Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

S hep spotted her somewhere down the mountainside, a tiny orange speck between the trees, showering up powder as she turned, a flash of color, then gone again. Even in the dream, his heart pounded. Her name caught in his throat, although he tried to shout—“Jacey!”

But she wouldn’t stop.

The allure of the out-of-boundary path kept her from looking back.

His bones still hurt from the fall, snow in his jacket, his skis buried. But he’d dug himself out, now stepped back into his skis.

His stupid sister should learn to wait. He could keep up—he’d just caught his edge in the deep powder. “Jacey! Wait!”

The wind rushed through his helmet, burning his ears, chapping his face, his feet frozen in his boots, his fingertips numb. Clouds had moved in, whisked up a fierce wind that sprinkled snow across his goggles and into his jacket. He shivered, then tucked and pointed his skis downhill, straight on, to bomb it, at least until he could catch up.

She was too far ahead—he couldn’t see her anymore. And as he picked up speed, the wind whistled. Too fast. Too dangerous.

Out of control.

He tried to stand up straight, to ease back on the speed, but the powder trapped him. And the trees created an obstacle course ahead.

Go through, or turn and launch over the cliffside, off the trail—into the dark, bruised sky.

The trees would kill him. Below, he’d land in more soft, perfect powder. He pushed hard on his downhill leg, managed a turn, and cut sideways, still moving so fast he nearly sat back on his skis.

He heard his father’s voice somewhere behind him, uphill, panicked. “Slow down!”

His heart thundered, the edge rising toward him?—

Fall and break his speed, maybe catapult over anyway, or give it his all and fly?—

Courage failed him. He wobbled, then sat down on his skis, throwing out his poles, dragging through the snow. Powder blinded him, the snow caught him, and he turned, circled, rolled. His skis snapped off and he heard a crack and?—

He rolled to a stop in the snow.

For a second, everything stilled.

Then the pain in his leg shook through him and?—

Screaming.

He sat up, just like that, in the bed.

Looked around, blinking, breathing hard.

“You screamed, not me.”

The voice came from next to him, and he looked over to see London sitting on the bed, her knees pulled up to herself, wrapped in the comforter, her face illuminated by the flames of the still-flickering stove.

“I didn’t know if I should wake you, but I was just about to. Nightmare? Because you were breathing funny, and then you screamed and sat up.”

“That was me?”

“Sounded terrible.”

He scrubbed his hands down his face. “Yeah. A memory. I was thirteen and was following my sister down a back bowl. Snowbird, Utah, has some of the best skiing and heli-skiing, but my parents couldn’t afford it. Jacey thirsted for some deep powder, so she decided to go off-boundary. Alta ski resort is right next door, and a high peak splits them—she took off onto the Alta side. It’s steep and has a few trees, and cliffs, and she was a better skier than me. But I saw her leaving me . . . Anyway, I got in way over my head, fell, then got up and did something stupid and fell again—lost all my gear, broke my leg. They had to airlift me out. She made it all the way down without even realizing I was hurt.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah. But really, I knew better. My dad was on patrol that day at Snowbird, and he saw me—came after me. I could have died on that hill.”

He got up, opened the stove. The A-frame had warmed, cozy inside. He’d radioed in to Moose with their location, and Moose had told him to sit tight until morning.

Shep just wanted to get off this mountain and back home. No more epic missions. He tossed in another log, then closed the stove.

“For a long time, I blamed Jacey. But the fact was, I had a choice. I didn’t have to follow her.”

“But it didn’t feel like that at the time.”

He stirred the fire to life. “No. She was the impulsive one. And I sort of thought that I was here to protect her.”

“You were two years younger than her.”

“It felt like I was older.”

“Because you didn’t do stupid things like skiing out of the boundary.”

He nodded. “What can I say?—I’m a rule follower. It keeps people alive.”

London’s blonde hair had tumbled down around her face, and while she smiled up at him, he realized how very warm it was in the room. He’d fallen asleep on the bed without even thinking. Still, there was no other place to sit, so he sank down on the end of the bed.

“Seriously. Shep. Just—we shared a bathtub.”

“That was different. We were trapped. And wearing snowsuits.”

“I know.” She smiled. “How about you just sit by me?”

“I can do that.” He moved beside her. Put his arm around her. She leaned into him. And somehow, with the movement, the terrible knot that wound him up simply released.

