2

TEN THOUSAND CHEERING SOULS in front of him, and none of them the person country music star Benjamin King really wanted to see. Or rather, persons, because he’d gladly endure being center stage at the Duck Lake Country Music Festival, under a scorcher of a summer evening, sweat dripping down his spine, if his beautiful sixteen-year-old daughter Audrey, and the woman he longed to marry, Kacey Fairing, were standing in the wings. Or even in the front row, grinning up at him, singing along to his latest hit.

Turn down the lights

Turn up the songs

Come dance with me, baby

Right where you belong

The crowd raised frothy beers, cold lemonades, and even a few hot dogs, singing along. The concert grounds occupied nearly twenty acres of field and parking lot, now jammed with tents, RVs, pop-ups, and people bedded down in pickup beds for three days of nonstop concerts. The Woodstock of country music in the Midwest, and Benjamin King headlined day one of the event.

One more gig in his never-ending tour schedule. He’d spent a total of a month, tops, at his ranch house in Mercy Falls since he’d inked the deal on the property nine months ago.

Well, Ian Shaw’s ranch house. Ben still felt like an interloper in the expansive log-sided home. More, he might have gotten in over his head with that purchase. The debt forced him back on the road, to depend on ticket sales to keep his fledgling studio, Mountain Song Records, afloat. But that seemed the cost of going independent—endless touring, interviews, social media events, and gigs like this one where he poured everything out for his fans.

His muscles ached, and with everything inside him, he’d wanted to lock himself in his RV and hide today.

I see you standing there, alone in the light

C’mere, baby, I’m the one that will treat you right

Ben leaned into the mic, needing the music to roust him, to thread through his lonely, frustrated soul, to give him a reason to keep smiling, to add a little flirt and swagger to his performance.

The music had always filled most of the hollow places and for a long time masked his hunger for family and the woman he’d walked away from.

In a way, the music had saved him, at least long enough for him to find his way back home. Back to Kacey.

I know you’re scared, that you think I’ll hurt you

But baby, I’m nothing without your love . . .

Wow, he missed her. And he tried not to let her absence stir up worry. Or irritation.

Kacey—and Audrey—should have been here by now.

He spotted a woman with long blonde hair and pale blue eyes, wearing a shirt with his image decaled on the front, swaying to his music. She smiled, waved.

He met her smile and directed the next lyrics her way. Shae Johnson, aka Esme Shaw, the missing niece of billionaire Ian Shaw. She’d shown up backstage, and he’d spent a few minutes meeting the girl he’d spent a summer searching for nearly five years ago. He’d thought she was dead, but she’d surfaced almost a year ago in Mercy Falls, long enough to help search for her uncle, who had been thrown overboard in the Caribbean.

Of course, Ben had been on the road during all that excitement.

He’d been on the road for the better part of a year and a half. Too much. He’d even had to postpone his wedding, twice.

He wasn’t doing it a third time.

Which was why he’d arranged this little surprise trip for Kacey. The reason he’d kept secrets, conspired with Audrey, and even involved his father in the plan. And why he’d asked his father to go back to the B & B he’d reserved on a nearby lake to make sure that, while the owners had kept a lid on his plans, they’d also followed his instructions.

No more waiting. As soon as this gig ended, he was taking five sorely deserved days off to elope, starting with a preacher at the Duck Lake B & B and ending with someplace quiet and unfrenzied with the woman he loved.

His gaze fanned out over the crowd.

So let’s get out of here, let me take you home

I promise you, you’ll never again be alone . . .

He launched into the chorus again and glanced at the sky behind them. No rain, but an ominous dark wall of angry cumulus hovered in the distance, and the wind had begun to kick up, rippling the orange-striped awnings of the autograph areas and the merch tents. The carnival lure of cotton candy, fried cheese curds, and popcorn melded with the acrid smell of the hot rubber hoses, beer, and the heat of too many bodies jammed together on a muggy summer evening.

He ended the song and raised his hands to the audience. “Thanks for being here today. I know it’s hot, but it’s a beautiful evening in Minnesota!”

Cheers cascaded through the crowd.

“A few of you might recognize this one. It’s one of my oldies, but sometimes you just have to go back to your roots, right?”

He glanced at his bandleader and nodded his head as the drummer tapped out three beats before they launched into the intro. Ben leaned into the mic.

