5

MAYBE HE’D LOST HIS MIND, but if Ian wanted to start over, he had to burn a few bridges.

Or, in this case, twelve file-sized boxes of research, leads, and details related to the case of missing teenager Esme Shaw. And fifteen more boxes in the truck that contained every lead, every mention, every transcript of the responses to the America’s Missing episode on the Jane Doe body the PEAK team had found last year.

She’d turned out to be an exchange student from Spain and weirdly, a friend of Gage’s girlfriend, Ella Blair.

Ella had recently moved to Mercy Falls to work for the local county prosecutor’s office. And, in her spare time, help Ty track down the remaining box of leads. But Ian couldn’t look at these one more minute.

He had to admit that, most likely, the dead girl probably had nothing to do with Esme’s disappearance so many years ago. It had been a thin lead anyway.

“Are you sure?”

This from Sam, who had stopped by to work out and instead found Ian in the backyard with his truck pulled up to the fire pit.

“I’m done,” Ian said, leaning on the tailgate. “If Esme doesn’t want to come home, I can’t make her. And every time I walk into my library, I see this . . . this pile of failure. It’s my fault she ran away, and probably my fault she won’t come home. And it’s like a cancer, eating at me.” He got up, walked over to the boxes piled next to his backyard fire pit. He pulled out a book of matches with the Gray Pony logo on the front and ripped off one of the flimsy matches.

“Let me at least drag out a hose!” Sam said. “Sheesh, the entire ranch could go up. Hello, have you not taken a good look around you?” Sam indicated the still-smoky layer of fog and debris that clouded the eastern mountains. “I have a better idea—let’s drag these down to my office. We’ll put them in storage. Let Sheriff Blackburn handle them. It’s still a cold case, and who knows, a lead might turn up.”

Ian stood with his thumb on the match head.

“After we drop them off, we’ll go to the gym, see if we can’t work out whatever is eating at you.”

Oh, that whatever had a name.

Had been haunting him for two days since Sierra had basically told him she didn’t need him.

“You don’t have to go with us.”

Right.

Of course not. And he had no desire to make a fool of himself. He still couldn’t figure out why he’d purchased a boat when he hated the ocean and generally turned nauseated at the thought of spending a day, let alone a vacation, at sea.

Pride, maybe. Another toy to add to his list of acquisitions.

No—the determination to conquer another stronghold in his life. To put the past behind him.

Sam seemed to assume the answer because he walked over to one of the boxes stacked beside the fire pit and picked it up. Hauled it to the nearby truck.

Fine.

Ian pocketed the matchbook and helped him load the rest of the research into the truck.

Sam slid in beside him, silent as they drove into town, to the Mercy Falls sheriff’s office.

“It’s not a pile of failure,” Sam said quietly.

Ian looked at him. “I didn’t find her.”

“It’s evidence of your dedication—”

“And fruitlessness.”

“Ian.”

Ian’s fists tightened on the steering wheel.

“Maybe you should go on that trip with Sierra.”

Ian glanced at him. “What? No. She clearly doesn’t want me along.”

“That’s not what she said. She said you didn’t have to go, that she could handle it. But . . .” Sam sighed, turned. “Listen, it’s no secret between us that you are still holding a torch for her. Ask her out—”

“Ask Sierra out?”

“No, the Easter Bunny. Yes, Sierra Rose. The girl you named the stupid boat after.”

Ian’s mouth tightened.

“Really? Did you think no one would notice?”

“I bought it when . . . well, right before she left me.”

“She didn’t leave you. You fired her. For keeping a secret from you.”

His mouth tightened to a grim line. Not one of his brightest moves. “I apologized.”

“You did, and you two were friends. So what happened?”

“You started dating her.” Ian glanced at Sam, raised an eyebrow.

“I asked. You were fine with it.”

Ian’s jaw tightened.

“Listen, you weren’t exactly showing up on her doorstep trying to woo her back.”

“She doesn’t want me!” He didn’t mean for his voice to explode, but . . . “We kissed. A couple times—first, when, well, right after Esme went missing. And we agreed that as long as we worked together, we needed to draw a line. Then—well, then I fired her, and that line wasn’t there anymore. She still helped me with the search, and we’d figured out that Esme was most likely alive, and suddenly, amazingly, she was in my arms . . .” He drew in a breath, that memory too easily wrapping around him, taking his breath away.

Because if he could, he’d rewind time back to that moment when the world stopped, when Sierra kissed him like she needed him, too.

“And then I told her that I’d never give up the search for Esme, and she . . . she walked away.”

Sam frowned.

“Said that Esme didn’t want to be found, and I needed to let it go.”

