17

“READY?” CHET WHISPERED the question in her ear as Kacey stood at the apex of the stairs leading down to the lookout over Minnehaha Falls, a park in the middle of Minneapolis.

A cheap and easy, impromptu venue that God had reserved for only them.

The sky arched blue and nearly cloudless above, and the scent of the linden and elm trees that shadowed the park conspired to create a breathtaking chapel.

Especially with her groom standing at the overlook railing, the mist of the falls rising behind him, the water quiet applause as it fell into the pool below. Ben was decked out in a freshly purchased black, tuxedo-edged suit and appeared as if he might be holding his heart in his hands, so much love in his eyes she nearly lost her words.

So, to Chet’s question, Kacey just nodded.

In fact, it was all she could do not to sprint all the way into Ben’s arms.

Except for Chet, his hand on hers, slowing her down to a reasonable walk. Her heart pinched, just a little, that she hadn’t invited her own parents to this event.

But they barely tolerated Ben, even now. Besides, she’d called and promised a reception in the future, something her mother could plan and invite half the state of Montana to. Judge Fairing’s daughter, finally hitched to her superstar fiancé.

It did feel awkward to have Moose stand up as her “maid of honor,” even though he stood on Ben’s side. But they needed a second adult witness.

And apparently, Ben’s band meant it when they said they were family, because Buckley had pulled together the private dinner waiting for them after the ceremony, and Duke had tracked down a B & B in Chanhassen that had an available room.

Now, Joey played Ben’s Gibson, his blue eyes twinkling as he sang the song Ben had penned for her so many years ago.

Hey there, pretty girl, let me sing you a song

In this mountain boy’s arms is where you belong

“Let’s do this,” Kacey said and glanced at Audrey.

Her daughter wore a blue dress off the rack from some bridal shop—the same place Kacey had picked up her gown, a simple V-neck overlaid with lace. No train, but it hugged her curves, and frankly she had barely recognized herself after she walked out of the hair salon.

Moose had set that up. She didn’t want to know how. But now she wore tiny flower buds in her hair, which was twisted up and curled in ways that could convince her she might be royalty.

Okay, so she was sort of marrying the King of country music, and that thought tipped her lips up as Chet urged her forward.

Chet had found a minister while she and Ben procured their marriage license, and by the looks of it, he’d done a decent job with a tall, nicely groomed man in his midfifties. Paul something.

“You look very pretty,” Chet said.

She cupped her hand over his. “I guess I have you to blame for this. If I’d known you were conspiring to get Ben and me back together when you hired me to fly for PEAK . . .”

“Yes?”

“I would have come running. Or at least I would have wanted to.”

“Ben said the same thing.”

He did? When she caught Chet’s eye, he winked.

Maybe it was true, because as she neared him, Ben reached up and wiped a hand across his cheek, as if he might be crying.

Joey, just behind them, kept singing.

Never forget our first kiss . . . we’re gonna have more

Because you’re the Montana girl I do adore

She stepped up to Ben and took his hand.

On the other side of her, Audrey beamed as she held a spray of wrapped white roses.

“Are you sure you’re okay with—” Ben started.

“Shh. It’s perfect. Let me marry you already.”

He grinned then and nodded to the minister.

Around her, the sparrows sang, the water misted, arching a rainbow of tears into the sky, and somewhere in there, Kacey pledged her life to Ben King.

And his, to her.

He wove his fingers through hers, holding tight as if he might never let her go.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Ben turned to her, so much desire in his gaze she almost reminded him that their daughter was standing there. But he kept it chaste.

In fact, he barely kissed her all night, as they celebrated at a local restaurant, a private dinner for just her, Audrey, and Ben.

Then, they dropped Audrey off at the hotel with Chet.

Kacey climbed back into the rental convertible Mustang, still dressed in her wedding attire. “To the B & B?”

“Not quite yet, darlin’,” Ben said. He pushed the top-down button and the sky opened. Overhead, the stars scattered like diamonds, and Kacey leaned her head back, loosening her hair.

