Jonas, page 23
And then it was just his instincts. And hope.
Mostly hope.
Darkness had descended and blanketed the land, not a prick of light on the horizon as he headed west on Merrick. The wind snarled, the blizzard a tempest, the road completely obscured now.
So maybe this hadn’t been his sharpest idea.
“Find Girl. Die in snowbank.” He shook his head.
He glanced at his odometer. Maybe he’d gone too far. As he looked down at the offline directions he’d downloaded, darkness flashed against his lights.
A deer, or an elk, or maybe just Sasquatch stood in the glare, a snapshot, then darted away.
He slammed his brakes. The truck slid, spinning, and he fought the wheel, turning it one way, then back, and then—
He skated right off the road. And not into an easy ditch either, but the ground dropped away from the hardtop. The truck landed nose first a drift, its back wheels spinning.
Jonas sat for a moment, snow smashed against his windshield—still intact, thank you, God—and just caught his breath.
Nice. Just so. Perfect.
He put the truck into reverse and tried to back it out. The back wheels spun, the front wheels fighting for purchase.
After a couple tries, he opened the door.
He’d driven over a barbed wire fence, the churning wheels only tangling up the wire into his chassis.
Yep. That felt right.
He closed the door. Turned off the truck.
Sat in the darkness.
Tried not to hit anything, but yeah, he was just…done.
Done.
No matter what he did…he ended up here. Right here. In the middle of nowhere, the wind howling, slowly freezing to death. And he heard his own stupid voice to Sibba.
So…I trust Him in the storm. In fact, I even run into them. And there, I expect to see Him already at the center.
Wow, he sounded like a Sunday school sermon.
I got this.
No. No, he didn’t.
But God does. And that’s how it’s supposed to be.
He leaned back, zipped his jacket up to his chin. Shoved his hands into his pockets.
Maybe that was the problem. Even in the storm, he put his focus on himself, his own abilities. His instincts.
His ability to read the forecast.
In fact, he hadn’t been trusting God at all.
And the words of his father just sort of came in, sat down next to him. You stay rooted in the middle of a storm—darkness, confusion, chaos—by putting your focus on the One who is stronger than the storm.
He leaned his forehead onto the wheel. I’m sorry.
In fact, as he sat and listened to the howl of the wind, the snow slapping his windows, the immensity of it all…
How had he even, for a millisecond, believed that, hello, he had this?
He turned off his lights, letting the darkness engulf the car. Then he closed his eyes. I don’t have this, Lord. In fact, all I have is You. If You’ll have me.
The silence behind his words swept through him.
And then, “You of little faith, why are you so afraid?”
The voice seemed nearly audible, and he opened his eyes. Leaned up.
Still the storm, the voice of the wind, the pelleting of the snow and ice.
And then, there—across the prairie, the finest wink of a light. It shone out through the pitch and swirl of snow. In fact, if it hadn’t been so terribly black out, he might not have seen it at all.
Please stay on.
He reached for his emergency bag and pulled out the sleeping bag and a Maglite. Then he tightened down his hat, pulled up the furry hood of his parka, tightened his boots, took a breath, and pushed out of the truck.
He landed in a foot or more of snow, but the truck had flattened the fencing, so he worked his way over the mangled wire. Then he shook out the sleeping bag, pulled it around himself, and headed for the light.
A blizzard across the prairie of Montana was nothing like the snowstorms in Slovenia.
“It’s gorgeous, right?” Retti sat in one of the big rocking chairs, wrapped in a quilt, her feet in lambswool slippers.
Sibba wore the same attire—quilt, slippers. And they both held a mug of hot cocoa, courtesy of their aunt, who’d stepped out for a bit to listen to the howl.
“It sounds like the ocean waves, although sometimes it’s simply thunder gathering in the distance,” Sibba said.
“I like to think of it as the breath of God.”
“And you’re not afraid of that?”
