“I wonder how far he has to go to get home,” Ellie said. “It’s so cold.”
“Bear knows more about surviving in the mountains than the rest of us combined.” In the two and a half years that Jesse had lived in Scarlet, he’d never known Bear to ask for anything more than spare change or a warm meal.
Jesse accelerated, felt the Jeep’s rear tires slip just a little, and shifted into four-wheel drive. The snow was coming down hard now, fat flakes clinging to his windshield wipers. “How about you? Where are you from?”
“I grew up here. I moved to Kentucky to be with my husband. He grew up in Scarlet, too, but was stationed at Fort Campbell. I moved back after … He was killed while serving in Iraq. I was four months pregnant.”
Jesse tried to ignore the way her words pierced that dark place inside him. “I’m sorry. It must be hard to raise twins by yourself.”
“Especially on nights like tonight.” She turned her face away from him, looked out the window. “My parents have been a big help. My mom watches the twins when I work. My dad is a pediatrician, so I get free doctor’s visits and house calls. People in Scarlet set up a scholarship fund for the kids for college. My neighbors have been great, too. They shovel my walk, move my trash can, help with yard work. I don’t even have to ask. They just do it.”
He suppressed a smile. “That’s good. When someone lays down his life for his country, people ought to do more for his family than just offer condolences.”
He glanced over at her, found her looking at him.
“Yes—and thanks.”
They made the rest of the short drive without talking, Daniel’s whimpers and the squeak of the wiper blades breaking the silence.
Jesse pulled into her driveway and parked. “You take care of the kids. I’ll get the groceries.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He climbed out into the wind and made his way to the back of his vehicle, icy flakes biting his cheeks. He retrieved her groceries and started toward the house, only to find her sitting, half in and half out of the vehicle, clinging to the door.
“I’m just … dizzy.”
It was time to get tactical.
Arms full of groceries, he walked over to her. “Do you have your house keys? I’ll carry the groceries in, then come back for you and the kids. You shouldn’t be carrying them if you’re dizzy.”
She fumbled in her pocket, pulled out the keys and handed them to him.
Jesse trudged through the snow to the front door, stomped the snow off his boots, then unlocked the door and stepped inside, flicking a light switch. He carried the groceries to the kitchen, then strode back outside to his vehicle.
She was right where he’d left her.
“Can you make it inside on your own?” He didn’t want to leave such small children alone in his vehicle or the house.
She nodded. “I think so.”
He steadied her while she got to her feet, then watched as she walked inside. When she was safely through the door, he opened the passenger side door to discover that the twins had unbuckled themselves. “Hey, Daniel and Daisy. I’m Jesse. I’m going to carry you inside.”
Jesus, Moretti. That’s the best you can do?
Really, it was.
He reached for them, half expecting them to back away from him in horror. Instead, they came easily into his arms, Daniel with his blanket, Daisy with her thumb in her mouth, their trust strangely touching. He lifted them out of the Jeep, kicked the door shut, and carried them inside to where their mother stood, still in her parka, waiting, her pretty face white as a sheet.
He set the children down at her feet. Daisy toddled off in tiny snow boots, while Daniel leaned against his mother’s leg, blue blanket clutched in a little fist.
“You should sit down and…” His gaze met Ellie’s, and his brain went blank for a moment, his breath catching.
Green.
Her eyes were green.
She shook her head. “I need to put this stuff away and make dinner.”
Trying to act like the earth hadn’t just shifted beneath his feet, Jesse stepped back and looked around him. Her home was warm and cozy, toys scattered across a braided area rug in front of the sofa, wood stacked next to a fireplace with a wood stove insert. On the mantel sat a display case holding a folded American flag—the flag from her husband’s funeral—along with several service medals and …
Adrenaline hit his bloodstream.
A USASOAC patch.
Son of a bitch.
Her husband had been a pilot with the 160th SOAR—the Special Operations Aviation Regiment.
Well, shit.
