Falling Hard (Colorado High Country #3)

by Pamela Clare

  Uneasiness and warmth warred with each other for space behind Jesse’s sternum. He wasn’t used to needing help. At the same time, he’d lived as an outsider in this town for most of three years now. It was nice to hear that someone felt he belonged. “Thanks.”

  Dizziness forced him to sit, his head throbbing, his body aching with fever. He wished he could lie down again, but his mama had beat good manners into him with a wooden spoon. Besides, it was probably time to stoke the fire. While he was at it, he should carry in more firewood, too.

  Ellie turned to face him, still in her self-imposed exile in the kitchen. “Can I make you a cup of tea with honey? It will help your throat.”

  He felt embarrassed and gratified at the same time. When was the last time a woman had done something like that for him? “There’s no need to go to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble.” She set about making him a cup of tea, opening cupboards till she found what she wanted and putting a mug of water into his microwave.

  “While I’m here, I might as well stoke that fire.” The doc got up, walked to the wood stove, and opened the cast iron door. “You could use some firewood, too.”

  Ten minutes later, Jesse found himself sipping a cup of hot tea with honey across the table from Ellie and her father, a fire blazing in the wood stove and enough wood piled by the hearth to last until morning.

  The doc gave him one last quick check. “You look good to me. Take Tylenol for your fever and your throat, and drink lots of fluids. You’ll feel much better by this time tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thanks to both of you.”

  Ellie reached across the table, gave his hand a squeeze, her cool touch sending a shiver up his arm. “Thank you.”

  He looked into her eyes, felt his fever rise. “What are neighbors for?”

  Jesse plugged his iPod into his stereo, started his hard-rock playlist, and cranked the volume. Electric guitar blasted through the cabin. He pulled on latex gloves and stood in his boxer briefs in the center of the living room, surveying the battlefield that was his home. Germs had gotten the better of him. Now they would die.

  Operation Annihilate was about to begin.

  As far as Jesse was concerned, antibiotics were a fucking miracle drug. Almost exactly 24 hours after Doc Rouse had given him that shot, he’d begun to feel better. He’d woken up this morning planning to make up lost hours by working on his regular day off, but Matt didn’t want him anywhere near the other patrollers until his fever had been gone for a full 24 hours.

  “Keep the plague to yourself.”

  Patrollers didn’t get paid sick days—a reality Jesse had never had to face before—so this was going to be hell on his next paycheck.

  Note to self: Stay far away from children, even cute ones.

  What about their mother?

  He brushed the question aside. It was time for full-scale germ warfare.

  He started in the bedroom, stripping his bed and throwing his sheets and blanket in the washing machine on hot. He disinfected his alarm clock, the doorknobs, and light switches with bleach wipes, then moved on to the bathroom. He scrubbed the sink, the toilet, and the tub, then cleaned all of the surfaces—the doorknob, the light switch, the soap bottle, the handles on his medicine cabinet.

  He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, saw the stupid smile on his face.

  Knock it off, dumbshit.

  He’d been thinking about her again.

  So Ellie was attracted to him. So what? She wasn’t his type.

  Okay, so he didn’t really have a “type.” He didn’t care whether a woman was blond or brunette. He didn’t care how big her breasts were, didn’t care if she was short or tall, skinny or curvy. He just liked women.

  When it came to relationships, however, he avoided all but the uncomplicated kind. Getting involved with Ellie would be anything but uncomplicated.

  For starters, she was a mother—of twins no less—and children had never been a part of Jesse’s plan. Hell, no. He’d rather cut off his nuts with a dull razor blade than fuck up some poor kid’s life the way his father had fucked up his.

  But more than that, Ellie was Crash’s widow. Getting it on with the widow of a brother-in-arms was deep in the no-go zone, a serious violation of the code. It didn’t matter how pretty she was or how long it had been since Jesse had gotten laid. It was his duty to have her back, not get her onto her back.

  That thought wiped the smile off his face.