“Pretty much Esme’s exact words, I think, when she called you,” Sam said.

The words, softly spoken, slid in between the bones of his chest, knife-sharp.

“Yeah, well, I’m not built like that. I don’t give up.”

“You’ve given up on Sierra.”

“Have you not been listening? She doesn’t want me.”

Ian turned off the highway, into Mercy Falls.

“Why do you think we broke up?” Sam said as Ian stopped at a light.

“Because you kissed her sister.” Ian looked at him, smiled.

“Okay. Yes. But Sierra was never into me, and I knew it. I just didn’t want to believe it. I mean, c’mon, I’m a catch.”

Ian shook his head, rolled his eyes.

Sam turned serious. “She never looked at me the way she looks at you, dude. And why not? You’re Ian Shaw. Billionaire, risk-taker, founder of PEAK, and frankly, you take up most of the space in the room.”

Ian pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office, a nondescript, one-story brick building with a jail in the back addition. Across the parking lot, the EMS department with their two fire trucks and an ambulance had their three doors up. Five firefighters in turnout pants lounged on the cement outside the building.

“Volunteers fresh back from the fire in Glacier. They’ve been on for thirty-six hours straight,” Sam said. “Probably waiting for a ride to their motel.”

Sam got out of the truck and disappeared inside the building.

Ian stood on the sidewalk, looking at the firefighters exhausted from fighting a losing battle.

A couple of deputies came out of the front doors. “You want all of these unloaded, Mr. Shaw?” one of them asked.

Ian nodded to the deputy as he unhinged his tailgate.

They each grabbed a stack of boxes and headed inside.

“What is this, Christmas?”

Ian looked over to see Sheriff Randy Blackburn holding open the door for the deputies.

In his early forties, he’d been serving the community for nearly a decade. Pensive dark eyes, a full head of dark hair, driven, and with the confidence of his community behind him, Blackburn had helmed the search for Esme in the early days, before funding had made him step back. But he now gave Ian a tight smile. “We’ll put the files in the cold case area, that way if Ella comes up with anything, she can access them.” He shook Ian’s hand. “I hear you’re thinking of moving.”

“News travels fast.”

“Overheard it at the Summit this morning from Brian McCullough.”

Ian’s Realtor. He hadn’t even officially listed the ranch yet, but maybe putting feelers out, letting the news simmer in the valley, wouldn’t be a terrible thing.

“It’s time,” Ian said.

Randy nodded, his mouth a grim line. “We’ll miss you around here.”

Sam climbed back into the truck as the deputies carried the last of the boxes inside.

Ian slid into the driver’s seat.

“We still on to spar?” Sam said.

Ian glanced in the rearview mirror, to the empty truck bed, feeling strangely raw. “I’d love to beat the stuffin’ out of you.” Ian put the truck in gear.

His phone rang as he pulled out, and he glanced at the name, then answered it on his console. “Hayes, what’s going on?”

“Your girl Sierra just called me and invited me, this weekend, to a soirée on your yacht. What’s up, dude? You finally taking the dinghy out?”

Ian glanced at Sam. “No—I mean, yeah, I’m letting Sierra use it for her fund-raising junket. But I know you’re busy—probably have a game, right?”

“Happens that this is a bye week. I have the entire weekend off, and then some. Did you not see last Sunday’s game? I have an upper ankle sprain.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Naw, it’s good timing. Could use a few days off.” His voice changed. “Just clearing the air here, but she said she doesn’t work for you anymore. That right?”

Ian took a breath.

“No, she doesn’t,” Sam said.

Ian looked at him, and Sam shrugged.

A pause then. “Okay, then. Nice. Sorry to miss you. I’ll keep an eye on her for you.”

Ian’s jaw tightened. The thought of professional football player Hayes Buoye keeping an eye on Sierra . . . “Hayes, it’s a professional trip. Try and keep that in mind.”

“Oh, I will. I promise. All professional. For charity and all.” He hung up.

Sam looked at Ian and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s fine. Sierra’s met him before. Hayes is a nice guy, I promise. He’s . . .”

“This is Hayes Buoye, with the Texas Thunder? Plays D-end? Led the league in sacks last year?”

Ian swallowed. Nodded.

“Nice. I’m suddenly thinking of taking a trip south.”

“Under all that football arrogance, Hayes is a gentleman. Really. I went to college with him, and—”

The phone buzzed again, and this time Dex Crawford’s name popped up on the screen. Sheesh. “Dex, what’s up?”

“I just got off the phone with Sierra. She invited me on a three-day tour in the Caribbean on the Montana Rose. Told me it was a fund-raising trip. Seriously—this is how you’re going to get me to buy the boat?”

