Sierra still had a hold of his arm. He turned, about to shrug away, but to his surprise she reached down, took his hand, squeezed. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “We’ll find her.”
And right now he was very, very glad that Sierra Rose was his friend.
Ian wasn’t unraveling.
At least on the outside. However, as he bent over his massive dining room, maps of the park spread out, markers and Post-it notes detailing where the volunteers had already searched, she could see the tiny frayed edges of his control in his blood-red eyes, the ragged edge of his voice.
He hadn’t slept in three days—she was sure of that. He wore a scraggly growth of whiskers, the same shirt, now grimy from his off-trail searches, and his demeanor bespoke a man focused, driven.
She set a cup of coffee in front of him and he took it without glancing her direction. “Thanks.”
She wanted to put her hand on his back, ease the strain from between his shoulders, his neck, but that might be crossing a line in front of Deputy Sam and Sheriff Blackburn, Chet King, and his son, Ben. They stood around the table, each nursing an idea of what to do next.
She had dropped into an exhausted ball after practically running up the river to the Loop Trail, then climbing to Glacier Mountain Chalet. Although by the time they reached the chalet, the sun long past the apex of the sky, Sierra knew Esme wouldn’t be waiting for them at the top.
It simply didn’t make sense that they’d walk that far on their own. Maybe Dante didn’t realize the distance, and if Esme wanted to get him alone to break up, then the nearby bridge, or even the quick mile hike to Avalanche Lake would have sufficed.
Unless she had different plans. The kind that included escaping the park all together with the man she couldn’t leave behind.
Sierra went to Ian’s gourmet kitchen, finished making the sub sandwiches from the fixin’s she brought from town, then put them on a plate and returned to the conversation.
“We need to check the river again. She and Dante might have had a fight, maybe fallen in…” Ian was saying, running his finger down Avalanche Creek.
“Ben and I walked that yesterday. Slowly. Took a good look down the gorge,” Chet said. “No sign of them.”
Across the table sat Ben King, who was a younger version of his father, with dark hair, pretty blue eyes, firm jaw, and a rugged, whiskered look that had every girl from Nashville to the four corners of the world swooning.
Except Sierra. Because she knew what he’d done to her best friend, how he’d broken her heart, abandoned her when she needed him most. Left Kacey to pick up the pieces and restart her life. So no, Sierra wasn’t enamored with country-singer/star Ben King. Barely spoke to him as he’d joined the search.
Especially since he hadn’t asked once about his daughter. And if he wasn’t going to ask—she wasn’t going to tell.
“It would help to get aerial eyes on the off-trail areas, just in case they’re hurt,” said Sam. “Maybe they came upon a bear and it dragged them off the trail.”
Sierra saw Ian’s breath catch, saw him draw up, sort through Sam’s words. In three days, despite the initial panic, Ian hadn’t spiraled out of control, hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t shaken apart with fear.
She had no doubt that he’d coiled all those feelings inside, into a roiling, simmering ball.
No wonder he hadn’t reached for a sandwich.
“We need more manpower, more searchers,” Ian said.
“We just don’t have it, Ian. Even if we could get volunteers, we can’t let people loose in the park. It’s too dangerous,” Sam said.
“Then we’ll hire people with know-how. Trained guides and searchers. Hotshots from Jock’s Jude County team—didn’t you say your brother works with them?”
Pete Brooks—Sierra knew him from high school. A few years younger than herself, Pete had left town a few years ago to become a smokejumper.
“Yeah, if they’re not deployed, they have the skills to help,” Sam said.
“Good. And if we can get volunteers from town, we’ll give them First Responder training, teach them how to search.” He turned to Sheriff Blackburn. “Does the Mercy Falls EMS department have a chopper, or anything we can use? We could get in the air, search off-trail.”
In his early forties, with dark hair and pensive gray eyes, Randolph Blackburn had served the community his entire life, taking the helm of sheriff a couple elections ago. He stared at the map in silence, as if contemplating Ian’s words. Then, “No. We don’t have that kind of money here in Mercy Falls. There’s a rescue chopper from the hospital in Kalispell, but they don’t do Search and Rescue.”