She worked it free, and Ben reached over, ran his fingers through it, helping her. “I love your hair,” he said, a little rumble to his voice.

He drove them along the lakes of Minneapolis, then surprisingly, pulled up near a beach.

“What are we doing?”

“Joey didn’t quite finish the song.” He parked, got out, reached into the backseat, and pulled out his guitar.

Then he took her hand and walked her down the path, toward the creamy sand that had turned to silver in the moonlight. She stopped and slipped off her sandals, letting the sand squish between her toes. Ben picked a spot and sat, pulling her down beside him.

The skyline of the city arched high, sparkling, and a breeze rippled over the dark water.

She leaned against him. “Reminds me of old, sweet times.”

“Times I’ve never forgotten, Kace. And times we never have to wait for again.”

Then he reached out, cupped her face, and kissed her. It was the kiss he’d reserved for her, away from the crowds, their daughter, his band.

The kind of kiss that told her exactly where she belonged.

She finally pressed her hand to his chest, pushing away. “Ben . . .”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Hurry up and sing me that song so we can go.”

He laughed and reached for his guitar. “Anything for you, Mrs. King.”

Let’s get this marriage started

All night long, and when it’s over, it’s just begun

Because we’re only just beginning our eternity

So, c’mon over here, girl, and please won’t you kiss me . . .

Ty could see home from here. Mercy Falls was nestled just over the craggy jut of the Rocky Mountains. The peaks rose high against the fading blue afternoon, the sky streaked with runnels of golden light chasing the sun as it fell.

“It looks like clear skies the rest of the way.” Chet walked up to the chopper, holding the printouts of the weather report he’d picked up from the FBO office in Helena. Ty had already downloaded his copies onto his iPad and planned the next leg of the journey.

Now, Ty looked up from where he was finishing his walk-around and final preflight visual check. Every five hours, since leaving Minnesota, he’d put down, ran another check, just because, well . . .

Too many scenarios waged war in his head as he’d climbed into the cockpit early this morning. Not a few included memories of his last flight, but with a cabin full of his PEAK cohorts, he tried not to let the what-ifs steal his nerve.

Especially with Brette watching. He’d been up way too late last night at the Marshalls’, staring at the stars and having a little chitchat with the Almighty about today’s flight home.

The fact that Brette had decided to go with them, packing her meager belongings and following him out to the chopper at the break of dawn, had sluiced through him a new kind of joy.

Peace.

“Don’t be a pansy. It’s time for us to go home.”

Those words, more than any, had made him climb into the cockpit, place his feet on the pedals, his hand around the cyclic, his other on the throttle and collective.

Made him open the throttle, pull up on the collective, depress the left foot pedal to counteract the torque, made him ease the chopper into the air, the rhythm of working both the collective and his pedal like an old song stirring to life inside him.

It was a practiced dance, the way he moved the cyclic as the chopper lifted off its skids and nudged forward, transitioning from hover flight to full forward flight and ETL.

“You’re ready, Ty. Have been for some time.”

He had expected the shudder as the chopper escaped the rotor wash into clean air, and pushed the cyclic forward, increasing their airspeed.

“I trust you to bring them all home safely. You just have to trust yourself.”

As they’d risen over the debris of Chester, he could see a few work crews out clearing the roads, collecting roofing tiles. He’d looked down at the library. Except for the tree destroying the basement windows, the building remained intact.

But that’s how it was with storms—if you built your life on a stone foundation, maybe you survived—wounded, scared, but still standing.

And he supposed if you didn’t, you rebuilt. Grew stronger.

Like Brette.

“You’re doing a great job, Ty,” Chet said, as if reading his mind. “I’m not going to say anything about how long it took you to get back in the cockpit but . . .” He winked and took a sip of his coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

“Choppers aren’t meant to fly cross-country like this,” Ty said. “We’ll need to give her a thorough inspection when we get back to PEAK.” He finished checking the cold air carburetor air duct, giving the hose a small confirming wiggle to check the clamp. Then he moved to the electrical terminals and finally to the fuel line.