“It is a fund-raising trip.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Dex—we need funds for PEAK. She’s going to hit you up for a donation, and you’d better have your checkbook ready and include a few zeros behind your comma. And yeah, buy the boat while you’re at it.”

“We’ll talk about it while we’re sipping Mai Tais.”

“I’m not going.”

Silence.

“Seriously, Ian. Three days on the ocean. The weather is going to be beautiful this weekend. You’ll be fine.”

And this was where he wanted to take Dex off speakerphone. He didn’t look at Sam.

“I know. It’s just . . . I’m busy.”

He winced, one eye closed.

More silence then. “Okay, no problem. I guess it’ll just be me and Sierra, sailing the high seas. You did mention she doesn’t work for you anymore, right?”

Sam looked over at him, his eyes wide.

“No, but—”

“Awesome. See you, dude.”

Dex hung up.

Sam just stared at him.

Ian stopped at the light.

“You’re going on this junket, Ian,” Sam said quietly.

Ian sighed. “I’m going on this junket.”

She just had to escape Ian Shaw before she started crying.

Because it wasn’t a joke.

Ian Shaw was really moving.

Out of her life.

Away.

Gone.

Sierra stared at the newspaper available for sale at the snack stand at the regional airport, her throat thickening.

Seriously, the sale of his ranch made the front page? What, was it a slow news day?

“Anything else, ma’am?” This from the clerk as she rounded up Sierra’s order of a breakfast sandwich, a banana, and coffee.

Yeah. Someone could shake Sierra hard out of this suddenly real nightmare.

She took in a breath and picked up the paper. “I’ll add this to my order.”

No time like the present to wake up to the brutal reminder that Ian never said anything he didn’t mean. Or put action to.

“I should just leave.”

She blinked against a swift heat in her eyes, paid for the breakfast, and tucked the paper into her satchel.

She didn’t really have to read the article to know what it would say. Something about billionaire Ian Shaw selling his palatial residence, maybe a history of how he’d moved here nearly seven years ago, how he’d made his wealth in oil technology, how he owned a number of global businesses. It might even mention the fire in eastern Montana this summer and how the government fined him into liquid bankruptcy.

But for sure, the article would detail his missing niece, how Ian had started PEAK after she vanished in the park.

And probably how, after four fruitless years of searching, he’d decided to move away, the grief too great for him.

She picked up her phone and scrolled down her messages, just in case.

Still nothing from Shae/Esme.

Sierra sat in a chair at the gate and opened her bag. Inside, her breakfast sandwich sat in a soggy, microwaved wrapper. She dug it out, opened it.

The smell made her wrap it back up, her stomach turning.

She got up, dropped it in the garbage, and retrieved the banana.

“Boarding Sky Priority.” The flight attendant at the gate desk set down the mic, and Sierra checked her ticket. Zone one.

The last time she’d been on a plane, it was aboard Ian’s jet as they’d traveled back from New York City after his near-fatal allergic episode.

When she’d confessed that she was in love with him.

No, she’d confessed that at the hospital. On the plane, she’d confessed that Esme had told her that she planned on eloping with her boyfriend, Dante, and swore her to secrecy. A secret that she’d kept from Ian the entire time he’d searched for Esme.

Whether he’d heard Sierra confess her love, it didn’t matter then.

To be honest, she didn’t blame him for firing her. Or wanting her out of his life.

“Are you Priority?” a man said behind her, and she shook her head.

Nope, never priority.

He moved past her.

And sure, she and Ian had kissed—but that had been a sudden rush of emotion just as consuming as the first kiss, which had been fueled by the alcohol he’d consumed.

Loving him was some kind of addiction she needed to escape.

She dropped the newspaper into the garbage.

The line ebbed, and the flight attendant called her zone.

She would escape him, starting with this trip. Just because she happened to be on his yacht didn’t mean she had to think of him every minute.

Long for him to be sitting on the deck with her, watching the sun sink into the ocean.

Wish that she could turn back time, tell him the truth . . .

Oh boy.

She glanced at her phone as she handed her ticket to the flight attendant.

She should call him, tell him about Esme, but it felt like an in-person conversation. Maybe the phone was easier. At least then she could hold it away from her ear. Fact was, she had actually driven to his house earlier this week to reveal Esme’s whereabouts, but no one answered the doorbell.

He might be avoiding her—the fact that he hadn’t shown up once at PEAK surely suggested he’d planned on remaining scarce until she left town.

Clearly her words—I don’t need you—had sunk in.

Oh, but . . .

She sighed as she shuffled onto the tiny plane and found her seat. She’d change planes in Salt Lake City and arrive in Houston sometime late this afternoon. From there, she planned on renting a car to Galveston.