Early riser, gonna catch the sun

Gotta start ’er early, gonna get her done

Rounding up the herd, putting on the brand

Then I’ll kick off my spurs and head out with the band

This song belonged most of all to Kacey, and he imagined her in the crowd, her long red hair piled up, those beautiful green eyes shining. And beside her, beautiful Audrey, long auburn hair in a thick braid, her eyes so big they could hold him captive.

I’ve got a Mountain Song

I’m cowboy strong

Working all day

It’s where I belong

But after the work’s done

I’m gonna sing my song

And there it was, the easy beat he needed, the stir of the old zing.

Waiting on a break, hoping on a star

Believin’ that the dreamin’s gonna get me far

I’ve got a Mountain Song

He ripped out the mic from the stand, about to walk into the audience, when the lightning crackled through the twilight. As if God might be reaching down with a fiery splinter of divine power, the bolt touched the earth, just outside the festival grounds, near the municipal airport. An explosion, and the entire world shook.

The sound system died as thunder cracked, so close the hairs of Ben’s arms rose.

The crowd shifted from cheers to screaming.

The first drops of rain pinged on the shell overhead. He turned to the band. “Can we get sound back?” He glanced toward the wings, saw his sound guy shaking his head.

Nice. Perfect.

The rain pelleted the front of the stage, and he turned to the crowd, not sure what to do.

Like a blanket of doom, the wall of clouds closed in, turned the sky an eerie green, and eclipsed the sun.

“Take cover! Everyone!” Ben moved to the front of the stage. He blamed instinct, perhaps, but he’d been in on the search the summer Shae went missing, and reaching for her seemed the only thing that made sense.

Shae opened her mouth in surprise, then grabbed his hand.

Meanwhile, the crowd ran for cover.

“It’s just a rainstorm,” Shae said as she climbed on stage.

“Maybe, but we had a couple tornadoes when I lived in Tennessee, and I don’t like that sky. We need to get inside, or at least under something solid.”

His brain went blank.

Cover. Where, in the middle of all these RVs, tents, and pickups?

He turned to his band, Joey and Duke, Buckley and Moose. “Get to the storage lockers!” Behind the stage, the festival grounds hosted permanent buildings that stored the tents, mechanicals, and stage equipment. “Run!”

He grabbed Shae’s hand and his custom Fender and nearly jumped off the stage. The crowd massed near the back exits, but terrified fans had pushed over the flimsy metal blockades and headed away from the festival grounds, running for who knew where.

“Stay with me!” He hoped his bandmates heard him as he pushed through the crowd, his hand clamped on Shae’s. By the time he cleared the row of musician RVs, a warning siren whined through the air.

Funnel on the ground. He should have listened to his instincts to cancel.

“C’mon!” He crossed the now-muddy lot, his boots slipping against the deluge, and ducked as the rain pinged his neck.

“Hail!” Shae screamed, curling her arm over her head.

“Keep running!” They cut around a row of tractor-trailers lined up like dominoes, through a parking lot now jammed with escapees in their cars, and toward the warehouse in the center. A row of trucks blocked the five garage doors.

Ben squeezed between the barricade to reach the first garage door. It was locked at the bottom. So was the next, and every one down the row. Even the entrance at the front stayed secured, shut. He fought with the handle of the door for too long.

A roar tore through the pea-green sky, like the sound of jet engines passing overhead. Wind shook the semis.

“We need to get inside that office now!” He glanced at Moose, his drummer. A handful of fans had followed him—more than he’d realized—all looking at him for salvation.

Without a second thought, he turned and slammed his custom Fender guitar, the one given to him by Garth Brooks, into the glass of the door.

The pane shattered, and he reached in, felt for the handle, and turned the lock. Didn’t even realize he’d cut himself along the inside of his arm until he’d gotten them all inside and down the hallway in the center of the building. “Find an inner wall!”

He hunkered down along a cement wall and pulled Shae down beside him. “We’ll be okay.”

She nodded, swallowed, her eyes huge.

“Really,” he said.

“You’re bleeding.”

He lifted his arm and grimaced. Blood muddied his arm, puddled on the floor.

“Here.” Across from him, a guy probably no older than Shae, with nearly black hair, brown eyes, and the build of an athlete, whipped off his shirt and crawled over. He wrapped it around Ben’s arm, holding it tight.