Breathe . They’d made it halfway down the mountain, were both still alive and . . .

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall.

“Is that how you got into rescue?”

He opened one eye. She rested her hand on his chest, turned a little toward him. He pulled the comforter around her.

“What do you mean?”

“Getting airlifted off the mountain?”

“Oh. Maybe. When I went into the Army, I knew I didn’t want to be just infantry, but I wanted to be in the Tenth Mountain Division, so it felt right to be a medic. And then I ended up attached to a Ranger team, so—” He shook his head. “Got in a little over my head there too.”

“That’s why you got out?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to live a life off grid, living one mission to the next, not sure if I’d make it home. I’m not afraid to die, but I wanted more. Something permanent, that grounded me. Someplace I could call home.”

“A family,” she said quietly.

“Yes. Someday, maybe. If God wills.”

“That’s living outside the boundary, isn’t it?”

He frowned, said nothing.

She raised her head. “Faith. Believing in things you can’t see.”

Hmm . “Yes, faith is trusting what you don’t see. But also trusting in someone who is faithful. You might not see what’s ahead, but God does. I’d say that’s living very much inside the boundary. The other way is just . . . chaos.”

She nodded, then put her head down. “Remember that conversation we had in our snow cave?”

“A.k.a. the bathtub of doom? We had a lot of conversations, if I remember right.”

“You told me a story about your cousin Gage. How he’d been blamed for the death of this guy who tried to ski with him.”

“Yeah. Took him out of snowboarding for a while.”

“But you said he told you something before you went into the military.”

“Don’t get shot?”

“No. That God has a reason for everything that happens. And that wherever you go, you can trust that he has a purpose. And maybe that you don’t have to prove that you’re worthy for God to save you. He already has.”

He did remember that.

“That . . . stuck with me. Changed me. Made me realize that maybe . . . maybe I wasn’t in charge of enacting justice.”

He looked down at her. “You thought that?”

“A little.” She took a breath. “When I was eleven years old, we were visiting London when a bomb exploded on our double-decker bus.”

He sat up, pushed her off him. “What?”

She nodded. “It was just my mom, me, and . . . my little sister. She was six at the time.”

Everything shucked out of him. “You had a sister ?”

“Her name was Morgan. She was . . . perfect. Funny. She sang all the time. Curly blonde hair. I was five years older, and I thought . . . She just annoyed me. I’d spent five perfect years as an only child, and here she was, causing trouble. I was such a jerk.”

He said nothing.

“We were stopped at Tavistock Square, and I wanted to go to the roof. I was hot—it was July—and the bus was really crowded. It was just me and my mom and Morgan—we were going to meet my father, who’d done some business for a local firm. The bus stopped and I got up, and my mother told me to sit down, and I had a fit right there, in the aisle. I headed up to the front, and Mom followed me, maybe to grab me—I don’t know. But as soon as we got to the front, the world just—exploded. My mom had hold of me, and we somehow landed on the sidewalk together, but . . . the back of the bus was in flames.” She swallowed. “They say everyone in the back died instantly, but . . . my mom had a real rough go for years after that. She put on a face, but . . .”

“Oh, London, I had no idea.”

“I . . . I guess my impulsive temper tantrum saved my life and my mother’s life, but . . .”

“Your sister died.”

“They kept it quiet. Out of the media. I don’t even think she’s listed as one of the victims. Something about not wanting to make it part of an international issue—but I wanted justice. I watched the news relentlessly, and when they arrested the planners of the attacks, I watched everything. But it was never really . . . put to bed inside me.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “All these years . . . you’ve let me call you London. When . . . I mean, every time I said your name?—”

“It reminded me that I survived. And that my life needed to be about something. You calling me London made my life feel . . . important.”

“Is it why you joined the Black Swans?”

“Maybe. My justice meter ticks pretty high. But also . . . maybe I felt a little like I needed to justify why I survived. I think maybe my mother has the same problem.”

“You’re the daughter who lived. She wants to do right by you—that makes sense, suddenly.”

“Probably. But then I nearly died with you in Zermatt, and I thought . . . maybe I’d screwed up and God was giving me a second—or third—chance. And this time I didn’t have to chase down evil or justify my existence.”

“You don’t.”

