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The panic had passed quickly enough, replaced with a startling calm. She’d no longer felt the need to struggle for air. The tension had lifted from her body, and her eyes had drifted shut.
And she’d thought she was dying.
Then she’d heard the barking of the search dogs, and she knew with absolute certainty she would be rescued—that Sherlock and Aspen would find her. She’d just had to force herself to hang on until they did.
What she hadn’t expected was that Brock’s face would be the first thing she saw when the snow was pushed away and she opened her eyes. It was the most glorious sight she’d ever beheld—those chiseled features of his against the backdrop of a sky as blue and beautiful as his eyes.
For a fleeting moment she’d thought what she was seeing wasn’t real. But then she’d seen herself reflected in his eyes, flooded with tears. And she’d known. It was real.
Brock had saved her. And now he was saying the words she’d so longed to hear.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock nudged his way in front of Brock and licked the side of her face. She laughed.
“Sherlock, bud. Let’s give her some space.” Brock pulled the dog away, but he kept his gaze fixed on her even as he checked in with Cole. “How’s it coming with her legs?”
“Done.”
She wiggled her feet. She could move. Finally.
Brock pushed the snow away from her chest, and at last she was fully free of the crushing weight of the snow. She inhaled a deep lungful of air. The oxygen burned her insides, and she coughed again.
“Take it easy, sweetheart. You’re okay now.” Brock’s words were as soft as a caress. Hearing him call her sweetheart brought fresh tears to her eyes. And he lifted her into his arms, as if she weighed no more than a snowflake. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“You gave us an awful fright, Anya.” Cole looked more choked up than she’d ever seen him. “I don’t know what we would have done if...”
His voice trailed off. There was no need for him to finish the thought. They all knew how it ended.
“Was there anyone else out here before the slide?” Brock asked. He was still holding her, cradling her in his arms. He didn’t seem in any hurry to put her down.
“No.” She shook her head. “There was no one.”
Then she remembered how it had all started.
“I was looking for Dolce. A moose frightened her, and she got away from me. We have to find her. Put me down.” She struggled to free herself from Brock’s grasp. But she was no match for the strength of his arms. They kept her held firmly against his granite chest.
“I’ll do no such thing. I don’t intend to let you out of my arms for a long, long time. If ever. And don’t worry about Dolce. She’s fine. A little scared but fine. She’s right over there.” He nodded toward the tree line.
“I’ll go get her. You two look like you could use a little privacy.” Cole turned to go but not before Anya spotted the grin on his face.
“I think he knows,” Brock whispered.
“Knows what?”
“That I’m in love with you.” He smiled at her, and her chills instantly subsided. She felt warm, safe and loved in his arms.
She snuggled into his embrace. “Do you think he knows that I love you too?”
He laughed, and the sound burrowed under her skin. “Probably. Let’s hope he knows and approves. Then maybe he’ll offer me a job again. Because I’m not going anywhere, Anya. I mean that as surely as I live and breathe.”
She let the truth settle over her like the softest of snowfalls. She was alive. Brock loved her. And he was staying. She’d thought she was dying, but instead she found herself more alive than ever before.
Thank You, Lord.
She smiled up at Brock. “You just pulled off an impossible rescue. I’m thinking that affords you some job security. How did you find me?”
“Your hat.” He nodded toward the red hat, heaped in a puddle of stripes in the snow.
“What do you know? It worked.”
“What worked?” He looked confused.
“I remembered what you said about searching for clues after a slide, and I tossed it up in the air right before I got knocked down. I’d hoped someone would see it and come looking for me.” She wondered if things would have ended so happily if she’d forgotten she’d had the hat in her pocket. Would Brock have still found her? “And actually, it’s not my hat. It’s yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, yours. I made it for you. I thought you could use a new socialization tool.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was unmistakable joy in the gesture. “That crazy hat saved you, you know.”
“No,” she said, her vision growing cloudy from behind a veil of tears. “You are the truest of heroes, Brock. You always have been. You saved me.”
“I’m afraid it’s the other way around, sweetheart.” His lips brushed against hers in a gentle, reverent kiss. “You’re the one who saved me. You found me when I didn’t even know I was lost. You and God.”
“Is that so?” she asked through her tears.