“Ned Marshall,” he said just as windows shattered in the front lobby.

Shae stiffened. But she gamely applied pressure to Ben’s arm, her hands next to Ned’s. She met Ben’s eyes. “We’re going to be fine.”

He leaned his head back against the cement, listened to the fury of the storm, and prayed with everything inside him that the women he loved had decided to stay home.

A storm could save her life. One more epic shot, that’s all she needed.

Brette stared out the window of the Tulsa Cancer Center, looking at the cumulonimbus clouds. She’d plugged in her extra camera battery last night at the hotel, as the sunset bled red across the horizon, and set her camera on a tripod to capture the halo moon.

Her shots of a molten, melting moon landed on thirty syndicated blogs this morning. Enough residuals to pay for this stupid appointment.

She’d have to scour up more than just a pretty moon, however, to dig herself out from under her pile of debt. She wanted to wince at her pitiful voice, still resounding in her head. “C’mon, Jonas, don’t do this to me.” But in truth, an epic F-5 storm, complete with pictures, could launch her into a new life.

Even if, deep inside, she was still shaking, the sound of the storm passing overhead playing mayhem in her head.

“All done,” said the phlebotomist, a young man barely sprouting a beard, as he pressed cotton to the needle wound on the inside of her arm. At least this time, they hadn’t had to go hunting. How she hated the pokes in the top of her hand, the inside of her wrist, next to the bone, or even once in her thumb.

“Good job,” she said and pushed her sleeve down. No hospital gown for her today. In fact, she’d debated not coming in.

She glanced again at the sky. A slight wall gathered above, gray and ominous, the leading edge of trouble. This better not take long. She’d only stopped in because Jonas and Nixon’s meeting with the SPC gave her the time to sneak away for her six-month checkup. At least Dr. Daniels’s office would stop leaving her voicemails now.

Not that the doctor would tell her anything she didn’t already know.

God had put a timer on her life, and she wasn’t dodging it, no matter how much chemo and radiation she had or how many parts they removed. And sure, she might be in remission, but she shouldn’t hold her breath.

She read the name of the phlebotomist. Nurse Bellamy.

“I’ll bet you’re pretty tired of being stuck, huh?” he said as he packed up.

He had no idea.

“That’s a lot of blood.” She counted six vials as he gathered them into his tray.

“Dr. Daniels will be in soon,” Bellamy said and offered her a smile. Patted her knee.

And didn’t that make her feel like a victim. She managed to return the smile but turned back to the window.

She just might suffocate if she didn’t get out of here soon. The hospital smells, a pungent mix of cleaning solution and medicines, had turned her stomach long before she became a regular patient. Gripping the sides of the table, she closed her eyes, ran a map of Tulsa inside her brain.

They’d have to get on 64 going south, connect with 364, and hook around the city. With the storm running from the northwest, they could shoot north on 75, maybe hit 412, or perhaps they could cut it off on 44, although—

A knock, and her head shot up just as the door opened.

“Hey, Brette, great to see you.”

She liked Dr. Daniels, despite herself. He reminded her of the British actor who played the current James Bond—sparingly handsome, thinning gray hair, serious demeanor, the body of a man who worked out, even at sixty. It made her think that maybe she had an action hero fighting the cancer with her.

Except they weren’t exactly a dynamic duo. Doctor 007 stayed on the sidelines, giving directions and writing orders while she went to war with her invasive lobular carcinoma. Daniels hadn’t suffered from the months of pain and bloody discharge from a double mastectomy, hadn’t stared into the mirror at her deformed body, and hadn’t helped her gather the handfuls of her hair, long golden strands that puddled on her pillow at night. Hadn’t held her hand as she shaved her head, rubbed her back while she huddled in the bathroom, her body dry heaving from the nausea. Hadn’t wiped her tears as she’d wept from the ache of her mouth sores or watched her body waste away. Hadn’t forced her to get up, to muscle forward when everything inside her wanted to crumble into a ball and vanish.

No, there was no we—just Brette, chin up, teeth clenched, whittling out courage to accept whatever mission Doctor 007 decided to assign her.

She forced a smile. “Hey, Doc.”

He put down a folder on the table next to her and reached up to touch her lymph glands at her neck, prodding. He had gentle hands, but the feel of them on her skin made her bristle at the memories.