She nodded, but something in her eyes tightened his gut. “That’s why I walked away from it all and went to Nigeria. And I thought . . . I thought that was all behind me—I really did. But somehow, seeing Ziggy stand up to these thugs yesterday, and then I had this crazy sense of satisfaction handing them the wrong code . . .” Her jaw tightened. “I want to see the Bratva taken down, Alan Martin brought to justice.”

“Of course.”

“But the evil doesn’t stop there.”

And that statement had him by the throat. “What?”

“Listen.” She put her hand on his chest, leaned up. “I can’t stand by and watch as there are more terror attacks in the streets of London or Paris?—”

“You’re never going to stop bad people from doing bad things?—”

“But I can try!”

He closed his mouth.

“All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men—or women—to do nothing. Someone has to stand against them.”

He blew out a breath. “Yes. I know that quote. I just—” He touched her face. “I just can’t bear the idea of something terrible happening to you .”

She leaned against his hand. “Nothing terrible?—”

He leaned up. “Are you kidding me? I walked into the room, saw the blood on Ziggy—and you—and it nearly blew me apart. Imagine if that was you, London, getting life-flighted to Luciella.” He shook his head. “Please, London. Don’t?—”

“Ski out of the boundaries?”

“Yes! Yes. Because I’ll just have to go after you?—”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will. Because—” He shook his head, looked away, ground his jaw. “Because that’s how I’m built.”

She looked at him then, her eyes wide. She swallowed. “I know.”

A beat passed between them, raw and terrible and real, and then, because the warmth of the chalet had found his bones, because the comforter swaddled her and her golden hair tumbled down, because she looked at him with those blue eyes that seemed to contain more emotion than she could say, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Maybe it started out as desperate, engulfing, but she came to him, willing and sweet, her lips soft.

Yeah, this was why he shouldn’t have scooted up on the bed, because now he pulled her up against him, his arms around her, holding her head in the crook of his elbow and deepening his kiss.

And yes, he was a Boy Scout, but he still let himself relish the taste of her, the sense of time stopping. Her hair turned to silk between his fingers, and she ran her hand around his waist, holding on. Slowly, the panic of the day seeped out of him. They’d lived. She was here, right here with him, safe and whole, and he felt it like never before, that right here, right now, he was home. Or home enough, because he could nearly taste their future—the family, the happy ending.

He finally lifted his head, his body starting to take over, and he leaned away, blew out a breath. “Okay. We’ll finish this. Then . . . then . . . we go home.”

She swallowed. Put her hand on his cheek. Then she pulled down his head and kissed him again.

And only later, after he’d managed to slow them down and bank the fire inside him, after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, did he realize that she hadn’t said yes.

* * *

Go home. Maybe it could be exactly as Shep wanted.

Oh, he was a handsome man, especially in sleep. His dark lashes against his cheeks, his hand clutching her arm, holding on, even in his subconscious, like he might be afraid she’d run away.

She pushed up from the warmth between them—she was still wrapped in the comforter, like a cocoon, still wearing his jacket. He slept fully clothed on top of the bed.

“That’s how I’m built.”

Yes, every inch of him said rescuer. The man was a mountain—in frame, in force—and suddenly the memory of kissing him last night, the way he could make her feel safe, rose inside her.

“Okay. We’ll finish this. Then . . . then . . . we go home.”

Except, maybe Alaska didn’t feel like home anymore.

Then again, nothing felt like home.

Nothing except Shep.

Dawn, with the glory of golds and reds, cascaded into the room, the light pouring in through the tall windows, onto the wooden floor. She guessed this was an Airbnb, because she discovered a welcome sign in Montelenan on the table. No internet, and according to the laminated page, the bathroom was an outhouse just off the porch. But the place also contained a hot tub and sauna, heated with an outside stove.

Snowshoes hung on the front wall, along with a map of the trails in the area.

The cabin contained a tiny kitchen, and she got up, wishing she still had both socks, and after stirring the fire back to life, she went over to the countertop and started to root through the cupboards.

A kettle, and she found a box of tea bags and another of hot cocoa packets.

She opened the front door to get snow. The air hung crisp and still in the morning, a slight wind stirring the snow from the trees. Looking up, she spotted the high exit of the tunnel.

She’d never forget, as long as she lived, the sense of flying down the mountain with Shep. A special kind of adrenaline. Addictive.

Closing the door, she came back inside and set the kettle of snow onto the stove.