  He finished the bathroom, moved on to the kitchen and then the living room, finally sweeping and mopping his wood floors. When he had finished, he carried the bucket of water toward the side door. He would toss the water outside into the snow, where the sun and cold could kill any remaining germs.

  He opened the door—and gave a shriek. “What the … ?”

  Ellie stood frozen in place, her fist raised as if about to knock, her mouth open in surprise. Her gaze moved over him, head to toe, her cheeks slowly turning red.

  It was then that he remembered he was wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and yellow Playtex gloves.

  Son of a bitch.

  “I’m so, so sorry to startle you. I … um…” Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “I came to check on you, to make sure you were… uh … feeling better.”

  “I’m fine. I’m good. Thanks.” Pull it together, idiot! “No worries. I’m just cleaning. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  Had he just screamed?

  Jesus.

  She nodded, hugged her arms to her chest as if she were cold. “I’m glad you’re better. I’ll let you get back to it. I need to pick up the kids.”

  With that, she turned and hurried down his driveway toward her car.

  He watched her leave, then stepped outside and tossed the contents of the bucket onto the snow, feeling like an idiot.

  Way to go, buddy.

  “He answered the door wearing only underwear and rubber gloves—and you walked away?”

  Ellie sank back into the sofa cushions, rolling her eyes so hard she thought her sister must have heard it over the phone. The kids were asleep, and it was her time to relax. Not that this particular conversation was relaxing. “He didn’t answer the door. I never got to knock. I startled him. He had no idea I was standing there.”

  It had surprised Ellie, too, but not nearly so much as the sight of him in those snug black boxer briefs. The man was well endowed.

  “Details, details. That does nothing to change the fact that the man was cleaning—in his underwear!” Claire all but shouted those last words. “A sight like that would have made most hetero women seriously horny. Tell me you at least enjoyed checking him out.”

  “I didn’t check him out.” Oh, yes, she had—from head to toe and back again. “Okay, so maybe I did—a little.”

  And Jesse had noticed. Ellie had seen it in his eyes.

  “I bet he was ripped. Climbers usually are.”

  “Yes, he was.” Ellie took a sip of her wine and closed her eyes, remembering all that beautiful, masculine terrain. Broad, powerful shoulders. Scars from combat. Biceps encircled with tribal tattoos. Rounded pecs scattered with dark curls. That eight-pack. Those obliques.

  “Could you see a bulge?”

  Ellie’s face flamed. “What kind of question is that?”

  Okay, she had seen that bulge—seen it and felt a jolt of lust in response.

  “Oh, come on! Since when did you become a prude? When you and Dan slept together, you told me everything. You even told me how big his—”

  “Good God! Would you knock it off?” Ellie had been fresh out of college then, silly and naïve. She’d had no idea how unpredictable or painful life could be, how everything she loved could be torn from her in an instant. “Well, I haven’t slept with Jesse yet, have I?”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Not yet, huh?” Claire sounded satisfied. “Was that a Freudian slip?”

  “You’ve got me flustered. I’m not going to sleep
with him at all. I’m not—”

  “You’re not ready. So you’ve said.” Claire let it go, changed the subject. “Hey, you still have Mondays through Thursdays off, right?”

  “I’m on call every other Monday.”

  “I bought tickets for you and me for Scarlet Mountain Resort’s next Women’s Day on Tuesday. I haven’t been on the slopes yet this season, and neither have you.”

  “Well, I’d have to find—”

  “I’ve already asked Mom if she would watch the kids, and she said yes. You need to get out and have a little fun. I’ll even buy lunch.”

  What could Ellie say? A day skiing with her sister? “Wow. Okay. Thanks.”

  They talked about other things after that. How Cedar was hoping for a raise at work. How much Claire loved her new office. How she and Cedar wanted to get a puppy so that they could practice being parents.

  “You can practice with Daisy and Daniel any time you like,” Ellie offered.

  “I knew you would say that. I thought we’d start with something easier and work our way up to human children.”

  Ellie wasn’t sure a puppy was that much easier to manage than a toddler, but she held her tongue. As they ended the conversation, she found herself wondering whether Jesse would be on duty next Tuesday.

