Chapter 15

Magic began with the first snowfall.

Shep stood in the Tooth, holding a cup of coffee, watching the white stuff peel from the sky. The last week of September might be a little early for a real snowfall, but he tasted the freshness of grace, the hint of the beauty that came even in a frozen world.

This year, he’d ski with London, put a new memory over the scar of the past.

The snow lay over the glistening ice along the tarmac, a remnant of last night’s brutal storm that had turned the highways into lethal skating rinks. He’d driven in this morning behind a plow that salted the roads and skimmed the ice and snow away from the pavement. With Moose down in Florida for Tillie’s custody hearing, someone had to mind the store.

Looked like that someone was him—and Axel and London, and Boo, who’d flown in a couple days ago, having visited Oaken on the road somewhere in mid-America.

Now, with the police scanner playing in the back office, Shep stood watching the lot, waiting for the team to show up. The state patrol had called earlier and asked them to be on alert, what with all the patrols and EMS services hauling people out of ditches and attending to the pileup on the Glenn Highway.

His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. Recognized the number.

Colt .

Nope . He was done with this game. Colt had texted him from the beach in Florida. He wasn’t going to stop watching over her, showing up in her life—that’s what love did.

But no more spying or reporting in to Colt what London might be doing. Not that he’d kept a journal or taken pictures, but yes, definitely he’d call his previous gig spying.

No more secrets.

So he thumbed the call away and repocketed his phone.

The place smelled like the bacon and eggs he’d fried up and left on the island, and now he returned to the coffeepot and poured himself a fresh cup. Behind him, the door opened, and in walked Axel, his hair dusted with snow, wearing a winter jacket and jeans, hiking boots.

“It’s an ice rink out there.”

“Still? I thought the plows would be out salting.”

“I got off at Eagle River, swung by Tillie’s place just to make sure none of the trees came down on her house after the storm last night. By the time I got back on the highway, the pileup had traffic backed up for a mile leading to the base. Good thing I was heading west, but yeah, the side streets—we could play hockey.”

Axel pulled off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. Then he headed over to the counter. “Good, you made coffee.” He also picked up a piece of bacon from the plate in the middle of the island.

Shep pulled out his phone. No text from London .

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just . . . I texted London about an hour ago, and she hasn’t texted back, so . . .”

“She’s probably on her way with Boo.” Axel slid onto a high-top stool. Grinned at him.

“What?”

“So, you two a thing now?”

Shep lifted a shoulder but couldn’t stop a smile. Maybe. Almost . He hadn’t tried to kiss her again, but it had been tooling around his mind.

Kiss her, and eventually ask some big questions. But, “We’re taking it slow.”

“Why?”

He frowned. “Um . . .”

“If she’s the one”—Axel waggled his eyebrows—“get on with it, dude. Pop the question.”

Oh . “Are you?—”

“Yes. Definitely. Not yet, though. Flynn’s still getting settled in at the police department. But yeah, she’s the one. So . . . I should probably start looking for my own digs.”

A car pulled up outside, and Shep looked out the front window. Boo, in her Rogue, snow melting off the hood. She got out, headed inside.

“Okay. I like Alaska and everything, but those roads are crazy!” She pulled off her hat, then her jacket.

“Is London driving separately?”

She hung up her jacket, turned. “She’s not here?”

Silence.

“She wasn’t home when I got there. I thought . . . I thought she was with you.”

Shep set down his coffee mug. “She was—we had dinner at my place. And then she went home before the storm really hit. What time did you get in?”

“After eleven.”

More silence.

And right then, dispatch came through their radio.

Axel headed into the office to grab it.

Boo came over, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Shep. I didn’t even think about it—I got up and came here and just assumed?—”

“We have a callout,” Axel said. “There’s a car in Jewel Lake. They think it slid off the road in the night. Submerged. They need a diver to go in after it. I’ll get my gear.”

Shep put down his coffee, pulled out his phone. Dialed London’s number.

Voicemail. “Hey,” he said. “It’s me. Please call me.”