“Then we need to get one,” Ian said. He leaned up and looked at Sierra.
Oh, the desire to go to him, pull him, even briefly, into her arms, to soothe away the cracked, red tension in his eyes with words of encouragement, poured over her.
But at the moment he was fierce and ragged and untouchable.
Besides, what would come out of her mouth probably wouldn’t be a help.
Dante and Esme weren’t in the park. Sierra knew it in her gut, her heart. Maybe Esme had meant to keep her promise, to break up with Dante. Maybe she’d even sneaked out of her tent to tell him that. But Sierra had been in love once, or thought so. And would have gone to the ends of the earth with Rhett if he’d asked her to. Would have packed up and moved to Minnesota to cheer him on as he played for the Blue Ox.
Sierra had been just that broken, just that young to believe she couldn’t live without him. And she’d seen that same look on Esme’s face that day in the bedroom.
No, they were probably in a wedding chapel in Vegas by now. But Sierra didn’t exactly know how to say that to Ian.
Not when he turned to her with so much confidence, so much need in his expression. “I need you to find me a chopper. A rescue chopper. I don’t care what it costs—I want it here by tonight.” He looked at Chet. “Can you fly it?”
Chet raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”
“Good.” He turned back to the table. “I’ll call Jock and see if he can send us some manpower.”
“Ian, you’re not in charge of this search,” Sheriff Blackburn said suddenly. “The last thing we need is for you to go rogue and risk other people's lives. Let our department handle this.”
“With what—your handful of out of shape deputies?”
“Hey—” Sam said, but Ian didn’t stop.
“I need real manpower here, Randy. I need equipment and supplies and even K-9s if we can get them. Esme is out there, hurt, maybe dying, and we have a short window to find her. I have resources your department couldn’t even dream of, and you haven’t a prayer of standing in my way. So, either help me, or get out of my house.”
Sierra stilled, watching as Blackburn straightened up from the map. His jaw tightened. “I’ll give you one more week of resources, and then we’re pulling the plug on this. It’s getting pretty cold in the park at night, so if she’s not found in the next few days, it’s a recovery, not a rescue, anyway.” Sierra thought Ian might go over the table at him. He sucked in a quick breath, his entire body seeming to hum. His fists clenched at his sides. “Get. Out.”
“You have to be realistic here, Ian. She’s been gone three days. And with no water, the temperatures dropping…and if she’s hurt, she would have attracted animals.”
“Sheriff, I think maybe—” Sierra started. But to her shock, Ian whirled around and strode away, across the massive room, down the hall and straight into his office.
She stood there for a moment, then shot a glance at Sam and took off after Ian.
Ian stood with his arms braced against the window frame, staring at the mountains, visibly shaking.
“Ian?”
“Don’t come in here, Sierra.” His voice sounded dragged from some brambled place inside. “I’m not doing well.”
And that’s why she was here. “I know,” she said. “You can’t give up hope, no matter what Blackburn say
s.”
She came over to him, stood behind him, the urge to wrap her arms around his waist nearly possessing her. For a second, she was back at the campfire, his warm body against hers, protecting her from the chill of night.
She wanted to protect him back.
“Maybe she’s not even in the park,” she said tentatively. “Maybe she and Dante ran away—”
“No.” He rounded on her. “No, Sierra. She did not run away with Dante.” His eyes betrayed the stress of no sleep, of worry. But his voice didn’t waver. “She told me she would break up with him. Said she’d move East, to Yale…” He ran a hand through his hair. “She wouldn’t lie to me.”
Sierra wanted to open her mouth, contradict him, but tears had welled in his eyes.
So he’d been thinking the same thing she had. Except, he didn’t know about their plans to marry, right? But he was still talking.
“She knew I just wanted to help her—and she wouldn’t just…just leave me. Just run away.”