“Yes. And now I’m staying right here. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. And the first thing I’m going to do as an Alaskan is take you out on a proper date.”
She laughed, still not quite able to believe she was alive and well and in Brock Parker’s arms. “And then what?”
He set her down, then took her hands and anchored them around his neck. He gazed at her with eyes so earnest, she couldn’t dream of ever looking away. “Then I’m going to ask you to marry me. What do you say to that?”
Everything within her radiated with joy. The danger, the past and all the hurt she’d ever experienced were forgotten. She knew only this day—the day she’d come to know just what it meant to trust God. And to trust her heart, her future, her very life to the man standing beside her, the man she’d one day call her husband.
She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, and right before her lips touched his she whispered, “I say yes.”
Epilogue
Three months later
Brock settled the squirming puppy—a little girl, who Anya had dubbed Watson because of the pup’s fondness for Sherlock—onto the seat of the ski lift, inasmuch as a twelve-month-old Duck Tolling Retriever could be settled.
“You got her?” he asked his wife, a ridiculous smile springing to his lips as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
His wife.
Who knew a woman to come home to every night, to be his anchor after a lifetime of being untethered, would turn out to be the thing most worth searching for? Not just any woman, but this woman—Anya. He didn’t need to travel the world to know that no one else could turn him upside down, inside out like she did.
“Yep. I’ve got a good hold on her. She’s not going anywhere.” Anya bent to whisper in the puppy’s floppy triangle of an ear. “You aren’t going anywhere little one, are you?”
The puppy all but melted into a pool of adoration. As did Brock.
Anya glanced at him. “Come on up.”
He climbed onto the seat, with Watson nestled snugly between him and Anya and gave the ski lift operator the thumbs up. Brock’s feet lifted gently off the ground as they began the slow rise up the mountain.
It was early morning, hours before the ski resort would open for business. The rising sun peeked out from behind the Chugach Range, bathing the valley in a soft purple haze. The jagged peaks of the mountains were all but indiscernible, making it impossible to tell where the mountaintop ended and the violet sky began.
Brock cherished mornings like this, before the rest of the Aurora Ski Patrol arrived for work and he and Anya had time alone to work with the pups. Since his promotion to head of the unit, his days w
ere often a blur of activity—he typically traversed the mountain countless times in a single afternoon. After the avalanche that had nearly stolen Anya’s life, Cole had made the decision to take an early retirement but only after securing a promise from Brock that he would take over.
It was the answer to Brock’s prayers—a way for him to stay in Aurora with Anya yet continue to do the work that he still considered his calling, perhaps now more than ever before. He was responsible for the safety of everyone who set foot on the mountain, from skiers and snowboarders to his fellow ski patrol members. He could have never done it all without his staff, now composed of an impressive collection of search and rescue workers Brock had trained and worked with throughout the years, plus Luke and Jackson.
And Anya, of course.
He glanced at her now and found her grinning from ear to ear. Sometimes he marveled at his wife’s bravery. It took a special kind of soul to go through a trauma like the one she’d been through and come out the other side. He’d encouraged her to take things slowly at first, to find her footing once again in the wild and beautiful world of Alaska.
Her mother had been a nervous wreck when Anya had announced only a day after the avalanche that she fully intended to resume her search and rescue work. In Brock’s experience, tragedies had the polarizing effect of either bringing people closer together or driving them farther apart. Anya’s brush with death had accomplished the former for her and her mother. Things had changed between them in a profound way. Brock’s mother-in-law was even a regular at church now. Once or twice he’d even walked into the barn and found her there, reading to the puppies. As anxious as she’d been to repair her relationship with her daughter, she’d been less enthusiastic about Anya’s increasing involvement with search and rescue work. Brock couldn’t really blame her. He harbored his own concerns about Anya’s safety.
They needn’t have worried.
She’d become an integral part of the search team. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d started a dog training program. His barn, their barn now, was full of pups of all ages—prospective avalanche dogs, search dogs being prepared for all kinds of scenarios and the odd timid stray. Brock wasn’t even sure where she managed to find them all, but she was determined to turn their lives around, as she’d done for Dolce. Anya’s little rescue dog, once terrified to venture from underneath the bed, now slept atop their bed every night, as content and happy as every dog should feel.