Retti looked her, blowing on her cocoa. “Why would I be? If God is for us, who can be against us?”
Her question hung with Sibba even after they finished the cocoa. Why would I be?
They talked about Slovenia, and Sibba told her about learning how to disable bombs, and Retti thought it was cool. And then Retti told her about how her entire family had been praying for Grandpa Henry for years.
And for her.
And Sibba had sat there, under the warmth of the great quilt, and wanted, for some reason, to cry.
“I’m headed in. A warm bath is calling my name.” Retti stood up.
“I think I’ll sit out here, just a little longer.”
“You done with your cocoa?”
Sibba handed her the mug. Retti took it, then paused at the door. “Just wait until you wake up in the morning. The day after the storm is even more glorious. The whole world will be white, and it’ll look like the ocean swept past, leaving frozen waves and sparkles. And the sky will be a breathtaking blue.” She winked at Sibba. She opened the door, and light and heat spilled out.
“Retti,” Sibba said. “Can you turn off the light?”
“You want to sit out here in the dark?”
“Yes.”
Be one with the storm and still cocooned inside her warm quilt. Into the middle of our darkness, God reaches out and saves us.
Yes, maybe He did.
The light went off, and the darkness swirled around her. She’d put the blanket up around her head, so only her face showed. Even so, the cold bit at her nose. She thought of the cows, huddled together, companions against the storm.
But a partner, in love, walks the road with you. Helps to make sense out of the life we live. Gives it meaning.
Yes. And first thing tomorrow, when the storm lifted…she was going to find Jonas. Because maybe she didn’t have to know how to love him. Maybe she simply…did. One step, one amazing day at a time.
She should go in. The cold had started to nip around her legs, despite her warm slippers. She got up, adjusted the quilt, and was turning toward the door when something flashed in her periphery.
Turning back, she stood there, listening to the wind moan. Darkness.
Then—there, another flash.
A light.
Except, it wasn’t coming from the drive but…the cow pasture? She turned and opened the door to the house. “Uncle Marek—I think there’s someone in your field.”
Her uncle got up and headed to the door. Peered out into the night a long while.
“There, see it?”
“I’ll get my coat. You should come in.” He turned on the porch light.
But she didn’t, and she didn’t know why, but something kept her on the porch. Maybe curiosity.
Maybe hope.
Because it was crazy, this thought that—no. Stop.
Still, as Uncle Marek stepped out of the front door, garbed in a thick parka, heavy boots, a scarf, gloves, and carrying a flashlight, she nearly followed him out into the snow.
Oh, don’t be absurd. But she couldn’t help it. “Hey. Remember me? Storm chaser? I’m exactly the person you want around when the lights go down and the wind kicks up.”
Wow, she could even hear his voice. His laughter. Clearly, hope had gotten too strong a grip on her.
Uncle Marek reached the light, having gone past the fence, out into the field. And now they were walking back, together.
So yes, a person, although he—or she, just calm down Sibba—was no more than a blob, no form, as if—
The person came into the faintest glow of light. They were draped in what looked like a blanket. Probably some refugee who got stuck on the road. She didn’t know why she thought…aw, see, this was why she should stay firmly rooted in reality, in her nice one-meter space.
She turned toward the door—
“Sibba!”
She stilled, glanced back at her uncle. He was closing the gate, his back to her.
“Sibba!”
The refugee flung off his hood, snow casting into the glow of the porch, sparking against the light.
No. What—
He came up to the porch, tucking the blanket under his arm.
But his blue eyes were fixed on her. Snow clung to his hair, a slight smattering of whiskers, and dusted his parka like he’d, well, like he’d hiked through a blizzard to find her.
“Jonas?” Her voice came out in a whisper.
He hit the top step, his breath forming in the night air. “Hey.”
What? She dumped her quilt and launched herself at him, her arms around him, holding on.
“Oh,” he said, and then his arms caught her. “Hi.”
