14

ALL WAS EERILY QUIET as Geena, Nixon, and Brette pulled up to the Marshall family home. Overhead, the oncoming storm had blotted out most of the stars and the wind had started to stir the trees, but it was nothing to be alarmed about.

Save the red dollop of danger in the center of the Doppler radar screen. And the fact that Jonas hadn’t answered his phone, not once.

Probably he wasn’t picking up his voicemail messages either.

Which meant they were either still searching, or . . .

Jonas’s Suburban, identified by the Vortex.com logo, and the winery truck along with another Suburban, sat in the driveway. The lights in the house were off, the main room dark.

It was after 10:00 p.m., but . . .

She got out, then went around to retrieve her duffel bag. “I’ll call you,” she said to Nixon and Geena. “Get home and warn your family. And keep trying to get ahold of the local weather station.”

Please have found Creed. The thought thrummed through her as she stepped up to the door, hesitated, debated knocking, then eased the door open.

Jonas looked up from where he sat in semi-darkness at the kitchen table, the only light radiating from the microwave oven over the stove.

Oh no.

The lines on his face, the chaos of his short brown hair, put a fist into her chest.

“Jonas,” she said, her voice broken. “Did you . . . did you find them?”

He closed his eyes, shook his head.

Oh. She set her satchel on the table and came over to him, pressed her hand on his arm. His hand curled over hers, squeezed.

“I shouldn’t have left.”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

She wanted to wince at the ragged emotion in his blue eyes.

“We spent all day searching the school. We finally got into the locker room, where Ty thought they were, but . . .”

Oh Ty. She didn’t want to ask where he might be, not right now, but he’d put so much hope . . .

How she hated hope.

“There was a cave-in while Ty was in there.”

Her entire body froze. What?

She must have gasped, or something close to it, because he quickly added, “He’s fine. Hurt his knee, but otherwise . . . although nobody’s fine.” He looked away then, his jaw tight. “Creed’s probably dead. The Red Cross is still searching, I guess, but nobody knows where they could be.” He took in a breath. “Ned took off somewhere—I think Shae went with him. My mom is upstairs with my dad. And . . . well, your friends are leaving.”

“Leaving?” Ty was leaving?

“Well, not all of them. Kacey took off, left her daughter here with her grandfather, but I heard them talking. Ian and Gage are planning on leaving as soon as Kacey gets back.”

She couldn’t help it. “What about Ty?”

“I haven’t seen him since we got back to the house. He left a while ago to check on the chopper, I think.”

She didn’t want to tell him, not right now, but . . . “Listen, I know you probably haven’t been watching, but there’s a storm front headed this way, and it’s a big one. Lots of clutter, the kind that could organize into a funnel, or more.”

He frowned at her, then reached for his phone. “Sorry. I left it in my truck for most of the day. I didn’t see the calls. Six? Wow.”

“And I left a voicemail. It basically says, ‘Hey, Jonas, there’s a storm coming.’”

“You came all the way back here to tell me that?”

And now, with his question, it did feel like overkill. But she didn’t want to explore the other impulses, so she offered a shrug. “We were worried it would hit at night and no one would be prepared. Not with all the communications down in the area.”

He opened the weather app and set the phone on the table, and she saw his meteorologist brain kicking in. “Yeah, you’re right. See these two commas? Those could be funnels forming.” He used his pinky to show her the blob that only he could truly read.

“I’ll trust you for it,” she said.

“We need to call the local weather service, get them to issue a watch.”

“Nixon is on it. But you need to get your family—and everyone else—to safety. Do you have a root cellar?”

“It’s a farmhouse in Minnesota. You bet.” He got up, glanced out the window. “If I read the radar right, it’ll be in here in less than an hour.”

“I’m going to find Ty. Can I take the Suburban?”

“Keys are in it.” He stood up even as she headed toward the door. But he caught her arm, swinging her around.

And in a second, she found herself in his arms, tight against a chest that belied the geek inside him. Apparently, Jonas was a geek with muscles.

“It’ll be okay, Jonas.” She found herself saying the words, not sure where they’d come from. Probably Ty rubbing off on her.

Jonas’s arms curled tight around her. “Thank you for coming back, Brette.”