  Chapter 5

  Jesse was sitting in the lodge eating lunch, when his Team pager went off. He pulled it out of his pocket and scrolled through the message.

  AVALANCHE. UTE RIDGE TRAIL. ONE SKIER MISSING.

  Shit.

  He slid the pager into his pocket and reached for his mic. “Forty-two to dispatch.”

  Matt answered. “We heard the call go out on the radio. You’re cleared to go.”

  Jesse shoved the rest of his lunch back into the bag, retrieved his skis from the rack outside, and skied the short distance to the Ski Patrol chalet. He was in and out of the locker room in under two minutes.

  “Hope you find him!” Matt’s words followed him out the door.

  There wasn’t much chance of that, but Jesse didn’t have the heart to say it. He had responded to four avalanche calls in his time with the Team. Not once had they recovered a live person. When he’d asked Megs about this, she’d told him it was the norm in Colorado. Most avalanches happened in the backcountry, far from towns and cities. If the victim’s buddies couldn’t find him, there was almost no chance that he would still be alive by the time rescuers arrived on the scene.

  “There is always hope, and so we try,” she’d said.

  Driven by that hope, Jesse ran to his vehicle, stowed his skis and boots in the back, then climbed into the driver’s seat and set out for Ute Ridge Trail, a good ten minutes away. Knowing that every one of those ten minutes could make a difference between life and death, he pushed on the gas, driving as fast as he could.

  Megs’ voice came over his police radio. “The missing skier is a male, aged twenty-two. The victim’s friends say he was wearing a beacon.”

  That was good news.

  “The sheriff’s department is loaning us its chopper. A K9 unit will arrive via helicopter.”

  More good news. A well-trained avy dog could find a victim in a fraction of the time it took human rescuers.

  Eight minutes later, Jesse reached the Ute Ridge parking area. As the first person on the scene, he now became Incident Command. He grabbed the radio from its charger and clipped the mic to his parka. “Sixteen-ninety-four, arrival on scene. I’m heading up to the slide area as Ute Ridge Command.”

  Megs replied. “Copy, Ute Ridge Command.”

  The passing seconds weighed on Jesse as he climbed out of his vehicle, strapped on his snowshoes, and took his avalanche beacon out of his backpack. Full of rescue gear that changed with the seasons, the pack stayed in his vehicle at all times.

  In the distance, he could hear the thrum of an approaching chopper.

  He turned on the beacon’s transceiver, then shouldered his pack and set out up the trail at a run—or as much of a run as he could manage in snowshoes. He’d gone about a hundred yards when the trees gave way to a broad expanse of snow. In the summertime, this was a meadow, but winter revealed what it truly was—the debris field of an avalanche track. Bits of trees and rocks lay jumbled in the snow, torn from the mountainside.

  Higher on the slope, he saw two men moving in disorganized circles. They were shouting something—a name.

  “Jason!”

  Why the hell weren’t they using their damned transceivers?

  One of them spotted him and waved his arms.

  Jesse waved back to let them know he’d seen them.

  The thrum of the chopper’s rotors grew louder as it buzzed overhead, the pilot surveying the scene, looking for a safe place to land.

  Jesse worked his way uphill, pushing himself to go faster.

  Beep.

  He’d gotten a ping.

  “Ute Ridge Command, I’ve got a signal. Following it to the source.”

  He held up his transceiver, saw that it was directing him to a point about eighty yards uphill—about fifty yards lower on the mountainside than the victim’s two friends had been searching. He moved as quickly as he could, sucking in lungfuls of air, his heart thrumming, his gaze on the display.

  Sixty yards. Fifty. Forty-five. Forty.

  Thirty yards.

  Jesse was winded now, his thighs aching, his lungs straining for breath, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

  Twenty yards.

  From somewhere behind him came the sound of slowing rotors. The chopper had landed. The others were here.

  Ten.

  Jesse slowed, checked the display.

  According to the transceiver, the victim should be right … there.