He’d already checked the two oil lines, twice, as well as the oil level.

“The bird is in good shape,” Chet said.

“We’re not going to end up in pieces in the mountains on my watch,” Ty said, maybe a little too sharply.

“Of course we aren’t,” Chet said and stepped back.

He stayed quiet as Ty finished checking the exhaust system, the v-belts, the clutch, the bearings, and the frame of the chopper. Finally, he checked the movement of the tail rotor.

He walked back to Chet. Ran a hand behind the strung muscle in his neck and stared at the sinking sun.

“We should get going.”

“Take a breath.” Chet glanced at him. “Take a breath and see how far you’ve come.”

Ty frowned, but Chet nodded at the cluster of passengers. Ian and Gage, Audrey and Brette, laughing as they ate food from some vending machine.

Brette grinned, her eyes shiny, her laughter carrying across the tarmac, and when she turned, she caught Ty’s gaze and lifted her hand in a wave.

His entire body warmed, buzzed.

“You did that,” Chet said quietly.

“Come again?”

“You brought her from dark to light.”

“You’re giving me too much credit, Chet. That’s God’s job.”

“But he uses us. We are the light of the world, right?”

Ty shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze on the whisper of light still peeking through the mountains, shining down into the valleys, the last wink before darkness flooded the land.

“I’ve never told you this before, Ty, but you’re my protégé. I love my son, but he has no interest in following in my footsteps.”

“I thought Kacey was following in your footsteps.”

“To take over PEAK? No. She’s a talented pilot, but she doesn’t have your heart for the lost.” Chet turned to him. “And I’m not only talking about the physically lost, Ty. I’m talking about the lost in spirit.”

He took a sip of his coffee. Considered it. “When I returned from Vietnam, I was an angry man. Hurting. I’d seen my best friends killed, tried to save a lot of them, and failed. I was bitter and wounded, and even though Ruthie was waiting for me, I couldn’t go home. I ended up in Seattle, drunk most of the time, getting in fights . . . you know the story.”

Ty drew in a breath. Nodded.

“Ruthie found me and dragged me home. Told me to sober up, but it wasn’t until I hit bottom and found my way into a church that I realized God had more for me. Just like he has for you.”

Ty frowned. “I don’t—”

“Have you ever considered, son, that the burden you feel inside isn’t just a calling to rescue the lost . . . but to rescue lost souls?”

The words swept through Ty, lighting his body on fire, tiny pinpricks of light and heat and . . .

Purpose.

He stared at Chet. “What are you saying?”

“I think you’re called to be a pastor. Or a missionary. A member of the Lord’s team of rescuers.”

“I’m nobody special, Chet. Why would—”

“All you have to do is show up. God will do the rest.” He smiled. “And you’re very, very good at showing up, Ty.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I think that’s why you’ve never found your place. Because God had one all planned for you—he just needed you to be ready.”

Chet finished his coffee. Tossed out the grounds. Glanced at Ty. “Are you ready, son?”

Oh. Uh.

Chet laughed. “I meant, are you ready to go home?”

Ty smiled, but . . .

Yes. The thought found his bones, settled in, the heat no longer searing but a warmth that settled deep. Especially when Brette turned and headed back toward him, so much joy in her eyes he probably didn’t need the chopper to be airborne.

Yes. Yes, he was ready.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The only thing Brette could do to escape now was run.

“You okay, Ace?” Ty’s hand curled over hers, tightened. “You’re shivering.” He stood and pulled the flimsy cotton blanket up over her barely there hospital gown, but it did nothing to stave off the trembling.

Not from the cold.

“I hate surgery.”

Ty pressed a kiss to her forehead, her hand now clenched in his as he stood next to the bed. “Listen, this is a piece of cake. You already did the hard stuff, like licking this cancer thing.”

She managed a tight smile. “For now.”

“For good. That’s what we’re going to believe.” He winked at her, those green eyes holding so much faith it cascaded right to her core.

But maybe that was what happened when you fell in love with a preacher man. It had made sudden, brilliant sense when Ty told her God was tugging at him to be a pastor.