He closed his eyes then, his jaw tightening, as if scrabbling for control.
“Ian, she is a teenager in love, not rational, not smart—”
“Shut up!”
She stilled as he walked away from her. “That’s not how it happened.” He took a breath. “Dante did this.”
Sierra went cold at his tone, his words.
“She probably woke him up early, walked him away from camp to tell him that she was leaving him, and he lost it.” His voice sounded funny as he looked up at her, and she could nearly see the scenario playing in the back of his desperate imagination. “He got angry and did something terrible to her. Left her there in the woods to die, and ran.”
Ian swallowed, his blue eyes thick with emotion. “She’s out there, hurt and dying, and she needs me. I’m not giving up on her.”
Oh, Ian. She couldn’t let him wander down this road, all the way to fury, to grief.
“Ian, think about it for a moment. Esme agreed to your terms so easily. Could it be that she was already planning on running away? Eloping?” She bit her lip, hoping her words might clear the fog. “Dante even stood up to you, said he wanted to marry her. That doesn’t sound like a kid who would kill the woman he loved.”
“It could have been an accident,” Ian said softly.
“Ian—”
He held up his hand, stiff arm to her words. Then he closed his eyes, winced, rubbed a thumb and forefinger through them. And when he opened his eyes again, something had shifted. A darkness, a resolve.
“She’s out there, Sierra. And I’m going to find her.” His jaw hardened. “And either you’re with me, or you, too, can leave.”
She blinked at him, his words hollowing her out, leaving her raw, undone. Especially when he stared down at her, nothing of warmth, all business.
And what could she do? Because, what if he was right? She had no right to convince him to give up the search. Not if Dante had freaked out, done something horrible. Not if Esme was out there, lost and hurt.
“I’ll find us a chopper, Mr. Shaw,” she said quietly, and headed to her office.
Chapter 6
Cold and grimy, Ian stood in the shower, bracing himself against the tile as the hot water sluiced over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, fatigue rattling through him, threatening to take him out, collapse him right here under his rainfall showerhead.
Two weeks.
He’d galvanized all his resources. He’d purchased a Bell 426 chopper and hired Chet to fly it. Then he hired the Jude County Hotshots, as well as a few smokejumpers, to tramp through the woods and search every craggy overhang, root through the crannies and caves of Avalanche Creek canyon. Deputy Sam had recruited volunteers from Mercy Falls and put them through a quick First Responder course, assigned them into search groups, and they’d covered all the camping sites as well as the more traveled trails.
Ian spent hours studying aerial maps and rode along with Chet on countless search grids, binoculars pressed to his eyes. He even brought in a K-9 unit from Colorado.
And then, last night, snow fell on the mountains to the north, evidence that winter edged down upon them. Sure, it was probably two months away, the crisp, icy nights, but with the temperatures dropping into the low thirties, Esme could easily descend into hypothermia.
Unless someone had found her already. He considered that possibility and purchased time with the local affiliates, creating Have You Seen This Girl PSAs. He’d made posters, put her picture in every paper in a hundred-mile radius. Interviewed every hiker who’d stayed at the Avalanche Campground that night.
No one saw a teenage boy trying to kill his girlfriend.
Esme had simply vanished. With Dante.
Ian couldn’t bear the thought that she’d run away.
He stood up, shut off the water, and grabbed a towel. Outside, thunder rolled and rain chipped at his window. He wound the towel around his waist and wiped a hand across the moisture in the mirror. His hollow eyes stared back, revealing a gaunt worn, whiskered face.
He’d lost about ten pounds over the past fortnight, but even now, he had no appetite, his stomach in knots.
God—where is she?
The thought bubbled up from him, surprised him, and he shook it away.
God hadn’t been around to help him, ever. Ian didn’t know why he even thought of turning to Him now.
Except, maybe he could blame Sierra, who’d told him that people at the church had formed prayer groups, keeping a vigil. Not that he was opposed to God stepping in to help.
He just wasn’t holding his breath.