Please, let the cancer be gone.

She shook away the thought—maybe the prayer—before it rooted.

She would accept the storm and ride it out without a whimper.

Even if—probably—it took her life.

He stepped back and pulled his stethoscope from around his neck. “Deep breath.”

She obeyed, and he pressed the cold chestpiece to her décolletage. She stifled a shiver.

“Okay,” he said. “Just breathe normally.”

Right. She hadn’t breathed normally since, well, since that day in Montana when the doc came in, palpated a suspicious lump in her armpit he’d seen during her emergency appendectomy, and asked to run a few tests.

A few expensive tests.

Tests she didn’t have insurance to pay for.

Tests that would only cause Ty Remington to foot the bill, again, for her hospital stay. And she couldn’t do that to him.

Nor could she bear the look of pity in his eyes as the surgeons carved her apart. She knew the drill—had endured every moment of the process with her mother.

The last thing she needed was to crumple into a man’s arms, afraid, alone, and hurt. Thanks, she’d been there, done that, and still had the scars to prove it. And sure, Ty wasn’t pretty-boy-turned-thug Eason Drake, but he had enough of the markers.

Rich boy saves poor girl and thinks he’s entitled to payment.

Nope.

“Okay,” 007 said as he stepped away from her. “We won’t have the CBC back for a few days, but we should think about scheduling you for reconstructive surgery.”

Oh. She refrained from looking down at the pitiful prosthetic she wore. Not out of vanity—at this point, she’d gotten used to seeing the damage done to her body. The fake size Bs just deflected obvious questions. And with her hair almost two inches long, she’d actually started to not flinch when she looked in the mirror. A little curly, with wisps of auburn at the roots, her hair could someday look cute.

She even had eyebrows again.

In truth, the external ravage of her body didn’t destroy her as much as the reminder that she’d lost so much of the person she’d been inside. The old Brette would have looked beyond the storm to the sunshine, found the hope between the thunderheads.

Now, she belonged to the storm. To the chaos and destruction and howling winds. It would only destroy her to embrace some kind of fragile hope, or lean into a future that might never be.

“I don’t think so, Doc. I’m . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know that I’ve licked this thing, and . . . it’s . . .” Expensive.

And, really, needless. It wasn’t like she planned on getting married. Or dating.

Or ever letting someone far enough into her life that it might matter. “Come home with me to Minnesota.” Oh, she dearly hoped Jonas didn’t look at her and see anything more than his backseat blogger. She didn’t have the strength to let anyone else inside. Especially since Ty wouldn’t leave.

Daniels folded his arms over his white jacket, frowning. “It’s painful, I know. It takes some recovery time, but you have to think positively. You’re young—”

“I’m thirty.”

“That’s young. And your last CBC showed no abnormal cells. It’s early, but we treated this thing aggressively.”

Yeah, she remembered exactly how aggressively.

“You’re strong, and while I can’t make any guarantees, I think you should look forward, Brette.”

“I am. I have a job, I’m traveling—”

“I know.” He offered her a smile. “I saw the picture you took of the F-5 that hit in Colorado last summer. That was when you went to visit your friend?”

“It was only an F-3, but yes, it was . . . I was in the right place at the right time.”

The right place because her best friend, Ella, had finally tracked her down and insisted on helping her recuperate.

So maybe she hadn’t been completely alone.

But Ella had only dragged in memories of Ty and the fact that for one smidgen of a moment, Brette had found a hero. In her weak moments, she could still taste his lips on hers, still remember the smell of him—clean and cottony—as he’d swept her into his arms, carried her to his truck, and raced her to the hospital before her appendix burst.

She probably owed him her life.

“Cool how your picture made the national news,” Daniels was saying, referring to her epic shot. “I didn’t know you were into photography.”

“The hazards of being sick . . . you get restless. Start new hobbies.”

“And if you’re Brette Arnold, you start a blog about weather and become a national sensation.”

Her mouth opened.

“Your email signature had a link to it in our last correspondence. I couldn’t help but click on it. Great blog, although you should update your bio photo.” He raised an eyebrow. “People need to see what a fighter you are. It’s a great metaphor—you faced your own storm and won.”

Her throat thickened. So yes, she’d uploaded the before cancer photo, the one where she still possessed her curves, her long blonde hair. A strong and invincible version of herself.

