Troubled Waters

by Susan May Warren

  Gage had come up, was checking out the airframe. “I did some reading up on this beauty. She can act as a fire tanker as well. That will help with some of those flare-ups in the park.”

  Whoever had purchased this for them clearly knew their needs.

  It made her think again of Ian, but . . .

  No, she knew in her heart that he wasn’t coming back.

  An SUV pulled into the yard. Sam Brooks stepped out of the vehicle and walked over to the group.

  “Check out our new ride,” Gage said.

  “Nice,” Sam said. He ducked his head inside the interior, gave it a once-over. “Talk about an upgrade.” He leaned out. “Sierra, I need to talk to you. It’s about your house.”

  “My house? But . . . it’s gone.”

  “You don’t own it anymore?”

  “The bank owns it, technically, but it’s still in my name . . .”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a fire burning there.”

  “A fire?”

  He lifted a shoulder. Glanced at Chet.

  “Call the fire department,” she said.

  “I think you need to go check it out.”

  She couldn’t read his odd expression. “Fine. A bunch of kids causing trouble, probably. Shoot. Okay.” She turned to Ty. “There are cookies on the counter, ready to be baked. I leave you in charge.”

  Ty’s eyes widened. “I can’t—”

  “Oh, please. Anyone can bake cookies.”

  “Not like you do. What if I burn them?”

  “Then you’ll have crispy cookies.”

  He frowned.

  “Listen,” she said as she headed to her car. “Put them in the oven for ten minutes. Don’t screw it up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The sooner she sold that property, put that part of her life behind her, the better. No more memories of baking cookies with Willow or sitting on the front porch with Ian. No reason to drive by it every day, longing filling her throat.

  The last thread between her and Ian, finally broken.

  She turned off the highway onto Main Street, then down to 5th Avenue.

  Strange, she didn’t see any smoke in the air. Perhaps the deepening shadows obscured it.

  She turned onto her street, spotted the empty lot halfway down. From her vantage point, it looked barren, no fire . . .

  She tapped her brakes, slowing at the flicker of light on the front lawn. The sun had fallen enough for darkness to shadow her yard, and as she drove up, her breath caught.

  Hundreds of tiny candles lined up, end to end, along the remains of her front walk. Or rather, where she’d planned her front walk to be. She’d never quite gotten around to digging it out or laying down the cobblestone. In her dreams, it led up to wide front stairs, a wraparound porch, a double door.

  A cozy home perfect for a . . . well, her, and yes, stupidly, Ian. Because he would never have lived here, in her tiny old home, with her.

  More candles outlined her imaginary porch. And on that front porch . . .

  She pulled to a stop in front of the house.

  No.

  What?

  She got out and shut the door.

  Just stared at the man standing on the rubble of her home holding roses.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Ian said nothing, just stood there.

  “Ian?”

  He wore a flannel shirt, a pair of clean jeans, and cowboy boots. He’d shaved and gotten a haircut. The cuts on his face had healed, the sunburn faded. The waning sunlight picked up the copper highlights of his hair, the glisten in his eyes.

  He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Hi.”

  She glanced down at the candles flickering in glass containers. “Did you set this up?”

  “I said I’d build you a palace, and yeah, my first one got taken out, but I have this idea of a house . . . for us. One that we build together. Something cute, like a bungalow, with a wide porch and a backyard where . . . where our kids could play.”

  Our . . . kids? She couldn’t move. “What is going on?”

  He walked forward, his eyes catching her, holding on. “Sierra, I should have chased you down at the hospital. I know that—and actually, after I came to my senses, I did, but you’d left—”

  “You’ve been gone for over a month, Ian! Not a word, and you sold the ranch. I thought . . .” She pressed a hand to her chest, leaned over to grab her knees. “I can’t breathe.”

  He dropped the flowers, closed the distance between them, caught her arms. “Are you okay?”

  She shook away from him. “No, I’m not okay! What—do you think you can just show up here and—”

  “Apologize and beg you to forgive me? Uh, yeah. I’m hoping exactly that.”

  She again pressed her hand to her chest.