  He reached for his mic. “I’ve located the source of the signal.”

  “Copy. The rest of the Team is headed your way.”

  Down at the base of the slope, Conrad, Ahearn, Taylor, Hawke, and Kenzie were already on their way up the mountainside, a golden ball of fur bounding through the snow ahead of them.

  The victim’s friends saw that Jesse had stopped. They must have guessed that he had picked up the signal. They headed straight for him.

  Jesse pulled his shovel out of his backpack, extended the telescoping handle, and started to dig, chopping at the hard-packed snow and pushing it downhill.

  “Did you find him?” one of the young men shouted.

  “Stop!” Jesse held up a hand. “Don’t compact the snow on top of him. Get downhill from me, and start digging.”

  They looked guiltily at each other.

  “We don’t have shovels.”

  You’re fucking kidding me!

  Jesse didn’t waste breath telling them they were idiots but kept digging.

  From somewhere nearby, he heard a bark.

  Charlie, the golden retriever, had picked up the scent and was running his way. In the time it took Jesse to move another shovelful of snow, Charlie was there, digging, his claws as effective as steel.

  Jesse helped the dog, moving the snow, digging with him.

  Conrad’s booming voice came from behind him. He shouted at the victim’s buddies. “If you’re not going to help, get the hell out of the way!”

  Then Conrad was digging, too.

  Charlie barked again.

  A glimpse of blue.

  Now Hawke, Taylor, and Ahearn were there, all of them shifting snow as fast as they could.

  A leg.

  Movement.

  Jesus!

  He was alive.

  Jesse walked into Knockers with Herrera, craving pizza and beer, the sound of bluegrass rising above the hum of voices. They’d held a debriefing at The Cave for the Team members who had participated in the rescue, and now everyone was starving.

  Rain, who’d worked at Knockers for as long as Jesse had lived in Scarlet Springs, met them just inside the door, a smile on her face, her long blond hair piled on top of her head. “I heard you brought down an avalanche victim a
live today, Moretti. Way to go.”

  Jesse couldn’t help but grin, still on a post-rescue high. “I didn’t do it alone.”

  Rain was gorgeous in her own way—sexy rose tattoos on her arms, little nose ring, long hair, curves. She pointed. “Megs and the others are already here.”

  Ahearn, Conrad, Hawke, Kenzie, Megs, Belcourt, and Sasha were seated around the big table closest to the climbing wall. Megs was filling Sasha in.

  “One of his buddies had a transceiver, but it wasn’t working because Mr. Freaking Genius hadn’t changed the batteries.”

  Sasha stared at Megs in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Backcountry skiing one-oh-one—check the batteries in your transceiver.” Hawke dragged a corn chip through salsa. “There’s no cure for stupid.”

  Jesse reached for the beer menu. “They didn’t have shovels either.”

  “What kind of idiot goes skiing in the backcountry without a shovel?” Ahearn shook his head. “They’re damned lucky it wasn’t one of them who got buried. We’d have had a lot less to go on.”

  Kenzie smiled, reached under the table. “Charlie would have found them. Wouldn’t you, boy?”

  Jesse looked under the table to find Charlie curled up at her feet, napping. “Hey, buddy. Good job today.”

  Charlie opened his eyes and wagged his tail, but the rest of him lay still. The poor pooch had worn himself out.

  “So the victim’s going to be okay?” Belcourt asked.

  Jesse nodded. “He had a fractured tibia and clavicle, and he was pretty shaken up. Apart from that, he’s okay.”

  “I bet he’ll never go skiing with those two ass clowns again.” Conrad took a swig of his beer. “If it had been left to them, he’d be dead tonight.”

  “On that happy note, have all of you signed up for SnowFest?” Megs looked straight at Jesse. “Before you say a word, you should know that I already know the answer to that question.”

  Shit.

  Jesse had forgotten about that. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Did someone order the large Classic?” Victoria, Hawke’s wife, appeared at the table wearing a big smile and a white chef’s coat and carrying a large pie in a steel pan.