She looked up at him, drawing away. “Of course—”

But she couldn’t finish her sentence, which would have been “that’s what friends are for,” because suddenly, just like that, Jonas kissed her.

Just leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, a hint of urgency in his touch, even . . . long-held desire.

Huh.

And for a second, she couldn’t move, her heart caught in her throat.

Oh, Jonas.

She well knew the danger of raw emotions, how they could spill out and make a person cling to someone—even if it wasn’t the right one.

Yet, in that moment she knew.

She’d found the right one to cling to. Not Jonas, but the man who’d kissed her back when she’d pulled him into her arms a year and a half ago. The man who had practically begged to suffer with her. To be there, all the way to the end, whatever that was.

She pressed her hands to Jonas’s chest, just enough for him to break the kiss.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. Apparently, I can’t read radar at all.”

She touched his cheek. “I’m not sure I could read my own radar until this moment. I . . . I need to find Ty.”

Hurt flashed in Jonas’s eyes, but she couldn’t ease it.

He gave her a slow nod. “I’ll get my family to safety. The storm cellar is near the windmill in the front yard. Make it back, okay?”

She nodded, and he let her go.

The wind had started to churn the old windmill, and she made a mental note of the doors, set at an angle, practically hidden next to an oversized hydrangea bush.

Climbing into the Suburban, she spotted a light flicker on upstairs.

The wind had kicked up during the ten minutes she’d been inside, and by the time she hit the street heading into town, the wind threw twigs and other debris onto the road.

No rain yet, however.

Her map app put the baseball field in the village park at the end of town, and she took a right at a Lutheran church, noting the darkness in the stained-glass windows. She hoped, wildly, that someone in the congregation might be praying.

She’d seen the size of that red amoeba, and even to her uneducated eye, the storm looked miles wide.

Zipping past sleeping, naive neighborhoods, she finally found the park on the right side of the road. She turned into the lot by the pool and flashed her lights into the baseball field.

There, in the distance, under an outfield light, sat the PEAK chopper.

She got out of the truck, and a sudden gust nearly grabbed her up and threw her into the chain-link fence. “Ty!” The wind caught her voice and flung it away, so she sprinted out into the field.

Except, even as she got halfway there, she realized she hadn’t seen the vineyard truck.

Still, she stopped at second base and yelled again.

The chopper listed slightly in the wind, but she noticed the blades had been capped with what looked like socks, a line running from two rotors down to the skids of the chopper, another line attached to the tail and rotor section. A giant hood lay over the glass cockpit as if the bird had been blindfolded. And the entire machine was hooked with a line to the back chain-link fence.

Not that secure in a tornado, but it should withstand a storm.

Hopefully.

“Ty!” she yelled again, just in case, but after a second she turned and ran back to the Suburban.

She hadn’t passed anyone on the road to town . . . which meant Ty might still be in Chester.

Unless he’d run.

Something she would do—not Ty.

She got into her truck, turned around, and sat in the gravel drive, watching the approaching storm bully the trees.

She needed to get to safety.

She pulled out and headed toward Central Avenue. Maybe he’d gone to get a bite to eat—

Or . . . no.

“There are days when I don’t think about taking a drink—and others when the urge to find the nearest bar and dive into something easy and quick is nearly more than I can bear.”

When he’d told her that story, she couldn’t even imagine that Ty. But after today . . .

She took a left onto Central and noticed that trash cans had tipped over, one rolling into the street.

The only light in town pushed out from a tavern, a place called One-Eyed Jack’s, with a stone exterior and a 1970s mansard roof. Enough Harleys were parked in front to suggest it might still be occupied.

She pulled up next to a truck and got out. Ran inside.

She’d entered a time warp, or maybe just an unfamiliar culture, but music, maybe something from a ZZ Top album, pulsed through the room, entertaining the handful of guys at the bar, many wearing leather. With small square tables and orange chairs, the place seemed more like a greasy spoon than a biker bar.

“There’s a tornado coming! Take cover!”

The barkeep looked at her and set down the glass he was drying.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

She scanned the room for Ty and didn’t know how she felt when she didn’t spot him.

No, she knew exactly how she felt—relief. She needed Ty to be bigger, stronger, the kind of guy who didn’t let his demons take him down.