Sierra tucked her bag under the seat and stared out the window.

The sun was just rising over the far eastern rim of mountains. The firefighters must have some of the fire contained because the sky appeared less ominous today, the smoke wispy and feeble.

A middle-aged woman flopped down in the seat next to her, wearing an oversized University of Minnesota sweatshirt, leggings, and flip-flops. “Hey,” she said, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. “Too early for a flight.”

Sierra nodded. She still couldn’t believe she’d planned an entire three-day, high-end excursion in a week’s time. Thankfully, Chet let her raid their tiny fund-raising nest egg, and Ian called the captain, authorizing her to use the crew. She’d emailed the menu to the chef, talked with the captain about the itinerary, and put together an activities list.

Jet-skiing, snorkeling, dinner on the deck at sunset, plenty of time for her to tell Dex, Hayes, and Vanessa stories of PEAK’s exploits. She still couldn’t believe the three had agreed to join her on the junket—especially Vanessa, who sounded enthusiastic, even after Sierra stressed that Ian wasn’t attending. But Vanessa was a part of Ian’s college group, knew Dex and Hayes from their Stanford days.

Maybe she wanted to catch up with her friends.

Frankly, she didn’t even sound that surprised to receive Sierra’s call.

The woman next to her was on the phone. “I just wanted to call to say good-bye again.” Her voice shook, and Sierra saw her run her fingers under her eye.

The woman hung up. “Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s my mother. She’s all alone, and I hate leaving her, you know?”

Yeah, she knew. Sierra thumbed her phone. Pulled up Ian’s contact almost on reflex.

She’d loaded in a picture of him, from years back, before Esme moved in with him.

Ian wore a black T-shirt, his biceps stretching out the sleeves, a chestnut two-day beard on his chin, and a crooked smile.

“C’mon, Sierra. It’s Friday. Stay for a burger. I have this gorgeous view of the sunset. Don’t make me spend it alone.”

It started with him standing in the kitchen, screwing off the top of a bottle of water. He’d been barefoot, she remembered that. He worked the ranch sometimes back then, but he’d changed and showered, smelled clean and wild and masculine.

She’d worn a sundress she’d picked up at a thrift store, a jean jacket, and her hair tied back in a bandanna, and still felt underdressed because of the way he could make a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt look expensive and high class.

The prince asking Cinderella to dine with him.

She’d stammered out something incoherent about needing to get home, and he’d come up to her, hooked his hand around her satchel, and pulled it off her shoulder.

“Watch the sunset with me. It was your idea, after all, to enjoy the view.”

Oh, she was certainly enjoying the view.

Somehow, she’d ended up on the deck, watching him grill burgers, pretty sure that she shouldn’t be mixing this kind of pleasure with work. And knowing that if she kept it up, she’d be in way over her head.

She’d pulled out her phone to text Willow that she’d be late, and Ian came over. “Hey, let’s get a picture.”

She frowned at him, but he motioned her over, took her phone from her grip, held it up.

Then he’d put his arm around her and held up the phone to snap a selfie.

And there she was, cradled against his body, his rugged, elegant smell rushing over her, the feel of his muscled arm against her back.

Ho-boy.

Ian sent the picture to himself and handed her the phone back. “Thanks for staying for dinner,” he said. “I hate eating alone.”

Later, she’d cropped herself out of the pic, set it as his contact avatar.

Better, their Friday night dinners became a tradition. Almost like a date.

She pressed her fingers against the rim of her eyes. Blinked away the moisture.

He deserved to know the truth about Esme. Right now.

She pressed dial.

“Ma’am, our doors are closed. Please put your phone away.”

Sierra looked up to see the flight attendant standing in the aisle, her dark eyebrow raised.

“Right. Sorry.” She shut the phone down.

Okay, so she’d call when she landed in Salt Lake.

And she would have, had the flight not been delayed by a storm, had she not been forced to sprint to her next gate. And had the storm not followed her to Houston. She picked up her car in the rain and got snarled in traffic running south on I-45 to Galveston. An hour trip had turned into three by the time she pulled up at Pier 23, the marina where Ian moored his yacht. Thankfully, it had stopped raining, something she hoped boded well for their trip.

Darkness settled over the docked boats as she wheeled her suitcase down the wide dock, her phone flashlight winking off the numbers. It seemed everything from sailboats to waverunners to fishing boats moored here.

Slip 45. Her suitcase clunked over the boards, and she slowed as she came to the end of the pier.

Oh. My . . . What?