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “You’re scaring me!” She stared at him. “I’m so confused. I thought . . . Ian, you didn’t want to see me.”

  The memory shone in his eyes, on the wretched expression on his face, and her heart gave, just a little.

  Especially when he whispered, “I was wrong.”

  “I lied to you, again.” And there it was, out in the open.

  She expected him to walk away. Despite the flowers and the candles and—

  “I forgive you, Sierra. Again. And again and again—because I love you.”

  She just blinked at him.

  And then, she stared at him nonplussed when he lowered himself to one knee. “And I’m hoping you’ll forgive me too. Again and again and again, because I think that’s what love is. Forgiveness. And choosing . . . right? Choosing faith. Choosing love.” He took her hand. “Choosing each other?”

  She stared down at him. “Ian, are you crying?”

  His jaw tightened, but he nodded. “It’s a little terrifying begging the woman you love to marry you.”

  Oh. “Marry?”

  “Oh, please, Sierra. Yes. I’m so . . . so crazy about you. Marry me, so we can start living our lives. Really living, the way we were supposed to.”

  And now she might cry too.

  He lowered his voice. “I love you, so much, it feels a little like jumping out of a plane, or over Crawford Creek, or overboard into a sea I can’t quite swim in. But I’m willing to do that because . . . I trust you. And I’m trying to trust God, no matter what troubled waters we hit. Can you do that with me?”

  Trust God?

  She swallowed, glanced at the outline of her house, her future, flickering in the flames of the candles. “I burned this place to the ground.”

  “We’ll rebuild. From the ground up, just us.” He got up then, touched his forehead to hers. “Until the government releases my assets, I’m a little broke, so I have nothing to offer but my own two hands.”

  His own two hands. She caught them, turned them over. Ran her thumb along the healing scars on his palms. Such capable, strong, amazing hands.

  She looked up at him. He was a beautiful man, and not just on the outside, but in all the places it mattered—his crazy determination, his desire to protect the people he loved. His desperation to hold on to his promises.

  “That’s enough for me, Crusoe. I’ll marry you.”

  Then, as the firelight flickered around them, she curled her hand around his neck and kissed him. And when he kissed her back, she tasted everything she knew about Ian—wild, determined, safe, loyal, and most of all . . .

  Hers.

  TY REMINGTON blamed the homemade orange marmalade cake for why he found himself huddled under an overhang off some faraway path in Glacier National Park, shivering, praying he might live through the night.

  Rain bulleted the enclave, a shallow divot in the granite at the lip of a now-rising flowing mountain creek. Wind tore at his thin rain jacket—he’d given his fleece to the couple huddled behind him, eking warmth from the scant fire he’d built. The blaze gave off a meager trickle of smoke and heat, hopefully enough to keep them from hypothermia.

  If it ha
dn’t been for the growl in his stomach when the fragrance of Karen Reycraft’s signature cake, not to mention Pat Boberg’s fried chicken, tugged at him, arresting his escape from the Fourth of July celebration at Mercy Falls Community Church, he’d be sitting on his leather sofa watching some Western, waiting for fireworks to light over the river bridge in town.

  Or he might have said yes to Gage’s invitation to join him and his girlfriend, Ella, for a movie, the latest Marvel superhero release.

  Instead, he’d grabbed a plate and fell into the potluck line ahead of Renee Jordan, proprietor of the local B & B. Who happened to be worried about a couple of guests who hadn’t shown up for breakfast that morning. “They left for a hike in the park yesterday and never came back.”

  Yes, she’d knocked on their door, just in case.

  Ty reined in the urge to remind Renee that she ran a vacation rental. That maybe Mr. and Mrs. Berkley wanted to be left alone.

  And this was where he blamed the cake, because as he’d debated, then surrendered to a piece, she added, “I just know how scary it is to be out there in the park with a storm coming. I was hoping, since you’re on that rescue team . . .”

  There went his appetite, because unwittingly Renee had landed a lethal blow with the trifecta of arguments: Storm, alone, and the fact that they might be in real trouble.

  Most of all, maybe he could help.