She needed him to have all the things she longed for—starting with the faith her mother had tried to give to her.

In fact, maybe that was why she had let herself lean in to Ty. Because he leaned in to faith, just like her mother had, and wow, she wanted that.

“There’s no siren,” one of the patrons said.

“It’s coming—just take cover!”

Her voice shook her back into the moment. Maybe Ty had gotten past her, on his way to the Marshalls’. Where she should be. She ran out into the street, and in the distance, a familiar roar raised gooseflesh.

She should turn around and tell those idiots—

An explosion just a block away shot sparks into the night, and for a split second, she saw it.

A giant wedge, this one so wide it didn’t seem like a tornado but a wall of storm and cloud and—

Then the lights flickered off, and everything went black. The streetlights, the bar lights, even the blinking stoplights.

Oh no.

She got into the Suburban and backed out.

Get to the Marshalls’.

She gunned it down Central Avenue. Lightning burst a few yards in front of her and she screamed, slammed her brakes a second before a giant elm cracked. It crashed in front of the Suburban.

She caught herself on the steering wheel, breathing hard.

The roar shook the vehicle, and for a second, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

She was going to die, right here. Probably impaled by a tree as the storm picked her up and slammed her down on some side street. Or maybe pancaked her into one of the buildings.

And she’d be alone, of course. Because she’d pushed everyone away.

Pushed Ty away.

The storm stripped the leaves from the fallen tree, cast them across the windshield.

Get out of the car. She knew she shouldn’t stay inside, except she found herself on the floorboard of the passenger side, her hands over her head.

Shaking.

Please, God, I don’t want to die! I’m sorry I despised hope, despised all the other ways you’ve probably saved me. I want to believe you can save me. Please!

The door opened behind her, and the rain whooshed in. “What the—Brette! What are you doing here?”

She whirled around into the hands of . . . “Ty?”

“C’mon!” He yanked her out of the truck, and she fell into his arms.

He righted her, took her hand. “We can’t make it back to the bar. We gotta find—there!”

The rain drove down in torrents now, drenching her through, blinding her, and she hadn’t a clue what he’d pointed to.

Until he dragged her off the street and up the cement steps of what looked like a courthouse.

He clutched her to himself with one arm as he slammed his elbow into the glass of the door. It shattered, but the sound died in the fury of the storm, and in a second he’d reached inside and unlocked the door. Pushed them into the foyer.

A split entry, and he chose the basement.

“We need a wall without windows!” Ty pulled up his phone, turned on the app, and flashed his light around the room.

A library. And an old one by the looks of the shelving—solid oak, with books piled tight into rows and rows of ancient collections. His light flicked off a long library table in the middle of the room.

“Over here!” He had her by the hand and dragged her—only now did she notice his rather pronounced limp—toward an inner room. His light flicked around what looked like a conference room, with inner windows and stacks of horizontal shelves, as if for maps. A rectangular table took up the middle.

He led her to the far corner of the room. “Sit.” Then he went over to the table, and despite its size and his injury, he heaved it up on end. Shoved it toward her.

Then he came around and sat next to her, moving the table at an angle to protect them.

“C’mere.” He reached for her then, and she realized she was trembling.

“Shh. We’re going to be okay.”

He pulled her to himself, rearranging so he could wrap his legs around her, his arms around her shoulders. She turned in his embrace, curled up against him, and he tightened his hold.

He shivered, so she pressed her hand against his chest. His heartbeat knocked against it.

Outside the monster raged, the wind frenzied, and the rain bulleted the building.

“What are you doing here?” His voice held an edge she had never heard, and she drew in her breath. Oh. Right. Last conversation they’d had, she’d told him to get out.

Of her life.

“I . . . I knew there was a tornado coming, so—”

“No, here. On this street. Why aren’t you—I don’t know, in Iowa, or Nebraska, or even at the Marshalls’? What are you doing here?”

She didn’t know what to do with the anger in his voice, and she tried to push away, but he didn’t let her go.

And she didn’t really want to leave. “I was worried about you. The storm came up so fast, and . . . well, I knew you wouldn’t be paying attention and—”

“I saw you run out of the bar and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The last thing I need is for you to get killed searching for me.”