“I’ll go get the car seats.” He walked back outside, fighting an impulse to run, torn between getting the hell out of here and wanting to do more to help her.
What the hell is wrong with you?
He clamped down on his emotions and retrieved the car seats from his vehicle. Back inside, he found her on her knees, wrestling the kids out of snow boots, mittens, hats, and coats.
He set the car seats down on the polished wood floor. “I’d be happy to look at the car tomorrow when I get off work. I’m good with engines.”
She got unsteadily to her feet. “That’s kind of you, but I’ll just have it towed to the garage.”
He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out a business card. “Here’s my phone number. I’m only a minute away if you need anything.”
She accepted the card, a blond eyebrow arching, a smile tugging at her lips. “Boat repairs? Do you get much business in Scarlet?”
He understood her amusement. Colorado was a landlocked and arid state with few bodies of water big enough to accommodate boating. “I grew up on the Gulf Coast and love the water. I’ve got a speedboat that I take out on the reservoir every summer. I’ll have to take you all out sometime.”
What had he just said?
She smiled. “Thanks again, Jesse.”
He gave her a nod. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“I just hope we don’t repay you by getting you sick. Be sure to wash your hands.”
“Don’t worry about me. Like I said, I don’t get sick.”
“These are pediatric germs—kid germs, the worst.”
“Get some rest and feel better soon.” He stepped out into the wind and walked through falling flakes back to the car, grateful for the cold.
Jesus.
Ellie was a SOAR widow.
Now that he thought about it, Jesse was pretty sure he’d known her husband.
Chapter 2
Ellie woke to the sound of Daniel crying and glanced at her clock. It was just before five in the morning—past time for their next dose of acetaminophen. Struggling against dizziness, she got out of bed and pulled on her bathrobe. “I’ll be right there, sweetie. Hang on.”
She walked to the kitchen, where she swallowed two Tylenol and poured apple juice into a sippy cup for Daniel. When that was ready, she measured out a dose of acetaminophen into a medicine spoon and carried it, together with the juice, to his room. She found him sitting up in bed, his beloved blankie clutched to his cheek. She sat down beside him and pressed her wrist to his forehead.
He was hot—at least a hundred and two, she guessed.
She really ought to take his temperature, but the thermometer was back in the kitchen, and she was too damned tired. “I know you feel icky, sweetheart. It’s time for more medicine.”
He opened his little mouth and took the medicine without a fight, then buried his head against her chest.
“I brought you some apple juice.” She wanted to keep him hydrated and knew from experience that apple juice was her best bet at getting him to drink. “Can you take a few sips for me? I know it hurts to swallow, but your body needs lots of good juice to fight the bad germs.”
He took a swallow, then another, then turned his head away.
“Good job.” She set the juice on his bedside table, wrapped him in his blanket, and held him, stroking h
is back, her cheek resting against his dark, downy hair. “I’m so sorry you’re sick. You’ll start feeling better soon. I promise.”
“Soon” was a relative term. To an almost-three-year-old, Ellie supposed the word meant “right away.” In reality, they’d gotten their first doses of antibiotics about ten hours ago, so they had about fourteen hours to go before the medicine kicked in.
Exhausted and certain that Daniel wouldn’t want her to go, she made him an offer. “Do you want to sleep with mommy?”
He nodded.
She scooped her son up and carried him down the hallway toward her room. She had just tucked him into her bed when she noticed a scraping sound coming from outside. She peeked out her window to see a man shoveling what had to be more than two feet of snow from her sidewalk. She didn’t have to see his face to know who it was.
Jesse Moretti.
She recognized his parka, his big build, and the Jeep idling at the curb.
He’d done so much to help her. She needed to make sure she thanked him properly with a card or a phone call or something.
She had turned back toward her bed when the thought struck her. Maybe he was the person responsible for shoveling her walk these past two years. When had he moved into the neighborhood?
No. It couldn’t have been him alone. Could it?
She slipped out of her bathrobe, crawled back into bed, and wrapped an arm around Daniel, fatigue and illness quickly dragging her under.