“No one knew I had—or still have—cancer,” Brette said quietly. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

Daniels held up a hand. “No worries. But if only others could see the woman I see. A woman who chases storms and predicts disasters and chronicles survivors. You’re an inspiration.”

She shot him a sharp look and couldn’t stop herself. “No. I’m not. Every morning when the alarm rings, my body screams at me. I have to pry myself out of bed, force myself to eat breakfast. And when I get coffee into my veins, I’m fine for a whole ten minutes until I look in the mirror. Then it all comes back, and I see who I’ve become, a ghost of the person I knew. It’s horrifying.” She wanted to clamp her hand over her mouth. She looked away, blinking fast. “I just want myself back. Or at least some version I can live with.”

And yes, she’d only made it worse, because now he wore pity in his 007 eyes. “Brette. This is why you should go ahead and have the surgery. You can rebuild your life, show the world what a hero looks like—”

“Stop.” She looked at him, and didn’t care that a tear escaped. “Listen, there’s nothing heroic about what I do. I chase storms because a group of weather zealots pays me to take pictures and blog about our adventures. It pays the bills. And if I get really lucky, I might plant myself in the path of an F-5 and land a photo in Nat Geo.”

His eyes widened, as if visualizing that moment.

“I have a lot of bills to pay. I don’t have insurance, I don’t have a home, I don’t even own a car. I have this gig, a backpack, and today. And that’s all I need. All I can expect.”

“There are grants for people like—”

“Me? Oh, you mean charity cases? No thanks, Doc. I’m going to pay back every cent of my treatment, even if it takes the rest of my life. Which might not be long, so sorry for that.”

He frowned and she wanted to wince. He didn’t deserve that.

“What you do is dangerous, Brette. Especially for someone in your state of recovery. You could get hurt.”

And now he was almost being fatherly. She schooled her voice and fended him off with sincerity. “Listen, I’m grateful. I really am. You took my case, and maybe we really did lick this. But let’s be honest. My mother died of breast cancer. My odds of long-term survival are so low, what’s the point of caution?”

He stared at her.

“Can we be done here?” She slid off the table.

“I’d really like you to think about the reconstruction.” But he stepped away, as if rattled.

“Why?” She reached for her satchel. “This is who I am. If you need a metaphor, here I am, the debris after a storm.” She reached for the door, turned back. “There’s no fixing this mess, no starting over, and no reconstruction that will give me back what I lost. It’s just this wreckage of my life.” She paused. “And don’t bother calling if the cancer is back. I’m just . . . I’m done, Doc. I mean it. I don’t have any more fight in me. Thanks for everything.”

The door closed behind her as she practically ran down the hall.

She stopped, however, in the bathroom before she hit the lobby. No good having her team thinking she might drop dead on them before the season ended.

Okay, she might be a little overly dramatic, but one look in the mirror at her gaunt face rimmed with shadows, the spiked blonde hair, the gaps in her clothing as it hung on her . . . her lifeless chest.

Yeah, if she were to compare before and after pictures from eighteen months ago, she looked ravaged.

And if she ever wondered if she’d done the right thing AMA-ing herself out of the hospital in Kalispell and practically running from Ty Remington, her visage in the mirror confirmed that she’d saved them both a collision with disaster and heartache.

Better to go it alone, all the way to the bitter end.

Washing water on her face—what was the use of makeup?—she hid the marks of any tears, emerged, at least more intact, and strode through the lobby.

Geena sat outside, leaning against a cement planter, texting. She looked up at Brette as she exited, then pocketed the phone. “The guys are on their way. There’s a storm heading for their hometown. And it looks bad.”

Ty needed a shower, a nap, and a pizza. Not necessarily in that order.

So, he couldn’t say why he was driving up the road to PEAK headquarters, a former two-story ranch house and towering white barn that hosted all their SAR equipment, not to mention their shiny new Bell 412EP chopper.

Maybe he just needed to feel a part of a rescue mission. Sure, he’d found the Berkleys, helped feed the fire that kept everyone warm and alive, had hiked out to call in the team. But from there, Kacey had been the one to fly in the chopper, Gage, the EMT who ferried down the line to the creek bed, twice, to retrieve first Richard, then Jan. It had been Miles, their incident commander, who made sure they got onto the deck safely and whisked off to Kalispell Regional Medical Center.