He hung up and texted her again, too.

Shep

I’m worried. Please call.

Then he grabbed his jacket and pocketed his phone.

Boo was already in the rescue truck, checking the supplies. Axel came out, geared up in a wetsuit, carrying a duffel bag, his fins.

Shep climbed into the front seat and set the phone on the console.

Axel got in front beside him. “She’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Shep looked at him, his jaw tight. But Colt’s words had settled inside him in an icy ball. “ Listen, if she gets spooked, she’ll vanish again.”

No, this wasn’t that. She hadn’t gotten spooked. Last night at dinner, she’d told him about her parents—diplomats—and how she’d grown up travelling the world. Then she’d tucked herself against him, and they’d watched an episode of Manifest .

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Except his own accusation to Colt was now ranging around his head. “Are you telling me you want someone to find her?”

He swallowed. Just calm down. . . .

He pulled out of the airport and headed south on Highway 1, down to Diamond Boulevard. His jaw tightened as he glanced at his phone. No call. No text.

He turned onto Diamond, headed east toward the sound, past neighborhoods, Campbell Lake. Jewel Lake sat just ahead to the northwest. Ice from the storm clung to the trees, skeletons against the hazy day.

“This is near our house,” Boo said from the back seat. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice the accident on the way in.”

He said nothing as he slowed, seeing the cruisers up ahead parked at the municipal fishing dock. A few cops clustered, chatting. As he pulled in, Axel sat up. “Flynn’s here with Dawson.”

Shep spotted Flynn with Moose’s cousin Dawson, standing with a handful of cops at the dock that jutted out over the water. A haze lay over the water, the air crisp, quiet, as he parked and got out.

No sirens. No panic.

Yet a terrible foreboding gripped his chest.

Sort of like it had so many years ago on the mountain, a moment before the avalanche had roared down over him.

Hello . This was not Switzerland, and he wasn’t about to be buried alive.

Axel jogged out to the dock to meet Flynn, about twenty feet ahead of him.

Shep caught a glimpse of the car. Fully submerged in the water, a glaze of ice over the top of the water, unbroken.

So the car had been there for a while.

It sat under the glaze like a pumpkin, orange and squatty, the shape of a hatchback.

Or a . . .

Axel turned and looked at Shep and . . .

It was a Crosstrek.

An orange Subaru Crosstrek.

No— Shep started to run.

Axel caught him. “They ran the plates. It’s hers—but let me get in the water?—”

Shep didn’t wait. He pushed past Axel and ran right off the dock, into the icy water. A thousand blades speared him, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t that deep, and his entire body had turned to fire anyway.

He swam down to the front and peered into the car.

A body floated in the front seat, hair around her face, her arms floating.

Oh, no — no ? —

Breathe. He kicked hard, surfaced. Gulped breaths.

“Shep! Wait—” Axel, pulling on his gear, but Shep headed back down.

Grabbed the door handle.

It opened and the body floated out.

So dead.

And then Axel was there, kitted up, grabbing the body, pulling it up.

Shep followed him up, freezing now. Axel headed to the dock, and Shep followed, his limbs turning heavy.

Hands pulled him out, and he lay on the frozen landing, breathing hard.

“Have you lost your mind?” Dawson said, standing over him, hands in his pockets, his breaths captured in the air.

Shep rolled onto his hands and knees as Boo and another EMT pulled the body out of the water. Laid her on the dock.

Axel followed her out, but Shep was already crawling toward the body.

“Shep, buddy, no—” Axel grabbed him, his arms around him, but Shep pushed him away with probably more force than he needed, but?—

“Is it her?” He got up, shoved away one of the EMTs.

The body was bloated, gray, frozen, grotesque.

“London—”

Then everything stilled inside him.

“Is it her?” Boo said.

He wanted to look away.

A terrible beating had disfigured her entire face beyond recognition—swollen, cut, the nose twisted, her hair broken off. And the impact of the crash had finished the job, breaking her jaw.