Shep was awake. He had sat up, his hair standing nearly on end, sweetly tousled, and he looked over at her, blinking, then ran a hand down his face.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I found some hot cocoa. I think this place is an Airbnb.”

He reached for his boots. “We’ll have to find the owners and settle up.” He laced up his boots. “Moose said he’d pick us up at first light.”

He stood up into the pool of sunlight, a little gold reflecting off his dark hair, his eyes blue and rich in the light.

“Then we go home.”

Yes. Yes, that had to be the right answer. She didn’t have anything to prove.

“I just can’t bear the idea of something terrible happening to you.”

Her either.

The sense of it swept through her, and for a moment, she was back in the chalet in the avalanche, so many years ago, held in his arms, safe.

Loved.

And that was it. Shep was love . The truth swept through her, wrapped around her. Love was patient, love was kind. Love did not keep a record of wrongs. Love showed up, again and again. . . .

“You okay?” He walked over to her, touched her face.

She leaned her hand into his touch. Here. Right here was home. “Yes.”

Probably a good thing that the water on the stove had begun to boil, because really, suddenly, she wanted to sink into his arms. Which would do neither of them any good.

He’d been a gentleman last night, of course, but she’d heard the strain in his voice when he pushed her away, got up, stood outside in the cold for a moment before coming back and taking her—chastely—into his arms.

She’d met the man underneath all that calm exterior. Seen his heart. And the secret of that only stirred a desire inside.

So she walked over to the stove to grab the boiling kettle—using his coat sleeve to protect her hand—and pour water into the mugs.

The cocoa dissolved, piquing the air with the hint of chocolate.

She handed him a mug and blew on her own.

He took a sip. “That’s good.” He set the cup down and reached for his stocking cap. “We need to get you out of that ridiculous dress.”

Her eyes widened.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

She laughed, then put her mug down and stepped up to him, put her arms around his neck. “Shep—you are the most honorable man I’ve ever met.”

His gaze skimmed down her and back. “Not that honorable. Good thing Moose is picking us up this morning.”

Yes, good thing .

And despite her bedraggled appearance, her ripped dress and one bulky wool sock, and the fact that she was grimy and smelly, he looked at her the same way he had when she’d walked down the embassy stairs before the ball.

Like she was beautiful. Rare. Unexpected.

A black swan.

She simply couldn’t stop herself from rising up on her toes and kissing him. Chaste, sweet, terribly aware of how much she wanted to belong to him.

And to be all he needed too.

He touched her arms, held her there, then lifted his head, his eyes in hers.

I love you, Shep. She should have said it long ago. The words rose through her, took hold. She loved him for his faithfulness, for the fact that he never gave up, for being the one person who would come after her, always.

She opened her mouth to say it, but outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Moose,” he said. “Let’s get off this mountain and go home.”

“Yes,” she said, because he was right. “Finish this. Go home.”

She picked up her mug and finished her chocolate, then poured in the rest of the hot water and scrubbed out her cup. Rinsed it and did the same with his.

The roar had turned louder outside, then stopped.

Shep had folded up the blanket and doused the fire.

“They might have put down somewhere nearby,” Shep said. And then he walked over and swept her up into his arms.

“Oh.”

“I’ll take it from here.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “Okay.”

Footsteps on the deck outside, and he went to the door and opened it.

Stilled.

She, too, froze.

“Cozy?” said Tomas. He wore a stocking cap and a snow jacket and held a gun. “Let’s try that again.”

And with his arms full, Shep couldn’t do anything.

But she could.

She used Shep’s body as leverage and kicked out at Tomas. Her foot hit him in the face, but it totally dislodged her from Shep’s arms. Tumbling free, she fell, hit the deck.

Bounced up to scramble away. Get the gun, get the gun ? —

A shot cracked the air. She looked back to see Shep staggering back?—

“No!” She launched herself at Tomas, but the snow, up to her knees, slowed her down.

“Listen. All you have to do is return what you took. Easy.”

As Shep hit the door frame, Tomas turned the gun on her. “I see you, big man. You take one step and she’s dead.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shep right himself, the mountain he was.

“You’re a terrorist, Tomas,” she said. “Of course I’m not handing over the money!”

His mouth opened. Closed. “I’m a businessman.”

Then he turned to Shep, and just like that, pulled the trigger.

She screamed.

Shep fell back, hands to his body, blood saturating his abdomen.