He toweled off his hair—didn’t bother to comb it or shave, and got dressed in a pair of track pants and a white undershirt and went barefoot downstairs. He pressed his hand against his growling stomach.
“Sierra?” He stopped by his office, saw hers dark, and his jaw tightened. Not that he expected her to be there late on a Sunday afternoon. But he would have liked to have someone to help him talk through today’s failure, the fact that the rain had sent him and Chet home. The chopper he’d purchased now sat in the yard by Chet’s big barn. The Jude County Hotshots had deployed to a fire in Idaho. Even Sam, who’d stayed on the search after Blackburn ordered the office to stand down, had gone home, soggy, despondent. Ian had read the words in Sam’s eyes. Time to call it quits.
Yeah, he needed to talk to Sierra. Even with the distance she’d put between them since their showdown in his office. She’d returned to calling him Mr. Shaw, her demeanor perfunctory and diligent, lining up search schedules, feeding the crew, keeping track of the search grids, even downloading weather maps and flight conditions.
Sierra had turned into an SAR machine.
She had clearly chosen to be with him, and he could hardly believe he’d given her that ultimatum. Had turned into such a jerk. How he’d wanted to take the words back as soon as they were issued, but perhaps, yes, it was for the best.
Ian had no room in his life for anything but finding Esme.
The silences echoed in the house as he walked down the wood floor, barefoot. His giant stone fireplace loomed over the family room, casting shadows into the vaulted area, the dark leather sofas. The maps still draped the tables, marked up, revealing their failures.
He walked to the kitchen, opened up his fridge, and stared at the contents. A half-jar of mayonnaise, one lone pickle, three slices of bread, a bottle of ketchup. Ian closed the fridge, pressed his hand on the cool stainless door. Maybe he didn’t deserve to eat—not with Esme out there, starving.
Where hadn’t they looked? What had he missed?
He walked over to the map, around it, leaning over it, scanning through the countless nooks and crannies they’d searched. He sighed and ran his hand down his whiskered face. He felt just as rough on the inside. Hollow. Cold.
He needed something—bracing. Warm. Something to put a little fire back inside him, keep him moving forward.
Almost without thinking, he turned and opened the wet bar behind him. He k
ept only a few rail drinks on hand—mostly for guests. Now his grip found a bottle of Johnnie Walker—a gift, he thought, from one of his business partners.
He opened it and poured a couple fingers into a low ball.
Stared at the amber liquid.
He’d never been a drinker—filled his life instead with other highs.
But he didn’t have that choice today. No skydiving, no mountain climbing. Even a ride on Maximus would only put the horse in danger with the downpour outside.
Ian downed the drink in one gulp. Let the alcohol settle into his gut, a blaze of heat and power. It sluiced through him, and he could feel it hit his bones, fortify. Empower.
Dull the raw, sharp edge of his frustration.
He poured himself another shot. Stared at it. For the first time he could understand, maybe, his father’s cravings. How a man could feel so emotionally thin he might turn to something to make him feel stronger, or at least braver. He understood the urge to pour something—anything—into the emptiness of losing someone he loved.
Ian threw back the shot, and this time the booze hit his head like a blow, and the room spun. His throat burned and his empty stomach clenched, roiling.
He set the glass down, his hand shaky.
He needed to eat something, probably. But after a moment, the world stopped spinning, the heat sinking into him, warming him through.
He grabbed the bottle, his glass, and headed for the sofa. Sank into it. Stared out his picturesque window at the mountains, littered with cloud cover.
And it hit him.
Esme had run away. From him. From the future he’d offered her, from the love he’d given her—too much love. Yes, that was it. He’d loved her too much. Put too much hope into the fact she’d love him back.
And now he was really turning into his father, pitiful. Trying to scrape the pieces of his life together.
He stared at the whiskey, his empty glass.
Then with a roar he threw the decanter across the room. It hit the stone fireplace, shattered in a dangerous spray of glass.
If Ever I Would Leave You: A Montana Rescue Prequel Page 7