But the body seemed the same lean, strong build, the same size and . . . “This is her jacket.” His voice emerged gaunt, broken.

This wasn’t London. This body was . . . cold. And clammy. And lifeless. And . . . no, no, it couldn’t be London.

He reached out to touch her, but Dawson grabbed his hand. “Evidence.”

Evidence .

“Her fingertips are gone,” said Flynn, now crouching opposite, scanning the corpse.

And that’s when Shep turned, scrambled to the edge of the dock, and lost it.

No . This couldn’t be right.

Please.

Axel came over, crouched beside him. Boo brought him a blanket. Sat on the other side beside him.

He didn’t watch as the coroner came and bagged her up. Or as a dive recovery team came in and hooked up the car, pulling it out with a winch.

Or even as the ambulance pulled away, no siren, on its way to the morgue.

“Shep, let’s go. You’re freezing.”

No, he was numb.

Just like he’d been the last time she’d left him.

And this time, no amount of hope would bring her back.

Sarah Walker was dead.

Get ready for the final adventure in the series, One Last Stand ! Discover the thrilling conclusion to this epic romantic adventure.

As a member of the Air One Rescue team, pilot London Brooks has built a new life—one far away from her clandestine past as an operative tasked to take down a branch of Russian terrorists. She has no desire to reenter that world or endure the grief of losing everyone she loved, including her fiancé. But the past won’t stay past. When she finds herself falsely accused, her reputation tarnished, and her life in danger, she has no choice but to plunge back into the treacherous world she left behind. Even if she must surrender everything—and everyone—she loves in her new life.

Shep Watson will never forget the day he saved London Brooks from the avalanche that nearly killed her. He knew there was more to her story, but he’s intent on keeping her secrets. Just when it seems she’s finally ready to let him into her heart, her past comes knocking. But he can’t bear to lose her again. Which means, somehow, he’ll have to enter her world, keep up with her, and figure out a way to bring her home. But when the danger comes home to Alaska, what will it cost the Air One Rescue team?

Join bestselling author Susan May Warren in the final, thrilling journey through the majestic Alaskan wilderness and beyond, where love defies danger and second chances are won with courage and determination.

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KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK!

ONE LAST STAND || CHAPTER 1

The only superpower he’d ever longed for was flying. To lift off this earth, untangle himself from this life with its griefs and responsibilities and broken hopes—even the constant whirring of his brain—and soar.

The sky today arched a brilliant, endless blue over Mt. Alyeska, the sun’s rays glistening upon a pristine plain of powder-fresh snow that had dropped over the ski resort and sifted into the Teacup Bowl. He stood at the headwall of the Alyeska Chute, his skis pointed just over the edge, the angle into the bowl so steep that, yes, he could spread his arms and simply lift off.

“You’re not serious.” Oaken Fox stood a ways back, wearing skis and leaning on his poles. In his silver helmet, wearing goggles, a scarf, and a ski suit, no one would know that the country music star had just taken to the slopes today after a three-week tour in the lower forty-eight.

Maybe he’d returned to keep Shep from spiraling into darkness. Oaken and his girlfriend, Boo, had shown up on his doorstep last night with a pizza and plans for today’s ski trip.

But even the blue sky and bright sunlight couldn’t seem to break through the hover of grief.

How could London be gone? He simply couldn’t wrap his brain around it . . .

So maybe he just needed to fly . . .

Oaken skied over. “I did mention I grew up in South Dakota, right? Not a hill to be found.”

Boo joined them. She wore a lime-green one-piece ski suit and a matching helmet. No one would lose her on the slopes.

Below them, in the bowl, sat all of Alyeska ski resort, and from here Shep could make out the upper tram terminal along with the ski-patrol shack and first-aid center. Below that, runs fanned out over the mountain in all directions, bordered by a forest of mountain hemlock, spruce and Douglas fir, and way too many tree wells for out-of-control skiers to plunge into headfirst.

And then, of course, freeze to death.