A man with his kind of faith, his kind of hope, should be sharing it with others.

Helping them find the strength to look up, stop trying so hard, and just receive . . . a new life.

A new, amazing, hope-filled season that she couldn’t believe she was living.

And today . . . a new body.

“Is she still—oh, good.” Ella Blair had pushed her way into the room. She slung her satchel off her shoulder and onto a chair. “And I come fresh from the newsstand.”

“It’s out?” So maybe Brette could forget, just for a second, the chilly operating room awaiting her.

“Yep.”

Gage had come in behind Ella, holding a cup of coffee and a magazine rolled up under his arm. Looked like a sports mag. Maybe something having to do with snowboarding.

“Here you go,” Ella said and pulled out a copy of National Geographic. Held up the cover for her small audience, like she might be showcasing an item on The Price Is Right. “The cover of this month’s issue, photo credit by Brette Arnold.”

Brette tried to see it like everyone else might—the fibrous lightning reaching from the heavens against a storm-darkened sky, like bronchial veins, webbed and glowing. One strand jerked all the way to earth, a solitary trail of heat that touched down just beyond the tiny silo of an Iowa farm. “‘Summer of Storms,’” Ella said, beaming at Brette. “By Brette Arnold.” She handed her the magazine. “Eight pages, Brette. Eight.”

Brette set the magazine on her lap, her hand only slightly pinching from the IV, and turned to the right page.

There she stood in a shot taken with the Vortex.com team. Jonas dressed in a pair of jeans and his Vortex.com shirt, arms akimbo and looking stern. Handsome Nixon stood behind him, holding up his handheld video camera. Geena stood on the other side of Jonas, wearing camo and a sleeveless shirt to show off her tribal tats, her toughness tempered by her smile.

Brette stood in front of them all, her arms akimbo too, and yeah, she looked healthy and strong, her arms tanned, her hair short but cute in a headband.

Perhaps they’d done a little retouching, or maybe she glowed because Ty stood on the other side of the camera.

He’d even traveled to Boston to retrieve her personal belongings with her, then helped her settle in with Ella.

And yes, it might be too early to expect a proposal, but the answer would be a boy-howdy, high-five yes.

Yes, I’ll hope in the future with you.

The article started with her story of the epic picture of the funnel she’d snapped in Colorado. When Gordon suggested she write a human interest story, she hadn’t considered it might be her own. She even included a selfie she’d taken back in the days of her recuperation, her face gaunt, her head bald, her eyes hollow. Just to show the dark side of the storm, contrast it with the light.

The double tornadoes from Kansas made the next page, along with insets of the destroyed farmland she’d shot from the chopper. Duck Lake’s bowling alley, a lone, dirty dog crouched next to a sodden doll in the street. She wrote about the life of a storm chaser, then chronicled the search for Chet. Her finger ran over the picture of Ty embracing his mentor.

“I love that shot,” Ty said.

“Me too.”

She turned the page to a long view of Chester’s Central Avenue, including the broken windows at the library and the downed elm that had nearly flattened Jonas’s Suburban. The story of the search, the blueprint find—with a shot she’d taken later of the folded blueprint, forgotten in Ty’s pocket—and details on how they’d discovered the tiny room where Creed and the rest of the team had taken shelter.

Then the final page, with a wide-angle shot of so many families embracing, April and Spenser’s desperate clutch in the middle. The searchers, especially the PEAK team, stood around, grimy and grinning. The only one missing had been Ty.

She’d put down her camera when she spied him, alone, away from the chaos, in the field, slowly falling to pieces.

How she loved a man who wasn’t afraid to let his emotions have their moment.

“It’s an amazing article,” Ella said. “Congratulations, Brette. I think you need to ask PEAK for a raise.”

She laughed. Oh, how she loved to laugh. Again. Finally.

“I’m happy with my meager part-time, hourly wage,” Brette said. “It’s just temporary until I figure out what I want to write next. I’ve already talked to my agent about some ideas.” And had started a novel.

Because, why not?