She did push away then. “Why? Because only you can do the searching? Only you can be a hero? I was worried, okay? I didn’t want you to be out here alone!”

He just blinked at her, his chest rising and falling, so much emotion in his eyes that she couldn’t move.

And then he kissed her. Just wrapped his hand around her neck and pulled her to himself so abruptly, almost violently, as if she’d unleashed something inside him that he couldn’t douse.

As the storm furied outside, she kissed him back just the same. Needing, oh, needing Ty’s arms to tighten around her, to feel the outpouring of his emotion, all of it stirring deep inside her, awakening her to life, to hope, to a tomorrow she longed for.

Oh, she loved this man. Loved his courage and the fact that even when he was down, he reached up. Loved the fact that no matter how many times she pushed him away, he wouldn’t budge, just waited for her to return.

And rescued her when she couldn’t rescue herself.

He tasted of the rain and the darkness and the deep well of his emotions, and he kissed her with a thoroughness that spoke of desperation, his own fears, the wounds that still pained him.

Only then did she realize what she’d said.

“I didn’t want you to be out here alone.”

Oh, Ty.

She slowed her kiss, turned it tender and sweet, and he broke away, touching his forehead to hers, breathing a little hard. “Sorry—I . . .”

“Ty,” she whispered, “I came back because I love you.”

Yes, she’d really said that. She swallowed but managed not to pull away, not run screaming from the room, but to stay right there, meeting his eyes.

Reaching for all the hope, all the faith she could muster.

Outside, the behemoth roared.

But he smiled. “It’s about time. I was starting to give up hope.”

Ty hadn’t a clue how he’d gone from nearly breaking a two-year sobriety oath to having Brette, here, in his arms, telling him she loved him.

Talk about timing. He still couldn’t believe she’d shown up at the bar. Sure, he’d gone for something to eat, a desperate escape from the mourning and his failure at the Marshall family house, feeling pretty sure he’d never be able to face them again. But he also knew he shouldn’t be around easy access to whiskey on a day like this.

He’d gotten up, walked to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror, about to make a decision he couldn’t live with when he’d heard her.

“There’s a tornado coming! Take cover!”

By the time he scrambled out of the room, he caught only Brette’s departing figure.

And in that moment, he realized that somehow, God had reached out of the heavens and saved him yet again.

“Find cover! Get in the bathroom!” he’d shouted and ran from the room. Well, what he wanted to call running but more resembled a Quasimodo high-speed stagger into the streets.

Only to see her taillights disappear into the storm. Almost.

Except for the tree.

The providential tree that hadn’t hit her but just stopped her so that he could sweep her up and rescue both of them.

“I love you.”

Her words still skipped around his brain. Brette Arnold loved him?

He thought . . . well, he’d nearly given up.

Outside, the heavens had unleashed the apocalypse. Lightning crackled, thunder bombarded the tiny town of Chester, and behind it all, the ever-present rage of the wind, alive in the howling. Glass had shattered in the upper floors of the library, but the ancient building made of cement and stone and bricks just might withstand the storm.

Even if it didn’t, nothing would move him from his hold on Brette. Or, even, her hold on him.

“What do you mean, it’s about time?”

Oh, that. Outside, the warning siren finally started to mourn. Right.

“It’s just . . . the fact is, I’ve been in love with you since last year. And I know it was only a couple days together—but being with you feels like . . . like I’ve stepped inside something bigger than I am, and I’m helpless to fight it. My heart has been yours for so long now . . . but yeah, when you told me to get out of your life, I . . .”

He looked away, but she touched his cheek, moved his face back to hers.

“I was scared,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m afraid I have cancer again.” Her breath tremored out, and he touched her cheek.

“I know.”

She just blinked at him. “And doesn’t that freak you out?”

“Only because I don’t want to lose you. But if you think I’m freaked out by the opportunity to love you through all this, um, no. I meant it when I said I’d suffer with you. Just like you raced a tornado into town to find me. That’s what love does—it goes into the storm to rescue, or protect, or just to stick around and share in the suffering.”

Her eyes widened. “My mom used to say that suffering, and grief, is the price we pay for love. That the depth of our suffering is measured by the depth of our love.”