Ian didn’t have a yacht. He had a yacht. The Montana Rose took up the entire end of the dock, tied at bow and stern. She gleamed under the tall dock lights. Four decks, with a communications tower and a lift off the back. The windows shone in the darkness, eyes peering out to sea, as if in anticipation.

A gangplank balanced between yacht and dock, and she approached it.

“Are you Sierra Rose?” A voice called out to her in the darkness, and she directed her light toward it.

A man about her age lifted his hand to protect his eyes. He wore a pair of khaki shorts and a dark collared shirt, and grinned at her.

“Yeah,” she said.

He came across the gangplank, jumped down onto the dock. “Kelley Storm, bosun and purser for this trip. The captain asked me to meet you. You’re late. You okay?”

“Traffic.”

“Oh, it’s terrible coming down from Houston.”

From her quick glance, he looked blond, tanned, and very capable of helping her aboard.

He picked up her suitcase, offered his hand.

Oh. Well. She took it and he led the way onto the yacht, set down her suitcase, and helped her onto the deck. “It might take you a day to get your sea legs, but we don’t shove off until tomorrow afternoon, so you should be used to it by then.”

The boat listed gently in the waves, the briny smell of the sea stirred by the balmy wind. The stars arched overhead, flung over the dark expanse of the sea.

The sea. She drew in a breath. She’d never seen the sea.

“Of course, it’ll be a little rougher when we’re underway in the gulf—we’re in the channel right now. But Captain Gregory will brief you. Let’s get you settled in.”

He held out his arm as if she needed steadying, but she shook her head.

Kelley led the way through double glass doors to the salon. An enormous U-shaped sofa was tucked into a wide nook on one side of the room. A giant flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall. The teakwood trim gleamed, the room smelled of polish and flowers, and a giant vase of lilies had been placed on an oval teak table set for eight.

“We put you in the room adjoining the main deck stateroom. I know you asked for crew quarters, but we are full up, so the captain suggested the study. I hope it will do.” He angled her past the kitchen, down the hall, and opened the door to what looked like an office, sans desk, but with books lining the teak shelves. Ian’s study, most likely. A picture of the Glacier National Park mountains was affixed to the wall over what looked like a Murphy bed made up with fluffy white pillows and a comforter.

She wouldn’t perish here. She’d stepped into a world of opulence and fairy tales.

“The head is here,” Kelley said, opening the door to a tiny bathroom with a toilet, shower, and sink. “It’s rather small, but—”

“I’ll be fine.”

She’d forgotten, really, how wealthy Ian was, with him down home on the ranch. But the man had flown her to New York City for a day in his private jet.

Had purchased not one but two helicopters for PEAK and funded the operations for three years.

In fact, that was probably just a small dip in his resources.

How could she have thought she would ever be in his league? She dropped her satchel onto the white fluff of her bed. Ran her hands over her bare arms, now prickled with the cool air of her room.

“I’d be happy to fetch you something to eat if you’re hungry, ma’am.”

“I’m here to work, just like you, Kelley.”

In the light, she saw he did have blond hair, cut high and tight, a crisply shaven jaw, strong chin, blue eyes, and a tattoo sneaking down his arm. She indicated it.

“It’s a Celtic cross. I got it after I got out of the Marines.”

“And now you’re a bosun?”

“It’s a start. Someday I’ll be captain.” He gave her a wink. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“Actually, I’d like to talk to the chef, make sure we’ve got everything.”

“Yes, ma’am. By the way, your assistant is already here, and he updated your order.”

Her what? “I don’t have an assistant.”

Kelley frowned. “He arrived about two hours ago, told the chef about the change in orders.”

“What change in orders?” She’d meticulously planned every meal according to Vanessa’s gluten-free diet, Hayes’s allergy to milk, and Dex’s penchant to have meat at every meal.

She stepped out past Kelley. “Where is this fabled assistant?”

“In the galley, I think.”

She charged down the short hallway back to the dining area, found the galley door, and pressed open the swinging door.

“Someone here is on the wrong boat because I don’t have an—”

No.

She couldn’t move, just stared as her “assistant” whirled around, probably alerted by her voice, and met her widened eyes.

He wore a silly straw hat, a white T-shirt, a pair of khakis, and sandals on his otherwise bare feet.

Ian flashed her a smile.

“Hey, Sierra. Ready for our three-day tour?”

At least Pete hadn’t left town.

Yet.

Over a week since he’d burst through the forest to save Jess’s life and he hadn’t done more than grunt training instructions at her.

No showing up on her doorstep to take her into his arms, declare that he’d come home because he couldn’t live without her.

Which meant that probably Willow had been correct. Pete had returned to Mercy Falls to see his mother, maybe even have a face-to-face with Chet King.