  Ty’s gut had begun to roil with the weight of what-if. His chicken grew cold as he pulled out his map of the park and found the moderately strenuous and remote trail Renee had suggested to them. “The Dawson Pass hike has the best huckleberries,” she said in defense.

  Yes. It also passed through prime grizzly territory.

  Not to mention the 2,935-foot climb.

  Although, with its sweeping views of Dawson Pass, the seven-mile trek to No Name Lake could be the most dramatic day hike in the park.

  “Maybe I’m overreacting,” she said.

  Ty had finally left his soggy chicken behind and headed over to PEAK HQ.

  “You sure they’re out there?” This question had come from Chet King, co-founder of the team.

  After a thorough study of the map, as well as a call in to local park rangers, Ty’s best answer had been, “Not in the least. But my gut thinks yes.”

  His gut. He’d actually looked at Chet and delivered that statement. And yes, okay, he’d added a wince, a little what-to-do shrug, but still, he’d stood there like his gut might be all they needed to activate a callout.

  Chet had pursed his lips. Added a deep breath.

  So maybe Ty shouldn’t be listening to his gut. But it had told him the truth more than once.

  Like when it warned him that journalist Brette Arnold would only cause trouble. He just hadn’t quite realized it meant she’d break his heart.

  Clearly, his gut needed to be more specific.

  With Renee’s words, however, it had grabbed ahold of him, an uncanny, bone-deep feeling that someone was hurt. And, “Since you’re on that rescue team . . .”

  A place holder, really, the guy who helped carry things. Once upon a time, he’d been the chopper pilot, but he’d screwed that up, and royally, so now he simply showed up for callouts, hoping not to ride the bench.

  Maybe he could really help, for once.

  “It’s a holiday, no need to call in the team. I’ll just ride out there and take a look,” Ty had said.

  “It won’t be nice for long, so put a hup into your step,” Chet said. “Take a radio with you.”

  Ty parked his truck at the Two Medicine Lake campground and knocked off the first four miles by taking the ferry across the lake.

  A mile in, as he turned toward the Dawson Pass Trail, the faintest rumble of thunder sounded beyond Flinsch Peak to the north.

  He spotted a couple hikers headed down the trail from No Name Lake and asked them about Jan and Richard Berkley, but they hadn’t seen them.

  He stopped for a moment at No Name, sweat trickling down his spine. He’d shoved a first-aid kit, an overnight survival kit, and an extra blanket into his pack. The weight of it burned into his shoulders.

  Maybe his gut was just reacting to the wannabe inside him. The fact that he hated standing on the sidelines, that without EMT training or rescue climber certification, he usually drove the truck or hauled up the stretchers, muscle that filled a gap in the team’s roster.

  Frankly, they could replace him with any number of the volunteers that showed up every year for callout training.

  Ty had no doubt that only Chet’s affection for him kept him on the payroll.

  Ty had glanced at the storm gathering to the northwest. A rolling black thunderhead, still forming on the horizon, was dissected by jagged mountain peaks and rimmed on all sides by the midafternoon sun.

  A couple miles later, he emerged through the tree line to the spit of a light rain. No Name and Two Medicine lakes tucked into the valley below. The wind bit at him as he turned, ascending the south slope of Flinsch Peak. Bighorn sheep scuttled off the shale-littered trail.

  When Ty’s foot slipped on the slick rock, he stopped, breathing hard.

  This was silly. The Berkleys had probably risen early and headed to Bigfork for breakfast at the Echo Lake Café.

  Ty was leaning over, cupping his hands over his knees, when he heard it. A scream, and it echoed through the canyon, up the slope.

  Maybe a hawk, but he stood up, listened.

  It sounded again, and this time he recognized it as the shrill rasp of a whistle.

  He reached for his own whistle and let out a long blow.

  Three short bursts answered, the universal signal for help, and the hum in his gut roared to life. Returning the signal, he dug out his binoculars and cast his gaze over the trail that jogged up toward the pass. Then he swept his vision down, across the forest of lodgepole pine and huckleberry that dropped into a steep tumble from the trail.