She leaned back, her eyes in his. “I knew it.” She pressed her warm hands to his cold face. “I knew it was you.”
“You…what?”
“I saw your light and…and I hoped you’d come, right here. To me.”
His smiled curled up slowly. “Huh.”
And then he leaned down and kissed her. His lips were cold on hers, and his kiss was sweet, but she held him there, kissing him, tasting him, believing in him.
Believing in their tomorrows.
“Wow. I see how it is,” said Uncle Marek as he came up on the porch. He lifted an eyebrow.
Jonas lifted his head, looked at her uncle. “Jonas Marshall.”
“I figured.” He looked at Sibba. “The weatherman?”
She nodded. Grinned.
“Better come in and get warm,” Uncle Marek said and tromped inside. Closed the door.
Leaving them alone on the porch.
Jonas unzipped his jacket.
She picked up her quilt. “I just…how did you find me?”
He laughed, grabbed her hand and pulled her to himself, cocooning her inside his jacket. He was warm and strong and safe. “I just followed the storm.”
Then he bent his head and kissed her again. And as the snow swirled around them and the wind howled, she knew…
Right here, in the eye of love, was where she was staying.
What Happens Next
It was a longshot, Ned knew it, but he couldn’t break free of his hold on the idea that Shae had returned home.
Back to Mercy Falls, Montana, where her uncle Ian lived and where, when the dust settled, she knew she was safe.
At last.
And sure, she’d spent years hiding from the murderer who’d killed someone she loved, and even, eventually, tried to kill her too, but those were long ago days.
Four years long ago.
And since then, she’d made Mercy Falls, and her uncle Ian’s new ranch, her home base. Probably because here, she also remembered the girl she’d been—Esme Shaw. That girl had loved horses, and life. And while Esme had had her issues, it was the brave, stubborn, feisty girl of her past that Shae had tapped into when she’d faced her killer. When she’d followed Ned to San Diego, then Pensacola, and back. And the person who’d helped her start her online graphic arts business.
So, yes, Shae and Esme were one, and that meant Ned had a good shot that his gut was right on this as he rented a truck and headed north from the Kalispell airport.
He liked Montana. His cousins lived south of here on a ranch in Geraldine, just outside the border of Glacier National Park. He liked their life—raising bulls for the rodeo circuit, and recently, according to Ford, they’d added bison to their grazing herd.
But mostly he loved their land, endless rolling hills, the jagged mountains rising to the north, the scent of wildflowers, and expansive blue sky. Out here, everything felt…big. Big dreams. Big…life.
Not that he didn’t like Minnesota—he loved the pockets of lakes, the deep green of the vineyard, the sense of community. But being out here, in Montana, he felt like he could take deeper breaths. Let the world spin out of his hands.
Let it go.
Maybe that’s why Shae came here too.
Please.
He turned east, toward Mercy Falls, and drove through the small town with the bridge over the Flathead River, the false-front buildings, a few of them advertising huckleberries. Then he headed south, toward the PEAK Search and Rescue team HQ. He hadn’t called Ian, but best guess was that the man was at the base that he’d founded.
The small house that had once sat on Ian’s land, before the Shaw ranch had been purchased by country music star Benjamin King and his wife, rescue chopper pilot Kacey, had gotten a makeover since the last time he’d been here for their wedding reception.
The house now boasted a two-story addition, and on the property, a massive garage added. The doors were open, and inside he spotted a new truck as well as an airplane—and behind the property, a long runway.
Maybe the plane belonged to King—his music career had soared in the last few years, his private label adding new talent. Ned had watched King receive the Entertainer of the Year award last year, to add to his collection of other CMA awards.
He pulled up beside a truck with the PEAK team logo on the side and got out. His hiking boots thumped on the wooden deck, and he took a breath before he pulled open the door.
His entrance stopped a conversation in the main room, one with a couple of flatscreen televisions on a far wall, a massive table in the center of the room inlaid with a detailed map of Glacier National Park, and a few desks around the room, sporting computer monitors.