Not because he desperately missed Jess Tagg.

Truth was, she should probably attribute his daring rescue to his persona rather than any rampant panic sluicing through him.

A smart girl, one who’d taken off her rose-colored glasses, would have seen the evidence in Pete’s rather cool demeanor the past two days as he’d dragged her, Gage, and Ty down to the Bitterroot Valley, an hour drive and two-hour hike from PEAK HQ, to “drill down on their climbing skills.”

Translation: the fact that Jess had opted to climb up the relatively steep pitched grade into a field of ash instead of down a two-hundred-foot cliff to a riverbed where she’d find the chopper had apparently sent Chet into training overdrive.

Which meant, according to Pete, she and her teammates needed to learn to emergency rappel with one rope.

So, he’d hiked them up to a 5.11 climb and made them work their way to the top of the seventy-meter drop. There, he took off his harness and safety gear.

Jess never stopped being amazed at Pete’s confidence around danger. Heights, fire, even skydiving—he seemed impervious to things that sent a shudder through her.

She’d gotten into this gig to save lives. Not throw herself over a cliff.

Now Pete stood at the edge of the cliff, the backdrop of the Bitterroot Mountains behind him. Gray granite peaks pierced the sky, rising above a halo of green balsam and pine. The wind whipped against his blond hair that was caught in a bun below his climbing helmet. He wore a pair of green cargo pants, dirty with chalk and rolled up at the ankles, and now he unbuckled his chalk bag that hung around his waist.

He also reached into his pocket for the nylon shirt he’d shed before leading them up the ascent. She’d enjoyed a delicious view of the array of muscles cording his back as he’d scrambled up an intimidating overhang called the Cowboy Ejector Seat that jutted out over forty feet. Jess’s hands were sweaty just looking at it, her stomach curling into a fist. But Pete walked her through it, handhold by foot jamb, his voice steady.

Calm.

Not unlike how he’d been a year ago when they’d hid from a grizzly on Huckleberry Mountain.

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could still smell the musk of Pete’s skin, feel the length of his body hovering over hers, protective.

So, better to not close her eyes.

Pete routed them along a set of thick jugs and fixed draws that had her wanting to cry with the lactic acid burning in her arms. She’d fallen once, her belay rope catching her. But she’d slammed her hip into the rock so hard it sent tears to her eyes. Her cry had made Pete turn around, his eyes full of concern. But she shook her head, despite the scream in her hip.

“I’m good!”

He frowned, however, and waited until she caught up before he continued.

They were all sweating when they reached the top, and even Gage and Ty had shed their shirts by then. But although Gage had once been a champion snowboarder and Ty regularly worked out, no one had the impressive bulk of shoulders and chest that Pete Brooks, former smokejumper, had honed.

Yeah, this little training exercise had her a little woozy.

Pete pulled his shirt over his head. It hugged his frame, and the blue fabric turned his own blue eyes so rich she had to look away. Her conversation with Sierra echoed in her head. “Everything about Pete is epic . . . Including his ability to break hearts.”

“We’re going to practice an emergency rappel using a single rope,” Pete said. “In case your rope doesn’t reach the bottom.”

No pointed glance at Jess, but she gave a nod. Shrugged.

“So, the first thing you want to do is ditch your bulky clothing,” Pete said. “Along with your backpack. Lower it to the bottom.”

She unhooked her backpack and set it at her feet.

“Next, you want to set your anchor. Find a tree with deep, healthy roots at least six inches in diameter. Or a rock or boulder that’s solid, so your rope can’t slip underneath. If you were in snow, you’d want to dig a bollard, or a teardrop-shaped trench. And if you’re lucky and have an anchor in your gear, you could use that too.”

He walked over to a boulder nearly two feet across, tested it, then dropped the rope around it.

“You’ll loop the middle of the rope around the anchor, then coil both ends and drop them over the edge, making sure they don’t tangle.”

He walked over to the edge, glanced over the side, then tossed the rope over.

“Now, I’m going to stand facing uphill and straddle the rope. I’m going to pull the two cords through my legs, around my hip, over my nondominant shoulder, around the back of my neck, and down to my dominant hand. The friction of my body will brake my descent.”

He demonstrated, then started backing toward the edge of the cliff.

“Pete, you’re not roped in,” Gage said.

“I know,” Pete said. “Keep your knees bent, shoulder width apart. Your dominant hand should be downhill, your other hand uphill, for balance. Let gravity pull you down, and adjust the feed with your dominant grip.”

He cast a look at Jess, his face serious. “If you let go, you fall. So . . . don’t let go.”