He shook the thought away. Not today. Today was for freedom, flying . . . forgetting.

“Tell me again why we had to go all the way to the top?” Boo said. “Plenty of decent skiing below this ridge of terror. Don’t look at me as I’m snowplowing my way down. I just need someone to catch me at the bottom when I turn into a snowball of doom.”

“You’ll be fine.” Shep pointed to a ridge below, a razorback, with a groomed slope in the valley that twisted its way to the bottom. “The sun is on the snow there—no shadows—and it’s a shorter chute into the bowl. Take the High Traverse to the Center Ridge run and it turns into a blue square.”

“As opposed to the double black diamonds that surround us,” Oaken said. “I’m with Boo on this, Shep. I don’t know about you, but Boo and I are among the bunny-hill aficionados.”

“Hardly. I’ve seen you both ski. Just plan your route and take it easy.” He gestured to the chutes that dropped from the headwall into a massive bowl of powder.

Okay, yes, he could admit that it all looked like an avalanche just waiting to happen. But probably not yet, this early in the season. The snowfall hadn’t been so great as to layer up the seracs or create the shifting planes that could lead to a lethal slide.

Still . . . “I’ll go last to pick up any debris from a yard sale,” said Shep, grinning.

“Funny,” Oaken said. “Just promise to dig me out before the paparazzi find me if I end up face down in the snow.” He looked at Boo. “C’mon, babe. We’ll do this together.”

She pushed off and they traversed the headwall to the nearby chute.

Shep breathed in the crisp air, bright and biting in his lungs. He closed his eyes, taking in the whisper of the wind, the slight rattle of the gondola in the distance. He’d talked one of his ski-patrol pals into driving them up to the top, Boo and Oaken all thumbs-up until they saw the drop, the snow that gathered around jutting boulders and along the cliffside.

He opened his eyes, feeling the silence build inside him, the adrenaline burning. He glanced over at Boo and Oaken—both of them had lied to him more than a little. Boo had attacked the wall straight down, finding air off a small cliff, landing, and then completing a beautiful line down to the High Traverse.

Oaken followed, avoiding the cliff, cutting short turns until the slope opened up and he glided down to Boo.

Shep let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Last thing he wanted was to lead his cohorts into disaster.

Boo raised her pole, and he waved back.

Now to the cliff in front of him. A fairly narrow passage dropped some twenty feet into a thick pillow of powder, and from that, the slope veered nearly straight down some twenty more feet until it started to flatten.

Yeah, time to fly.

He pushed off, lifted his skis from the edge, and found air as he fell. Held his arms out, just for balance—and maybe wings—then landed, spring in his knees, and moved into a sharp turn to slow himself just a little, then eased up and widened it out.

Wind buzzed in his ears, powder drifting up to feather upon his helmet, his goggles, his jacket. Skiing in loose, thigh-deep snow required more leg strength than edge, and he kept his form tight, his speed high, his line wide enough to stay in control. He felt his spirit, at least for a moment, soar. The grief left his chest.

The grip on his soul released.

Breathe.

He focused on his rhythm, keeping his legs together, centering over his skis, letting the swish overtake him. One right move at a time.

He slowed as he neared Boo and Oaken, then stopped, managing not to spray them with snow, and laughed.

Laughed.

Oh, it felt like a betrayal. He swallowed it back, fast.

Boo gave him a tight-lipped smile, nodding.

“Okay, when you said you ‘did some skiing,’ you left out that you were some sort of powder master,” Oaken said. “Seriously—you look like a big-mountain freeriding world champion. Like that guy from Mercy Falls—Gage Watson.”

Shep nodded and let a real grin out. “Yep.”

Never mind that Gage was his cousin and that for a while he’d followed in Gage’s footsteps. Until the accident.

Until responsibility had caught up to him.

“Shep is on ski patrol here in the winter,” Boo said, glancing at Oaken. “He gets to ski for free.”

“In between scraping people off the hill,” Shep said. He didn’t mention that he hadn’t signed up this year.