The great room attached to the kitchen, and the scent of spicy chili seasoned the room. He hadn’t realized he was hungry.
A door led off the great room—once upon a time, the office of Chet King, Ben’s dad and former Vietnam chopper pilot. He’d teamed with Ian after Shae went missing to form a search and rescue team, which eventually led to PEAK.
Four people, two sitting on stools at the counter, two more leaning against the table, looked at him.
He recognized a couple of the guys. Gage Watson, his long hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a PEAK team pullover and a pair of cargo pants. If Ned remembered right, the man had been a champion snowboarder before he joined PEAK.
And Ty Remington—he’d helped Ned in the search for Creed and a bunch of cross-country runners four years ago when a tornado ripped through southern Minnesota. Ty wore a flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, and cowboy boots, and all he needed was a Stetson to fit into an episode of Yellowstone. He looked up at Ned, and a slow smile found his face. “Ned?”
“Hey,” Ned said, his hand out.
Ty came to meet him. “What’s going on?”
“Not much. I…uh. I was looking for Ian Shaw.”
The other two people had gotten off their stools. One, a younger man with a lumberjack build, had black hair and sported black whiskers. He wore a denim shirt with a vest emblazoned with the PEAK symbol. “Harrington Bly.”
Oh, the man had an Australian accent. Interesting.
The other was a woman, auburn hair in a braid under a denim ball cap, lean, striking pale blue eyes. “Derby McDonald.”
“Ned Marshall.”
“Ned’s family lives in Minnesota,” Ty said. “Wow, it’s been years. I heard you were in SEAL training.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Ty grinned. “Okay, man. Right. So, Ian. Uh, let’s see.” He ran a hand across his mouth. “Probably at the hospital right now.”
Ned stilled.
Gage laughed. “His wife is in labor. Number two.” He held up his fingers. “But this time it’s a girl. And Ian’s lost his mind with joy.”
He remembered Shae telling him about her nephew, little Chase Shaw. “I didn’t know Sierra was pregnant again.”
“Apparently, they’re wasting no time.”
“Shoot.”
Ty raised an eyebrow.
“I just…actually, I was looking for Shae. She isn’t in San Diego and…” And now he felt stupid, because, yeah, this was starting to look weird. “Never mind. What hospital?”
“Kalispell. I haven’t seen Shae since…earlier this summer, maybe?” Ty said. He looked at Gage, who shrugged.
Yeah, this was a spectacularly stupid idea. “Okay, thanks, guys. Hey, I like the new garage.”
“And we’ve expanded the team. All the way to Australia,” Gage said. He put a soft fist into Harrington Bly’s shoulder.
Harrington just raised an eyebrow.
“Tell Brette I said hi,” Ned said and headed toward the door.
Clouds hung over the far side of the mountains, the storm having cleared western Montana. He’d been detoured to Salt Lake City because of the blizzard, had spent an uncomfortable night in the airport. Had debated renting a car and driving but didn’t want to take a chance on the roads. Too easy to skid off into the ditch and freeze to death.
He found a place in the parking lot and headed inside the hospital to the maternity center. Blue carpet, teal walls with painted mountainscapes, quiet music. Stopping at the information desk, he checked in and, sure enough, Sierra Shaw was in labor.
He hadn’t thought about the fact that Shae was probably at home, babysitting little Chase, and suddenly that truth clicked in, and the fist inside his chest released.
Yes. She’d been here, probably out of cell phone reach, given the mountains and sometimes spotty cell signal at Ian’s place.
Still, he headed toward maternity, waiting at the doors as they buzzed him in, and then spotted Ian at the nurses’ station. Tall, dark hair, early forties, Ian Shaw always seemed in command of the room.
Except now. He wore a printed T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a five-o’clock shadow, and his hair deeply tousled.
“Ian?”
He turned. Blinked. “Ned?”