Don’t let go. The words resonated inside her, so similar to the ones he’d spoken at the fire. Just hang on.

Oh, she wanted to, but what precisely was she holding on to? Because he hadn’t exactly—

And then he stepped over the cliff and disappeared. Jess ran to the edge.

“Hey,” he said, grinning up at her.

Oh, she wanted to hate him, the way he just dangled there, his arms thick with muscle, holding himself in midair.

He was too cute. Too easy to fall for, to never forget.

“When you get to a landing place or at the end of your rope, anchor in, unwrap the rope, and retrieve it by pulling one end. Then rinse and repeat all the way to the bottom.”

He had climbed back up and now stood at the edge.

Sure, no problem.

“Who wants to go first?”

Five hours later, Jess stepped out of the shower, her legs still trembling as she recalled the descent. She probably wouldn’t eat for a week. Her stomach was still in tangles from the stress of lowering herself to the ground. Sure, Pete had her on belay, but her hand had slipped twice and . . .

Her hip ached where she’d slammed it again. She probably needed to ice it. Now she just leaned against the sink and stared at her watery visage in the foggy mirror.

Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be on a rescue team. EMT, sure. When faced with a medical crisis, her brain slowed, separated the panic from the to-do list, and instinctively went into calm survival mode.

But when the chopper crashed . . .

She could still hear the explosion as the rope severed the rotor. Feel the heat erupt in her hip as her feet shot out from beneath her, the whoosh of the rotor above her head.

A head not separated from her body, by the grace of God.

Then the rush of horror flooding over her as the chopper lurched away from the cliff.

She ran her hand through the fog of the mirror.

For a long time, she’d simply sat there, unmoving, her heart choking off her breath.

Then panic took over her bones and she’d scrambled back from the edge.

Assessed her choices.

Yeah, she still would have chosen to climb up to the charred surface instead of free-rappelling to the base.

Maybe.

Unless Pete had been there. With Pete she was braver. Stronger. With Pete she hardly knew herself.

Pete seemed to be able to do anything, leap from tall buildings, climb sheer cliffs, defy a wall of fire, and on the way, he made her do the same.

In fact, with Pete, she felt invincible, alive. She liked the Jess Tagg she was with Pete.

Jess drew in a breath and took the towel off her head.

Until Pete, she had simply been Jess Tagg, in hiding. Jess Tagg on her own, restarting her life. She’d left Selene conveniently on the shelf, a secret, waiting to see if Jess wanted her back.

Then Pete walked into the picture, and suddenly she wanted to be the Jess Tagg she’d painted herself as. Brave. Not broken. Not stained. And especially not looking over her shoulder for her past to show up and destroy her life.

Not Selene Jessica Taggert, the woman who’d destroyed lives, but Jess Tagg, the woman who saved them.

“So, now that he’s back, you’re going to tell him, right?”

Sierra’s words kept pulsing in the back of her brain, and she simply couldn’t escape them.

“No, I’m not,” she said into the mirror as she pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail and reached for her clean sweatpants and a T-shirt. If she let Pete in, let him see her sins, she’d lose that image of herself. She’d no longer be the unbreakable Jess Tagg. She’d be blighted, stained. Ugly.

More, he simply didn’t seem to care. And the longer she let him mill around her heart, the more it would hurt when he finally exited.

The doorbell chimed.

Pulling on the T-shirt, she opened the bathroom door and hollered, “I’ll be right there!”

She couldn’t make out the form at the door, although by the outline she guessed it might be Sam, possibly looking for Willow.

She swung the door open.

He stood with his back to her, his hands shoved into his pockets, his wide shoulders rising and falling as if he might be contemplating something. His hair hung behind his ears, golden in the sun, and it looked like he might have showered, because his hair was still streaked with dampness.

Then Pete turned, his gaze caught her up, and he smiled slowly, as if he’d been waiting right here on this porch all day to see her. “Hey,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced down at her hip. “Checkin’ on you. You were limping today.” His smile turned rueful.

“I’m fine. Just took a couple hard falls. Nothing a little ice won’t fix.”

He nodded then. Stood there on the porch.

“Really, Pete, what are you doing here?”

And she really meant, What are you doing here, in Montana? Or even, What are you doing here in my life? Driving me crazy?

“Can I come in?”

Oh no, that was a terrible idea. “Yeah, sure.” She stepped aside.

He walked into her now-furnished family room. “You’ve done a lot of work on the place.”

“I stripped the floors, then we revarnished them.”

“And the kitchen looks new.”

“We put in a new countertop and I repainted the cupboards.”

He turned to her. “We? As in you and Ty?”

“No. Me. And, well, me. And sometimes Sierra or Willow.”