She ran to him, but Tomas grabbed her arm, yanked her back, shoving her out into the snow. Stupid slippery sock ?—

Shep.

Though he’d sagged against the cabin, he was still on his feet, and even as she watched, the man took two steps and launched himself at Tomas.

Big man, big tackle, and Tomas went down.

“London! Run!” Shep growled.

They rolled, and Tomas hit him in the gut with his elbow. A shout of pain, but Shep put an arm around Tomas’s neck. Held on.

Tomas slammed his fist into Shep’s head, then added the gun. Blood spurted from his wound, but still Shep held on. “Run!”

But the blood loss seemed to be loosening Shep’s grip.

And, sorry —she hadn’t trained for years under Ziggy to run away. Laney Steele didn’t run.

Tomas scooted out of his hold, danced up, and pointed his gun at Shep. “You’re in the way?—”

London jumped him. Despite being clad in her flimsy dress, in a soggy sock. She brought him down into the snow, her legs around his neck, then slammed her fist into his ear.

He roared, punched her in the ribs, and her breath shucked out. He wrestled free, rounded, and she barely blocked a right hook. She shoved her full palm into his jaw, snapping his head back. Brought her fist around for a punch in his side.

He stumbled back but grabbed her wrist, yanked her in.

And shoved his gun under her chin.

She slapped away his wrist with her left hand.

The gun went off, right beside her ear, hot on her face, the bullet missing her. But the sound had her ears ringing, the percussion jerking her away, spinning her head. She stumbled back.

And he pounced on her. Took her down, her face to the ground, gun to the base of her skull, her arm back—submission hold.

“Stop!”

She spotted Shep on his feet, his hands up. Blood saturated his shirt.

His voice, however, cut down to something calm and easy despite the finest edge of pain. “Don’t shoot, Tomas. Don’t shoot.”

“I just want the code.”

And then, Shep nodded.

Wait—

What—no ? —

“It’s on her necklace. The pendant. Written in Chinese.”

“No!”

Tomas reached into her jacket, found the gold chain. Then he traced it around to the pendant. And snapped it from her neck.

“Clever.”

Then she guessed he pocketed it because she heard a zip.

“You’ve got what you wanted—let her go.”

Tomas looked at him, and she could guess Tomas’s expression because Shep took a breath. “C’mon, Tomas?—”

“Too many loose ends,” Tomas said.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Shep shouted.

Tomas hesitated.

And right then, a chopper flew over the trees, kicking up snow and ice, a whirlwind of chaos. Tomas jerked his arm up to protect himself?—

She rolled, grabbed at the gun, and slammed her fist into Tomas’s throat.

He fell away, and while she fought for footing, he scrambled up and away, toward the trees.

She turned to chase him, but Shep—he’d gone down on one knee.

And above them, the chopper circled again.

In the trees on the other side, a snowmobile fired up. She put a hand to her empty neck, then ran to Shep. He’d put one hand down, blood running down his head, into his collar, the snow reddening, melting.

She caught him. “Okay, just sit back. It’ll be okay.”

Beyond the trees, the snowmobile cut away, the noise drowned by the hovering chopper.

So much blood. The head wound wasn’t deep, just a tear of flesh, but she couldn’t find the gunshot in his abdomen. He held his hands over a wound to his side, his mouth tight, barely letting out a groan.

But she saw it in his eyes. “Hang on, Shep.”

And then Axel was there on a line from the chopper, with a basket. He landed in the snow, ran over. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad,” Shep ground out.

“It’s bad,” London said.

Her stomach threatened to give it up, but she focused on helping Shep into the basket.

On trying to forget his words— It’s on her necklace.

And mostly, on the betrayal that burned a line straight through her.

After they’d tucked Shep into the chopper, Axel came down again for her and she climbed into the basket.

“Nice outfit.”

“Get me off this mountain.”

“Nice to see you too.”

She looked away, numb, as Axel belted her in and as she watched Boo tend to Shep’s abdominal wound. Blood sopped his shirt. The first bullet had nicked his head, just a flesh wound. She guessed that the second was embedded inside, given the way he grimaced, but even that seemed not critical, the way Boo had put a bandage over it and pressed his hand against it to hold it.

He leaned his head back, his face taut, and looked at her.

She stared out the window, unable to look at him, tracing the plume of the snowmobile as they lifted into the sky.