Leaving Ty alone on the soggy creek bed, waving as they flew away. He’d wanted to pick up his truck, and they didn’t have time to drop him.

It had taken him nearly six hours to hike back to his pickup. Another two to drive out of the park, and he’d gone straight to the hospital.

His team had been there and gone, but he stopped in to see Jan as she waited for Richard to get out of surgery. She’d only suffered a severely sprained ankle.

“We would still be out there if it weren’t for you.” Jan had pressed her hands to either side of his grimy, whiskered face, and he turned seven years old at the warmth in her eyes.

“Aw, you’re pretty tough, Jan. I have no doubt you would’ve saved Richard.” He winked and pressed a kiss to her forehead, not sure why he did it. It just felt right.

“If you ever need anything . . .” She whisked away tears.

He’d called himself just a little bit of a hero by the time he left.

The summer sun hung just above the granite peaks, the rain clearing the sky to a brilliant indigo. He should probably head home to the ranch sometime soon, see if his brother needed a hand with anything, although Ty couldn’t remember the last time Powers needed his help.

Fact was, he was about as useful on the ranch as on the PEAK team.

He wished Ben King were in town, maybe playing a gig at the Gray Pony Saloon, but Ben had a full schedule this summer at festivals and state fairs. With Pete working for the Red Cross around the globe and Jess Tagg jetting back and forth from New York, the PEAK team had been stripped down to just himself, Gage, Kacey, Miles, Sam, and Sierra, their administrator. And Chet, of course, but he’d gone AWOL this weekend.

Ty sort of wondered if the old guy might be proposing to Maren, Sam and Pete’s mother. Ty had seen a brochure of some bed and breakfast on his desk.

He turned into the parking lot and spotted Ian’s black pickup, along with Gage’s Mustang and Sam’s truck. He guessed he might be walking into some kind of legal powwow.

Ever since Esme Shaw, now Shae Johnson, had walked back into Ian’s life, armed with a crazy story about Sheriff Randy Blackburn killing a woman, Sofia d’Cruze, five years ago, Ian, Sam, and Gage’s girlfriend, attorney Ella Blair, had been working overtime to build a case they might bring to the county prosecutor. Ella especially, because the victim had been a former roommate.

But they needed evidence, a case that didn’t sound fabricated and built on what-ifs.

Ty got out of his truck and climbed up the porch steps, hearing their voices through the screen even before he went in.

Yep, Gage, with his long hair tied back in a man bun, wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt, leaned over the table in the center of the room, papers spread over the top. “And you can’t track down this number, honey?”

Ella, her curly auburn hair tied back, stood with her arms folded, brows raised. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” She glanced at Ty. “Hey you.” She frowned at his appearance. “Somebody had a hard day.”

He slid onto a stool at the counter, and Sierra, a woman who could read a man’s mind, handed him the entire jar of cookies. “You did good today.”

“Thanks.”

He held the jar on his lap and glanced at her husband, Ian, who was leaning against the wall, his arms folded, looking grim.

The running theory, based on Shae’s story, was that Sofia, an exchange student from Spain, had met Blackburn while on a skiing trip. An affair had sparked between them that eventually ended in a fatal argument off a hiking trail in Glacier National Park.

“We just need more than a list of phone calls to Montana between Blackburn and Sofia to convince Shae to testify,” Ian said. “She’s afraid that if we don’t have evidence to back up her testimony, Blackburn will walk, and then . . . well, Shae will disappear again. And I wouldn’t blame her, after what she’s been through.”

He let the silence fill in the rest—the fact that Shae and her boyfriend, Dante, had watched Blackburn push Sofia off a cliff, and when he discovered the eyewitnesses to his crime, Blackburn had tracked them down and beaten Dante to death before Shae’s eyes. By some remote miracle, Shae had gotten away, only to keep running all the way to Minneapolis.

It took four years, but Sierra had tracked Shae down and convinced her to return home.

“What about the necklace Blackburn said proved the body was Shae’s?” Sam said. Ty hadn’t even seen him sitting at the kitchen table in the nook. Their deputy-slash-SAR-liaison had a get-’er-done attitude that accounted for why they never gave up a search. “I talked to the coroner, and she doesn’t have Shae’s necklace on her list of items discovered with Sofia’s body. So how did Blackburn get ahold of it?”