Jesse stowed the snow shovel in the back of his Jeep then climbed into the driver’s seat, glancing at Ellie’s dark windows as he headed up the highway toward work. He hoped she and her little guy were feeling better.
Jesus.
What a small fucking world it was. Jesse had come to Colorado to get Iraq and Afghanistan out of his mind, and he’d ended up buying a cabin behind Crash’s widow. What were the odds?
Dan Meeks. Crashhawk, or Crash for short.
Jesse was so used to thinking of Dan by his nickname that it hadn’t clicked for him until he’d seen the SOAR patch and had thought for a moment about Ellie’s last name. Crash had been one of the best damned Black Hawk pilots Jesse had ever known. There’d been a good half dozen times when he and his crew had appeared from the sky like avenging angels, raining hellfire down on the enemy and getting Jesse and his element to safety.
Jesse parked in the staff parking lot of Scarlet Mountain Resort and trudged uphill through the dark in almost three feet of fresh powder to the chalet-style building that served both as Ski Patrol HQ and the First Aid Center. Plow crews were busy clearing snow from the sidewalks around the lodge and the massive guest parking lots, sunrise still a good hour and a half away.
Jesse stomped the snow from his boots and stepped through the door. “Mornin’.”
“Hey, Moretti.” Matt Mayes, ski patrol supervisor, sat at the dispatch desk, his avalanche rescue dog Boomer dozing near his feet. A former champion alpine skier, Matt still ripped up the slopes at age fifty-nine. “Coffee’s fresh if you want some.”
Jesse walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup, calling to Matt over his shoulder. “What’s the forecast?”
“At the moment, it’s minus ten on top with a wind chill of minus twenty-five. They’re calling for clearing skies with a high of about thirty.”
That would mean busy slopes. There was nothing like blue skies after a big snowfall to drive the state’s hardcore powder hounds into the mountains. It didn’t matter how cold it was. Of course, the weather in the Rockies could change without warning. That’s why the dispatch desk watched the forecast throughout the day.
Jesse took a sip of his coffee. It was thick and black and bitter—exactly the way he liked it. If this shit didn’t wake you up, you were probably dead. “Hey, do you know anyone who rides horses?”
Matt looked confused. “You want to go riding?”
Jesse shook his head. “SnowFest is coming up in a month or so, and I want to sign up for the skijoring race.”
Forget paragliding, BASE jumping, and slacklining. Skijoring was the most insane sport Jesse had seen in his time in Colorado. Skiers made their way down a snowy street in the middle of town, skiing over big ramps and collecting rings along the way—all while being towed behind a galloping horse.
Yeah. You couldn’t make this shit up.
Most people would have told Jesse he was insane, but Matt just nodded. “I have a few ideas. I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”
Other patrollers began to arrive—Travis, Ben, Christa, Kevin, Amanda, Doug, Steve. They shuffled in, poured themselves coffee, and gathered at the dispatch desk.
Matt glanced down at his clipboard, where he’d written the day’s schedule in chicken scratch, assigning each patroller to one or more trails. “We got almost thirty-six inches of new snowfall. We’ve had the snowcats running on the greens and blues. Christa and Travis, I’d like the two of you to hit Little Bear Mountain and mark any hazards.”
“Little Bear again?” Travis muttered.
Little Bear was home to most of the greens and blues—beginner and intermediate trails. Travis had a thing for the expert-only stuff, the black diamond and double-black diamond runs.
Matt ignored Travis. “Doug, you’ve got the blues on Bella Vista. Amanda, work with the grooming crew on the terrain park.”
The freestyle terrain park was the newest addition to the resort and featured jumps, rails, and a 20-foot-long half-pipe. It was a hit with snowboarders.
“Jesse, Ben, and Kevin, head up to Eagle Ridge, throw some bombs, and check out the double-blacks and the glades. We’ve got dry powder on top of hardpack, so the risk of avalanche is sky high. Roger is already up on the mountain, making sure all the patrol huts are shoveled and toasty warm for you. We’ve got miles of terrain to open and not a lot of time. Let’s get to it.”