“Um, you might want to talk to that agent about protecting your rights,” Gage said. “This is the Sports Illustrated from a couple weeks ago. Look what I found . . .” He glanced at Ella, who frowned at him.

“This couldn’t wait?”

“What couldn’t wait?” Brette said.

“We didn’t want to say anything—I thought we talked about this, Gage.”

“What are you two talking about?”

Gage pulled the magazine from his arm, began to page through it. “Did Spenser ever mention what he did for a living?”

Brette shook her head, glancing at Ty. He shrugged.

“So, he never uttered a word about the fact that he was the hot new relief pitcher for the Minnesota Twins?” He held up the magazine, folding the back away and handing it to her.

Spenser Maguire had a two-page, or more, spread, a picture of him in mid-throw taking up a full page. “‘After the Storm, How Spenser Maguire Is Dusting Off and Showing Up.’ What’s this?”

“The Twins are in the pennant race. Sports Illustrated did a story about Spenser and how he searched for his wife after the tornado that hit Duck Lake. He gives all the credit to Ty and Pete and you. Turn it over.”

She did and stared at a copy of her wide-angle picture of Spenser and April embracing. Although cropped, the picture still showed a few team members—Ian and his niece, Shae, along with Ben, his arms around Kacey.

“Oh shoot. I sent Spenser a copy of the picture on Facebook. He obviously didn’t realize he needed to get photo credit.” She handed the magazine back to Gage.

She was missing something, judging by the look on Gage’s face.

“What—is it Ben King? You can’t even really tell it’s him—he’s wearing a baseball cap and—”

“It’s Ian and Shae.” Gage showed her the picture again. “They’re clearly standing next to each other. And Ian is named in the caption.”

“Is this bad?” Brette asked

Ella glanced at Gage.

Ty slipped his hand onto her shoulder. “It’s nothing, Ace. It’s just . . . well, up until now, Shae’s been a very missing Esme Shaw. But clearly, she’s not missing anymore, at least to Ian.”

“And Randy Blackburn,” Ella said. “Unfortunately, Gage picked up this magazine at the gym.”

Gage closed the magazine and flipped it over. “It’s addressed to Blackburn. Either he left it there or maybe it’s one of his donations.”

She stilled. “Wait, are you saying that Blackburn—”

“He might have seen it. Might know that Shae is alive.”

“That’s a lot of mights, Gage,” Ty said quietly.

“I’d say we were jumping to conclusions if it weren’t for the fact that . . . well . . .” Ella made a face, glanced at Gage. “Blackburn’s gone missing. Hasn’t shown up for work for the past week.”

Silence.

Then, “Did anyone call Shae?” Ty asked.

“I just found this,” Gage said.

“I only know about Blackburn because he didn’t show up in court yesterday to testify to a DUI. I asked around,” Ella added.

“You need to call Ian, right now,” Ty said.

Gage nodded and reached for his phone.

A knock, and the door eased open. A lean, tall woman dressed in scrubs, her brown hair pulled back, came into the room. “How are we doing in here?”

Silence. Brette didn’t know what to say.

“We’re good. Everything’s going to be just fine,” Ty said, reaching for Brette’s hand and squeezing.

Yes. Come what may, she had to choose hope. Brette nodded, glancing up at Ty.

“Any final concerns?” the doctor asked. “Anything you want to talk about?”

She blew out a breath, glanced at Ty, and a smile tugged at her mouth. “Maybe I should upgrade to a size . . .”

“Stop.” Ty was grinning, shaking his head. “Thanks again for doing this, Jan.” He reached over Brette to shake Dr. Berkley’s hand.

“I told you—anything for you, Ty.” She winked, then directed her attention to Brette. “It’s time to say goodbye to your fan club, Brette.”

Oh.

Ty leaned down, his lips just a whisper away, his eyes holding hers. “I’ll be waiting on the other side.”

Then he kissed her, sweetly, promise and truth and the strength that was Ty in his touch. She wanted to hang on, but she didn’t have to, to know he was with her.

“I’ll meet you there.”