She angled away from him, her expression bright in the light of his phone. “Oh my gosh—she always said she wanted to share in Christ’s sufferings. What if she meant she wanted to love with the depth of his love?”

He’d never thought of that before. “Maybe that’s why the Bible lists all these things that can’t separate us from the love of Christ—tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger—because if death was the measure of Christ’s love for us, then the rest is just debris.”

He leaned his head back against the wall, feeling the building tremble around him. “I suppose I should add to that list cancer, or tornadoes, or a busted knee or . . . or failure.” He sighed. “I failed, Brette. My hunch turned out to be just what you said—wishful thinking. I nearly got myself and the other rescuers killed, and we didn’t find the kids.” His voice hitched at the end.

“I know, Ty.” She was still shivering, so he drew her against him, unable to look at her anyway.

“I’ve spent the past two years trying to hang on to the truth that despite my failures, God loves me. That even when life seems . . . undone, God is still on my side, that he’ll show up, but—”

“Please, Ty, don’t.” She pushed away from him. “I need you to believe for both of us.” She pressed a hand to his soggy shirt, right over his heart, warming his skin. “Since my dad died, and Mom not long after, I’ve operated under the idea that I’m in this alone.” He put his hand over hers, held it there. “But I’m desperate to believe that God loves me. To have that kind of faith.”

He stared at her, her words like a hand grasping for something inside him.

And his spirit seemed to reach back, the words rising, filling his entire body with heat and truth. “If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?” He looked down at her. “It’s what your mom said about suffering. God let his only Son die. Imagine the grief. And now think about the love that equals it—that’s the depth of his love for us. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. His grace—his love—is equal, no, greater, than anything we could do to push him away. Our sins. Our anger. Our despair.”

“‘Amazing Grace.’ My mom sang that song,” Brette said.

“Mine too. When she was dying. She knew, despite the storm, that what waited for her was joy and peace.”

She was watching him, a smile playing on her face.

“What?”

“You have no idea how you look when you talk about God. He’s in you or something, because when you say it, I believe it.”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm. And it’s completely . . . I don’t know. Sexy. Or charming, or maybe just . . . breathtaking. The way you want to love God makes me want to love God. And believe that he loves me back.”

And despite the torrent outside, the shredding of trees and perhaps even their shelter, heat suffused Ty right to his cells.

“Are you okay? You’re trembling.”

“I’m okay.” He touched her cheek, met her eyes. Because God had shown up in a moment that wasn’t pure desperation. Shown up and let Brette see his love for her.

“I’m not sure how, but this is probably the first time I’ve ever felt like I’m right where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to do.” Her words, but she spoke his heart.

Thunder shook the library.

She fisted her hand into his shirt.

“We’re going to be okay,” he said. “This is a stable building. The old ones were built well.”

“It was probably a storm shelter, actually.” She pointed to a sign on the wall near the door, and he shined his light on it. A symbol—a circle with three inverted triangles.

“A fallout shelter. Of course.”

As he dragged his light around the room, however, he realized that the walls featured framed blueprints of the city buildings—the local library, the bank, a Germanic community center.

“Is that a school?” Brette asked and pushed away, as if making to get up.

“Stay here, I’ll get it.”

But when he tried to stand, he couldn’t yank back his groan.

“Listen, the storm’s dying. I’ll get it.” Brette was on her feet before he could stop her, stepping over the table and scooting to the blueprint on the wall.

The storm did seem to be dying. An eerie silence filled the room.

Oh no . . . “Brette—hurry up!”

The funnel hit.

Every window imploded.

Brette screamed, and he launched to his feet, lunging for her.

She dove into his arms; he pulled her to the enclave just as debris flew into the room, toppling bookcases, splintering wood, the room a wind tunnel of destruction. Books scattered, slamming against the walls.

He pushed her down, his body curling over her just as the inner glass window exploded.

She screamed again, and he wanted to join her. But he clamped down and hunkered over her, praying that his barricade held.

Neither death nor life . . . nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us . . .

Brette pressed her hands over her ears and started to hum.

“It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay,” he kept saying softly into Brette’s hair, as much for her as himself.

And then he was back in the car, his mom’s head on his lap, listening to her sing.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow, the sun forbear to shine; but God, who called me here below, will be forever mine.