Ty well remembered the dark months after they’d found Sofia, whose body had decomposed after three years in the Mercy River. Months when Ian feared the body could be Shae’s.

“When Blackburn showed me a picture on his phone of the necklace, he told me the coroner found it,” Ian said, pushing off the wall.

“Are you sure it’s Shae’s?” Ty said.

“Yes. I gave it to her on her eighteenth birthday.”

“She said Blackburn ripped it off her during their fight,” Sierra said, setting a glass of milk in front of Ty. “He must have kept it, just in case the body was ever found.”

“Then he used it to make me think Shae was dead. But still, it’s not evidence. It’s my word against his,” Ian said. “He could have easily deleted the picture.”

“And there’s no other evidence of his so-called relationship with Sofia?” Ty asked, picking up his milk.

“Trust me,” Ella said. “They were involved. Sofia was crazy about this guy named Randy. Would text him, write letters.”

“And you never saw them together,” Gage said.

“Nope. My guess is he wanted it to stay secret,” Ella said. “Considering he’s married.”

Sam walked over to the list of numbers. Looked through them. “So, you’re saying that all these calls to Montana from Sofia’s phone are to a burner?”

“Would you give out your home number if you were cheating on your wife?” Ian said.

“I wouldn’t cheat on my wife,” Sam said, something sparking in his eyes.

Probably that something had to do with the fact that, well, he had kissed his current girlfriend while dating another woman. But he had reasons, and a good story to go with it.

And frankly, the other woman hadn’t loved him, and everybody knew it.

Some people were just destined to be together, and Ian himself had run around that truth for years before surrendering last fall and proposing to Sierra. They’d tied the knot in a small ceremony right before Christmas. In the house he’d once owned.

In fact, everyone in the room—Gage, Sam, and Ian—had found the woman they belonged with.

Which left, of course, Ty, the man who’d let a woman steal his heart and run away.

Sam put the list down. “You have no idea how it feels to work with Blackburn every day, knowing what he’s put us all, but especially Shae, through. The fact that he killed Ella’s friend and poor Dante.”

“That he allegedly killed,” Ella said.

Everyone, even Gage, looked at her.

Ella held up her hands. “Listen, I believe every word Shae said. But I’ve also learned my lesson about jumping to conclusions. I just want to make sure we nail this guy with evidence. That we can prove he’s guilty.”

“He’s guilty,” Ian said, his voice low. “I know it in my gut. I just need five minutes—”

“Take a breath, Ian,” Sam said. “We’ll figure this out. But if the guy invites me over to watch one more baseball game on his new flat screen, I might have to level him.”

“From my research, he’s up to his ears in debt,” Ella said. “My guess is that he’s a sports gambler.”

“Which probably accounts for the stack of sports magazines he’s constantly bringing to the station or leaving at the gym,” Sam said. “But it doesn’t help us nail him for Sofia’s murder.”

Ian shook his head. “I’m so tired of the people I love feeling alone. Helpless. It’s time for Shae to come home, if she wants.”

And with Ian’s words, there went Ty’s gut again, that feeling that something was deeply, terribly wrong with Brette. No, he couldn’t put a finger on why, or what, but he couldn’t shake it.

He could be, of course, clinging too hard to something that clearly was never meant to be.

He finished off the milk. Set his glass on the counter. “I need a shower.”

“Yeah, dude, you do,” Gage said as Sierra pulled a tray of pigs in a blanket from the oven.

Maybe he’d stay a little longer.

The door opened, and Kacey walked in carrying a duffel over her shoulder. She dropped it onto the floor, sighed. She wore a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt and looked like she’d wasted a few hours in the airport chairs. Behind her, her daughter Audrey looked just as wrung out and annoyed. “Our flight out was canceled.”

Kacey came over, grabbed the cookie jar from the counter, and clutched it to her chest.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not that bad,” Sierra said.

“We haven’t seen Ben in six weeks,” Kacey said and held out the jar to Audrey, who pulled out two cookies.

“Dad was really looking forward to seeing us,” Audrey said and slid onto one of the stools. She glanced at her mom. “Are you sure we can’t just drive?”

“To Minnesota? It would take us two days, in good weather, and with the storm front going through . . . no, honey. We only have five days off, and it would eat up two days each way, if not more.”