  The whistle continued to blast.

  He stepped off the trail to angle his search and nearly slipped on the now-icy layer of snow that crusted a fissure in the rock. As he looked down, his heart simply stopped, lodged in his ribs at the footprints that bled down the snowfield.

  Not a steep pitch at first, but the crust had broken off, and as he dragged his glasses over the field, he spotted the debris of where falling bodies had churned up snow, probably fighting for purchase before plunging down a scree slope into the trees.

  A fall of nearly one hundred feet, although not straight down. He couldn’t make out anyone at the bottom, but he followed his hunch anyway and backtracked down the trail. Finding a crossing place, he hiked down the base of the scree, shot out three blasts from his whistle along with a shout, received an answering report, and headed into the trees.

  Jan and Richard Berkley had huddled up for the night under the wings of a towering lodgepole, both nursing significant ambulatory injuries.

  When she spied him hiking down through the bramble of forest and shaggy fir, Jan had dropped the whistle from her mouth, pressed her hands over her face, and wept.

  “Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay.” Ty swung his pack off his shoulder and assessed the couple. In her midfifties, Jan suffered from a seriously sprained, if not fractured, ankle.

  “It’s my fault. I was taking a picture, and I just . . . it was stupid.” This from the husband, Richard, who spoke through pain-gritted teeth. Medium build and athletic, with graying hair at the temples, Richard reminded him a little of Mark Harmon. He held his arm possessively to his body, but it was his leg that had Ty worried. Broken for sure, the foot hung at a grotesque angle.

  “I tried to stop him, but he just went over—” Jan started.

  “And I took her with me.” Richard’s voice tightened. “Stupid. We tried to hike out, but . . .”

  Ty knew he should probably take the EMT course at the local college because he’d really love to know whether it was shock, pain, or just the cold of the storm turning Richard pale. He worked off Richard’s shoe
and checked for a pedal pulse.

  “He has blood flow,” Jan said. “I’ve been checking. And I think we’re past the danger of shock, although I know he’s in a lot of pain.” She wiped her eyes. “Sorry. I’m just tired. And cold.”

  Cold, yes. Because with the storm spitting down at them, hypothermia, even in July, could be their worst enemy. “Let’s find protection, and then I’ll go for help.”

  “What?” Jan grabbed his arm. “No—please. You can’t leave us.”

  “I have a radio, but the pass will block the signal. I need to hike out if I hope to contact my team.”

  “There’s a storm coming. Please don’t leave.”

  Please don’t leave.

  Like a punch to the sternum, the words, the earnestness of her voice, unseated him. He drew in a shaky breath, the memory just as swift and brutal. Please, Ty, don’t leave.

  “Let’s find shelter,” he’d said, hating the promises he was already making.

  He’d twisted his bad knee carrying Richard down the mountain, but he gritted his teeth until he found the overhang, and by the time he gathered kindling and made a fire, the night had fallen in a hard slash around him, the sky igniting with slivers of lightning, the rain icy on his skin.

  Not a hope of the PEAK team hearing from—or finding him—on a night light this.

  Ty slid back inside the cave, made sure that the fleece stayed tucked up to Richard’s neck, then coaxed the fire back to life with one of the few still-dry branches he’d found. Low-hanging, dead arms of a nearby pine tree.

  “How did you find us?” Jan pressed her fingers to her husband’s neck, checked her watch.

  “Renee Jordan corralled me at church. Said you were missing.”

  Jan settled by the fire, put her swollen ankle up on her backpack. “And that’s it—you just decided to come look for us?”

  Huh. When she put it like that . . . But he could hardly add, “My gut told me you were out here.” “I dunno. I guess the thought of you out here, alone, hurt . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “Besides, I’m on a rescue team.”

  “Oh, so you’re a natural hero.” Jan smiled at him from across the flames, and for some reason, it spilled warmth through him.

  Still, he shook his head. “No. Trust me, I’m not the hero on the team. I just . . . I know what it feels like to be alone and hurt and . . .” He couldn’t say much more, the memory fast and lurking, knocking.