Kacey didn’t do rash decisions. Rash decisions got people killed, or at least raised the risk for disaster.

But it could hardly be called rash to save their future.

The dark road ribboned out before her headlights, the night above starry, calling her east, to Wisconsin.

Please let Ben be glad to see me.

She took a sip of her coffee, sludge she’d purchased at a convenience store just before she crossed the border. Her third cup, actually, and her entire body buzzed.

Or maybe it was simply the anticipation of the look on his face.

Please let it be joy. Yes, Ben became insanely focused when he hit the road, although he usually called her every night.

Including tonight. Three times, actually, although he didn’t leave his usual voicemail.

Maybe she should text him. The thought pulsed inside her as Kacey turned north, onto the two-lane highway to Colvill. The clock read nearly midnight, and he might be sleeping.

More likely, he’d be out with his band. He usually came offstage buzzing with the music, needing to unwind, often with a late dinner, sometimes by listening to the wannabes, searching for the next big act he might sign to Mountain Song Records.

Although he’d been known to hit the gym at his hotel, go for a swim, or even just channel surf while eating a soggy pizza.

Life on the road—she knew he loved the audiences, loved singing, but she knew too well the challenges of living out of a duffel bag.

“From the day Ben met you, he’s been trying to impress you. Make something of himself so he could provide for you.”

Oh, Ben, I’m sorry.

She should have joined him on the road, even if he’d stopped asking.

She checked her GPS and saw that the motel was only a couple miles ahead. Thank you, Goldie. She had rousted his manager away from some fancy dinner in Nashville to get Ben’s hotel information, although she’d left out her mission objective: to elope with Ben. To steal him away, take him off the grid, and finally, finally, become his wife.

The first—and only—dream she’d ever harbored. Yes, she loved to fly, and had turned to the army out of necessity to provide for Audrey. But she would have stayed grounded if Ben had stuck around Mercy Falls.

“He loved music, sure, but he would have chucked it all and worked at the local lumberyard if he’d thought you wanted him.”

Yes, she wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him.

She spotted the motel ahead, its lights shining out from an arched carport across the paved lot. The Village Motor Inn.

She parked and glanced in the rearview mirror. She’d pulled her thick hair back into a ponytail but had discarded her usual cap and had even run some mascara over her eyelashes.

She wore a pair of yoga pants, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, not the most attractive of attire, and maybe she should have thought of that. But her mission ops were to seek, hand over her heart, and find a preacher.

Kacey blew out a breath, then got out of the car and headed inside the lobby.

A couple deer heads framed the front desk at the end of a long cranberry carpet. Green overstuffed furniture flanked the walls, and a gold chandelier from the eighties dripped from the ceiling. An elderly man rose from behind the desk.

“Good evening,” she said. “I’m looking for—”

It occurred to her that Ben never used his real name when he booked reservations. Probably Goldie wouldn’t have either. She searched for and produced his moniker. “Bill Hickok.”

An eyebrow raised. “Oh.” His mouth tightened into a line of disapproval. “Second floor, room 212. But I’ve already told them to pipe down once, so . . .”

She frowned but nodded, then headed out the door, across the darkened pool area to the outside stairs. She took the stairs to the second floor.

Lights illuminated the balcony, and she found room 212 situated in the middle of the complex. She hesitated a moment and lifted her hand to knock.

Laughter spilled out from under the door. High and sweet, young.

Kacey stilled.

Then, the low tones of a male voice . . . singing? She pressed her hand to the door, listened to the familiar, sweet melody.

You’ve got a wild side

Something like mine

But when we’re alone

Gonna take my time . . .

One of Ben’s earlier songs, but it stirred up memories of football games, necking under the starry nights in the back of his pickup, even her singing along around a bonfire as Ben tried out one of his tunes to his eager crowd.

The voice was lower, deeper, contained a huskiness to it, not the polished version he used for his audience. For a second she imagined him sitting on a sofa, a couple of coeds at his feet hanging on every word.

She pressed her hand to her stomach.

Her eyes burned, but no more than her pride.

And not a little disbelief that he’d discarded her so quickly.

“You are a master of charm, Ben King. That’s why you have so many fans who love you.”

Maybe that was why Ben had done an about-face, why he’d stayed away from her—she noticed how he’d chosen to get into the car with the guys when Ty displaced him yesterday.