Or the fact that the only reason he’d tagged along today, like a third wheel, was to give himself something to do while his realtor opened up his house to potential buyers. A private sale for now.

He didn’t want to tell the Air One Rescue team until the purchase agreement was inked and he couldn’t change his mind.

“Okay, that’s enough daredevil for me today,” Boo said. “I’m headed down to the blue runs and maybe all the way to the bottom for some hot cocoa.”

“I think I’ll take a leisurely ride through the trees,” Shep said. “See you at the bottom.”

He pushed off, heading across the lower traverse, crossing the ridge over to the north face and down Picnic Rock toward the Big Dipper, a thinned but wooded black diamond run. He was passing through a narrow chute between the trees called Spider Bite, the heavily wooded off-boundary section of tree-skiing to his left, when he spotted a flash of silver.

He slowed, then skirted to the edge of the run and stopped, peering into the woods.

Oh no.

Skis protruded, just barely, from the bushy branches of a mountain hemlock.

Shep unsnapped his bindings, set his skis upright, then tromped into the forest, grabbing tree limbs as the snow tried to suck him in to his thighs.

“Hey!” he shouted.

No reply. The skier had hit the tree, evidenced by the broken branches, and then tried to break their fall—headfirst—into the well around the tree. They now lay wedged into the space under the branches that formed a well around the tree, only their red jacket and silver ski pants showing.

Slowly suffocating.

He found solid footing, grabbed a couple branches, then dropped to his knees, leaning into the well. “Hey, you okay?”

No sound. Please, God, let him not be too late. He grabbed his walkie even as he started to paw at the snow. “Ski Patrol, this is Shep Watson. I’m just off Spider Bite in the off-boundary area—there’s a skier trapped in an SIS hazard. I’m going to start to dig him out—send help.”

He pocketed the walkie even as he heard the senior patroller confirm, and pulled off the backpack he carried for exactly this reason. Pulling out the small handheld shovel, he dove in, digging out from the side of the well. “I’m coming—just hang on.”

He tunneled in from the side, creating a bigger opening, then dropped his shovel and pulled out the soft snow with his hands, not wanting to take out a chunk of flesh with the edge of his shovel.

“C’mon, stay alive?—”

Don’t think about the darkness, the feeling of suffocation, the sense of aloneness that can sweep over a person ?—

He uncovered a shoulder, spotted movement— hallelujah —and followed the arm down, found a helmet. Maybe they’d found a pocket of air?—

He cleared out the snow, and there, at the base of the tree, a space of air. And then?—

“Help!” The voice lifted—a female. She started to wriggle. The snow had trapped her arms behind her, so she was unable to leverage them to push herself free.

Terrible way to die.

“I got ya,” he said, trying to pull her up, but the position wedged her tight. He would need to get in with her?—

Shouting sounded behind him. Over his shoulder, he spotted Oaken and Boo fighting toward him through the snow and trees.

“For a second, we thought it was you trapped in the trees,” Oaken said as he fell to his knees opposite the woman and also began to dig.

“Careful not to cave in more snow on her,” Shep said and handed him the shovel. “And don’t get crazy with the shovel—you don’t want to break bones.”

He handed his radio to Boo, who stepped back to check on patrol status.

Oaken raked back more snow, and Shep freed her shoulders. A long blonde ponytail snaked out the back of her helmet.

Shep climbed down into the well, nearly to his hips in depth. “Ma’am, did you hit your head?”

“No—no—” She started to cry.

He’d prefer to put a C collar on her, but she might be going into shock, hyperventilating, so he slid an arm under her, around her shoulders. Oaken got in on the other side, did the same.

“Boo, stabilize her legs,” he said. “On three.”

They pulled her up, heaving until her body came free of the hole, some five feet deep.

The woman rolled over, gasping. She still wore her goggles and a helmet, but with her blonde hair unraveled from her braid, she looked like?—

His breath caught. No . . . It couldn’t be.