“Storm front?” Sam said, reaching for one of the pigs in a blanket that Sierra piled onto a tray.

“Apparently there’s one ahead of us, between here and Minnesota, that the forecasters were hoping would die down, but . . . no. And there’s another one coming in behind us from the west coast. So, we’re grounded.” She put her arm around her daughter. “We’ll see your dad when he comes home after Labor Day.”

“But that’s almost two months away!”

“It’s the tour, honey. It’s the price of being a country music star. It’s not all red carpet events and parties.”

“I’d like to go to just one red carpet event, please.”

Kacey laughed, but Ty agreed with Audrey. What was the use of having a superstar father if she never got to ride in a limousine, attend the Country Music Awards, or even hang out at a sold-out concert? In their efforts to keep Audrey out of the limelight, the poor girl barely got to bask in the outer glow.

But Kacey didn’t seem to want that life either, preferring her privacy over Ben’s alter-ego life. Ty had started to wonder just who might be behind the delay of their wedding. Twice, already, postponed. Not that Ty had a stake in it, but he felt for Audrey. And Kacey.

No one should be separated from someone they loved. Especially because of weather.

A phone rang, and Ty glanced at the cell phone lying on the counter.

Brette’s picture popped up on the screen, and for a second, he just stilled. Well, well. And yes, he knew that Ella had tracked down her wayward friend. But . . . he couldn’t ignore how Brette sat at the top of his thoughts and . . .

Ella picked up the phone, glancing at Ty. He gave her a smile. “Don’t worry about it.” If Brette didn’t want him in her life, there was nothing he could do about it.

Ella took the call over in the corner, but an “Oh, you’re kidding!” made everyone turn.

When she added, “Was anyone hurt?” it had all of Ty’s instincts firing.

Ella’s hand touched her mouth. “Wow.”

What was wow? But he didn’t want to pry. He snagged one of the pigs in a blanket and took a bite.

Ella had glanced toward the group, nodding. “Yeah, that sounds pretty epic. But I’m sure there will be more . . . oh.” She sighed. “You could always come . . . yeah, right. Have you heard from—”

She turned away then, one hand clasped around her waist, her voice low.

“She didn’t want to keep it from you,” Gage said, glancing at Ty. “She knows how much you care about Brette. But Brette—”

“Doesn’t care about me. It’s fine.”

Gage’s mouth tightened in a line. “That’s not quite it, but . . .”

Ella walked over, sliding her phone onto the counter. “Brette’s in Oklahoma,” she said, glancing at Ty, then at Gage. “She caught twin tornadoes near Dodge City—but just missed an F-4 going through Minnesota.”

“Where in Minnesota?” Kacey asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Ben’s playing a music festival in southwestern Minnesota.”

“Hopefully it wasn’t up near Minneapolis,” Ian said. “Shae is living off campus with some friends in a house that could blow over in a gentle breeze.”

As if on cue, Ian’s phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pocket. “Shae?”

He walked away, but Ty’s gaze stayed on him, even while trying to sort out Ella’s words. Brette caught two tornadoes?

“Okay, calm down. Are you hurt?” Ian said, his voice carrying across the room.

Everyone went silent.

“Oh good. Yes. Oh, I’m so glad.”

Kacey turned to Ty. “Must have hit near Minneapolis.” When her phone rang in her jacket, she pulled it out, stared at the screen. Frowned. “It’s Ben. But . . .” She put the phone to her ear. “Hey.”

The entire thing had Ty’s gut clenching, because as he watched, Kacey’s face whitened. She swallowed and looked up, first at Ty, then Ian, who had strangely turned to meet her gaze.

“Okay, yes. Of course,” Kacey said. “And you’re not hurt?” She nodded, listening. “Okay, we’re on our way. Somehow, we’ll get there. I love you.”

She hung up. Ian had already walked over, his mouth tight. They looked at each other, then Kacey turned to the team. Took a breath.

But before she could speak, her breath hiccupped, and her eyes filled. Ian pressed his hand to her shoulder.

“A tornado hit the music festival. Shae was there, with Ben—he got her to safety. They’re both okay.”

Ian swallowed then, looked at Kacey, sighed. “But Chet was there. And now he’s gone missing. We need to get to Minnesota, pronto, and help Ben find his father.”

So yes, that nap could wait too.