He’d been planning to escape to Wisconsin even before Pete called off the rescue search.

No. She refused to believe that this might be his regular behavior on the road. That the reason he had backed away from marriage so many times was out of guilt or the fear of truly being tied down.

She turned away as more laughing escaped through the door. She grabbed the railing and stared down into the dark pool area. The pool glistened silver under the moonlight.

At the least, whatever was happening in that room wasn’t something she wanted any part of.

She blew out a breath, digging deep, and refused to run as she walked away from room 212 and the future she’d raced across the country to redeem.

Hitting the deck, she kept her head down and headed for the exit.

The old guy at the desk had mistaken her for a floozy fan girl.

She put her hand on the gate—

“Kacey?”

She stilled. Shoot, how had he seen her? She debated a moment before she whirled around, the fury in her chest a live ember, and looked up at the balcony.

But he wasn’t standing there.

“Kace, is that you?”

The voice came from the darkness on the other side of the pool, near the deck loungers.

“Ben?”

He walked out into the moonlight, a sheet wrapped around his shoulders, his hair sticking up as if he’d been sleeping. He stared at her, an expression on his face that suggested he might still be dreaming.

“What are you doing down here?” She glanced back at his room. “Were you sleeping on a lounger?”

He was still walking toward her—she noticed now his bare feet and the fact that he hadn’t shaved after his concert. “We’re the only room with a suite, so Moose and the guys are having a party in our room and . . . well, I’m not interested.”

He came closer now, the sheet draped over his shoulders like a caped hero. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.

“You’re not interested?”

He frowned, glanced at the room. “No. Of course not. I . . .” He swallowed, looked away. “In my head, we’re married, Kacey, even if we haven’t made it official. And maybe you don’t want that, but I can’t just let go of hoping . . .” He winced. “Sorry. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear, but . . .” He sighed, looked back at her, such earnestness in his gaze that it could undo her. “I’m sorry I left. I shouldn’t have put the music ahead of you—and the team. I just . . . I feared everything unraveling and—”

“Ben. I’m here because I want to marry you.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“For a country music singer, you have a hard time recognizing a grand romantic gesture. I love you, Ben King. Catch up.”

And then he smiled, and it swept away any lingering hurt, the faintest fear that he wouldn’t close the gap between them and take her in his arms.

He dropped the sheet, and in two steps he had caught her up, his hand behind her neck to pull her close. And then he was kissing her. Something hard and possessive and whole, kissing her like he sang.

No, he kissed her like she might be his only fan.

And he might have thousands, but no one loved him like Kacey did.

The scents of summer and freedom and the mystery of the night rose from the husk of his skin, and she clung to his lean, toned body. His arms wrapped around her tightly, as if he feared her running away.

Not a chance.

She surrendered easily, letting him take over, control every nuance of their kiss, the tempo. Tasting the night, the music of his heart in his touch.

Ben finally came back to himself, slowed his kiss, lingering sweetly. He loosed his grip and brushed his lips down her neck.

Then he rested his head on her shoulder.

“I love you so much, Kacey.” He leaned back, his blue eyes holding hers. “I want to come home. And I don’t care if all I do is play at the open mic on a Friday night—I can’t spend another night away from you, for the rest of my life.”

She slid her arms around his neck, played with the hair at his nape. “Let’s just start with getting married. As soon as we can. Tomorrow, even.”

“Really?”

“Really. I need you, Ben. I need your passion, your strength, and yes, your music. I know you might not have noticed, but I’m a rabid, crazy fan, and it’s time I got a permanent backstage pass.”

He laughed then. How could she ever, ever have confused Ben’s delicious rumble with whatever was happening in room 212?

“Babe, you’re the only one who gets a backstage pass.” He winked and kissed her again, capturing her inside the melody of summer—the tang of chlorine drifting from the pool, the cicadas buzzing in the surrounding fields, and the faintest country music tune lifting from a nearby room. She felt in his touch so many memories, and the sweetness of their future.

Ben.

Yeah, she was a fan.

She met his eyes. “Okay, really, let’s get our daughter, your dad, and find a preacher.”

He picked her up, twirled her around. “Yes, ma’am!”