He looked away then, his mouth a grim line as he nodded. Because he’d been her right-hand remodeler until . . . well, until . . .

“Pete, I don’t know where to start, but we need to talk.”

He nodded. “We do. I owe you an apology.”

She blinked at him, frowned.

He came over to her then, standing so close she could smell the soap on his skin. And then he reached out and touched her face, his fingers soft on her cheek. “You have a little scrub there from where you fell today.”

Oh. She wanted to lean into his hand, but she couldn’t move, caught on his previous words. “An apology?”

He dropped his hand. Nodded. “I know about your secret.”

She stilled.

“I’ve known for a while.”

“You know—”

“Selene Jessica Taggert? Daughter of Damien? The woman at the center of the biggest financial scandal of the twenty-first century? Yeah.”

She hadn’t expected that, or the way her knees suddenly turned to wax. “How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Ty?”

He gave her a look, and she could see the hurt raging through his eyes. He swallowed, shook his head. “He didn’t give you up. It was Brette, that reporter. She recognized you.”

She drew in a breath. “Oh, Pete, I should have told—”

“Why didn’t you trust me?”

She couldn’t bear the look in his eyes, suddenly red-rimmed, as if he might be fighting tears.

“I didn’t—I don’t know. I just thought.” She pressed her hand to her eyes. “I didn’t want you to see that part of my life, I guess. I was so—so ashamed and—”

His arms went around her shoulders, and he pulled her to himself. It happened so suddenly, she simply surrendered, unable to react, to hold herself away.

Not that she would have. Because finally, finally, she had Pete in her embrace. A real one, without the ruse of rescue. She wrapped her arms around his amazing chest, and she let herself collapse into him.

“Don’t be ashamed, Speedy. You did what you had to,” he whispered into her hair. “It’s okay. It’s over now. That’s the past.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “This is the future.”

It was the way he said it, softly, a little tremulous, that made her raise her head.

And the look in his beautiful blue eyes, a little earnest as he roamed her face, reached down and stirred something inside her that had been dormant.

Waiting, perhaps, for this moment.

Because then Pete smiled. “I have to kiss you. Please.”

He didn’t wait for a yes—didn’t have to because Jess leaned up and answered him, pressing her lips against his.

The past year dropped away, the ache of wanting him, of missing him, of fearing she’d lost him. All that remained was Pete, kissing her, sweeping her up, his mouth urgent on hers.

He tasted so good. She hadn’t forgotten the taste of him. Pete. Epic, amazing Pete.

She lifted her arms, tangled her fingers into his hair, and softened her mouth, letting him in.

He groaned.

Leaned back. Met her eyes, so much emotion in them she swallowed.

“Wow, okay, yeah. That is exactly what I remembered. And more,” he said.

Her face heated.

He grinned at her, then took a deep breath. “Okay, so now might be the right . . . um . . . okay . . .” He held her away from him. Pinned his gaze to hers. “Jess, I came back to Montana because . . . I want you to marry me. You’re the only girl for me.”

She blinked at him. What? “Did you say—”

“Yeah. I . . . I love you, Jess, and—”

She stepped out of his arms, her heart thundering. “Okay, okay—wait—”

His smile dimmed. “I did that all wrong, didn’t I?”

She stared at him. “You—well, wait. Stop. I’m sorry. Have I just woken up from a coma?”

He frowned.

“Because we haven’t even dated, Pete.”

“Well, I know, but—”

“You’ve been gone for the last eight months, right?”

He nodded slowly.

“And for the past week, you’ve given me nothing but a cold shoulder.”

“I was trying to figure out how, well, I . . .” He made a face. “Sorry.”

“No, no, that’s okay. Because you did save my life. And I guess that should count—”

He stepped up and took her by the arms. She never did think straight with him this close to her.

“Okay, I know I blew that. But I . . .” He found her gaze, held it. “I love you, Jess.”

He loved her.

“Do you love me?”

She swallowed. Opened her mouth. “I . . .”

Yes! I love you so much it hurts, right down to my bones. At least that was what her instincts leaped up to scream, but her mouth stammered out an incongruous, “I don’t know.”

He took another long breath. “Fair enough. It’s fast, I know. Maybe I’ll just have to woo you a little.”

Woo her?

But if it included the way he was looking at her, the way he cupped her face in his hands and softened his voice, she’d be okay with a little wooing.

“In fact, I’ll wait until you’re sure, and I’ll ask you again.”

He would?

“And this time, I’ll do it right. Because you’re my future, Jess Tagg.”

Then he smiled, leaned down, and kissed her again, this time so achingly soft, she wanted him to be her future too.

Right?