And he knew—he’d seen her body, after all—that London was dead. The facts confirmed it—her car found in a nearby lake, her body mutilated but still the same frame, height, and weight. Most of all, the terrible emptiness in his soul. So yes, even if his heart didn’t want to believe it, facts were facts.

Yet this woman lying in the snow, breathing hard, maybe crying, had brought him right back to the what-ifs.

What if the body wasn’t London’s?

What if she’d reactivated what he knew was a clandestine past with some interesting skills he’d never suspected and . . . what? Faked her death?

Let it go. Let her go.

Words he’d been dodging for the better part of a month.

Oaken had unhooked the woman’s skis, retrieved her poles.

Okay, so he was desperate, but as Boo, the team EMT, leaned over her and moved her goggles off to check her vision, he hoped?—

Nope. Midtwenties, freckles on her face, brown eyes. Not London.

Ski patrollers had arrived with a sled, one of them trekking out to their position.

“Get a collar on her,” Shep said, and reached for it as the first patroller handed him the bag.

He snapped it on, leaning over her.

She grabbed his jacket. “Thank you.”

“You know this area is off-limits, right?” Shep said.

“Easy there, bro,” Boo said softly.

Right. He blew out a breath, studying her face as she let go of his coat. “Anything broken?”

“I don’t think so. And I didn’t mean to ski in here—” Her eyes filled again, her face reddened from cold and tears. “I took the wrong run and was trying to take a shortcut back to the intermediate slopes. I wasn’t going fast, but my ski caught, and down I went. I tried to grab branches to stop myself, but the snow just came down over me. . . .”

Her breath caught, and aw, just loosen up, like Boo said . Clearly, memory had a grip on him, turning him into a jerk.

He gave her a small nod, his gaze softening at her fear.

“I don’t know how you saw me, but . . . if you hadn’t—” She hiccoughed. “Thank you.”

He had to look away, then he blew out a breath, found a smile for her, and nodded. “You must have angels watching out for you. And you’re welcome.” He then stepped back as the patrollers closed in—a new crew for this season. “She probably needs an X-ray.”

“Thanks,” said one, the name badge on his orange ski jacket reading Bowman. He directed others to bring in a sled.

Boo and Oaken carried her gear out to where more patrollers sat, ready to ski her down the hill.

Shep stared at the tree well. Any longer and it might have become a tomb. His throat thickened, but he shook away the grip of what-ifs and headed back out to the run.

Boo and Oaken waited for him, already in their skis.

“I thought you were going to take the blue runs.”

“And let you call us pansies?” Oaken said. “Please. Besides, we weren’t sure if you’d just . . . I don’t know. Ski off the edge of the planet, never to be seen again.”

He blinked at them.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Shep. We know you put your townhouse up for sale—I have the same realtor.”

Boo leaned on her poles. “You’re really leaving?”

So much for his secrets. “Maybe.” He swallowed. “Probably. But don’t tell Moose yet, okay? I just . . . I’m not ready . . .”

“To tell him that his number-one rescue tech is leaving during the time that he might very well be losing his company?” Boo raised an eyebrow.

Yeah, that . He pursed his lips.

Boo’s voice fell. “Listen, Shep. We all grieve London. She was my roommate. I miss our chats, the way I’d spot her in the yard, working out—even our late-night conversations about faith. If I know anything about London, it’s that she was a woman of faith—and she’d want us to be rejoicing that she’s in heaven.”

Her words stripped him. “ Rejoicing? Boo—she was murdered. And somewhere out there is the person who killed her. And . . .”

And he was supposed to have protected her.

His one task when recruiting her for the Air One Rescue team had been to keep her safe.

So not only had losing her taken him apart . . . he wanted to hurt the man he saw in the mirror every dark and brutal morning.

The shadows had returned, the darkness seeping back into his pores. “The dead-last thing I feel like doing is rejoicing.”

He snapped back into his skis. “I think I’m done for the day. Thanks, guys. Try not to break any bones.”

Then he pushed off, leaving them behind as he tore down the slope.

Not flying at all.