Matt had trusted Jesse with explosives from the moment he’d joined ski patrol because of his military experience. Jesse had to admit that he much preferred blowing up snow to blowing up people.
Kevin walked over to him. “Get geared up and pack the fuses and charges. Try to steal a thermos of coffee if there’s any left. I’m going to get the sled.”
Ben stepped out of the kitchen, his gaze met Jesse’s. “What a dick. He always drives, and we always ride.”
“It’s called seniority.” Jesse couldn’t help but grin. “But, hey, we get to blow shit up and ski glades on a fresh powder day. I’m not complaining.”
Skiing through glades—stands of trees—was one of the most dangerous things a skier could do and Jesse’s new favorite winter pastime.
Ben acknowledged the truth of what Jesse had said with a nod and a greedy grin. “The stoke meter is on high today.”
Jesse grabbed a radio and hand mic out of the charger, then went to the locker room for his gear. He traded his blue parka for his red ski patrol parka with its yellow cross, then grabbed his skis, boots, and his helmet. Five minutes later, he and Ben were skiing to the locked facility where they kept the explosives. Kevin was already there, sitting pretty on the blue Sherpa, his skis in the rack. The snowmobile had been custom-built so that it could carry a team of four patrollers, together with gear, skis, and a patient on a litter.
“Did you bring coffee?” Kevin called out.
“There wasn’t any left,” Ben shouted.
“Fuck!”
Jesse stepped out of his skis and propped them against the building, then swiped his ID, opened the door, and flipped on the light. It took him and Ben all of five minutes to gather what they needed—a dozen charges, and double that number of fuses and pull-tab igniters. They packed the igniters and fuses separately from the charges and piled all of it onto the back of the Sherpa. Then they stowed their poles and skis in the rack and climbed aboard the snowmobile.
Jesse called up to Kevin. “We’re good to go.”
The Sherpa’s engine roared as they headed up the mountain.
Jes
se watched while Kevin studied the terrain. The man was an expert at knowing when to call a slope safe. It was one of the most important jobs at the resort. If he fucked up, people could die.
Jesse was learning to read the landscape, but it would take years before he’d have anything approaching Kevin’s skill. Still, some things were obvious even to him. That big cornice hanging from the cliff at the top of the ridge would have to be blasted into oblivion. That would dump more snow onto the slope below, which would have to be bombed, too.
Yeah, they had their work cut out for them.
Kevin pointed. “Let’s take down that cornice. Two charges—one high, one low.”
The goal was to trigger a series of small avalanches so that the shifting layers of snow would be settled before skiers hit the slopes.
Jesse prepared the charges. Not much bigger than cans of soup, each held two pounds of pentolite—a chalky mix of trinitrotoluene, aka TNT, and pentaerythritol tetranitrate, or PETN. A single charge could easily blow the three of them to shit if mishandled.
Ben bent down to watch. “Did you work with pentolite as a Ranger?”
Jesse chuckled at the idea of Rangers throwing soup cans. “Uncle Sam had more powerful shit for us to play with.” He inserted the fuses, then attached the igniters. He held out one charge for Ben, kept the other for himself. “You ready?”
Ben nodded. “Let’s do this.”
They got into position, then synced their movements, igniting the fuses at the same time. They had 90 seconds to throw and take cover before the charges exploded.
Kevin watched from behind. “Jesse, you throw high. Ben, go low.”
“Got it. On three,” Jesse said. “One, two, three.”
He threw his charge, aiming for the top of the cornice. “Fire in the hole!”
They skied away, taking cover behind a large boulder, the seconds ticking by.
BAM!
A cloud of snow fell around them, bits of rock striking the boulder.
They skied out from behind their cover to find the cornice gone, its weight of snow scattered on the slope below them.
Kevin opened his mouth to say something but was cut off.