by Teri Wilson
Her stomach flipped. Whether from nerves or the sight of that ruggedly handsome face, she couldn’t be sure. Even when he frowned like that, he was still the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Brock.” She swallowed. “Is everything okay?”
He opened the door wider, giving her a perfect view of his wide-screen television, still the only fixture in his living room other than the sofa. A reporter stood clutching a microphone before a cluster of white-capped mountains, speaking in a language Anya didn’t recognize. Spanish maybe? But she didn’t need to understand the words to know something horrible had happened. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles cast garish arcs of light across the scene’s snowy backdrop, and helicopters circled the skies.
“What happened?” Anya asked, but she knew the answer before Brock even responded.
“Avalanche.” An angry vein throbbed in his temple.
“Where?”
“Formigal. It’s in the Spanish Pyrenees. I was there about a year ago and helped put their search program in place.”
“Was anyone...?” She couldn’t finish the question. She didn’t need to.
“Killed?” He fixed his gaze with hers. Along with the pain and sadness in his eyes, Anya saw a heavy dose of guilt. “Yes. Three skiers. And one search and rescue worker, who I trained myself.”
“Brock, I’m sorry.” She reached out and touched his arm, anxious to give him what comfort she could offer. But he stiffened at her touch. “This isn’t your fault.”
He nodded as if he understood. As if he agreed, which he obviously didn’t.
“The skiers were in a restricted area. They shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Still, I can’t help but think I could have done something, taught those guys one or two more things. Now one of their ski patrol members is gone.” He pulled his arm away.
The space between them felt far wider than it was. Anya wished he would invite her inside. She wished she knew the right words to say. She wished so many things.
“You can’t save everyone,” she said, her voice breaking.
Brock’s eyes narrowed defiantly. “I can sure try.”
And she knew then that today wouldn’t be the day she told him she was developing feelings for him. Clearly, he was in no shape to hear it. He looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Anya felt as though the avalanche in Spain had put a wall of pain between them as real as the devastating path it had cut through the mountain.
Her heart broke for him.
She glanced over his shoulder again, toward the scene of devastation on the television. But this time, her gaze snagged on something else—two suitcases, opened and half-full, resting on the sofa cushions.
She didn’t want to believe what she was seeing. She blinked, and tears swam in her eyes as she spotted his bear suit neatly folded at the top of one of the stacks of clothing.
Brock followed her gaze and blew out a sigh. “Anya...”
She cut him off. “Are those suitcases?”
It was a stupid question. She was just so stunned, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
Brock nodded—a slow, reluctant dip of his head.
Anya’s hands shook. She sniffed back her tears, and the grief that had reached out and grabbed her at the sight of those packed suitcases morphed into something else. Hot, unrelenting anger bubbled up in her with such a sudden intensity, it frightened her. “You’re leaving? Now?”
He spoke without even looking at her. “In the morning.”
She wanted to slap him. Never in her life had she wanted to slap someone across the face before—not even Speed. But the urge to do just that to Brock had her palms itching. She wouldn’t slap him, of course. She still possessed a modicum of self-control. But she wanted to, with every fiber of her being.
This was different from the other times. He’d changed her life. She’d trusted Brock. She’d told him things she’d never shared with anyone before.
She was in love with him.
And by all appearances, he’d been planning on leaving without even saying goodbye. He had to know how devastating that would have been for her. Didn’t he care?
She crossed her arms tight across her body, as if she could hold herself together and keep from coming completely apart. She just had one question for him. Everything hinged on his answer. “When were you going to tell me?”
All he had to do was promise her he would have said goodbye—that he would have found her and explained why he was leaving so suddenly. She could forgive him. She could make herself understand. The avalanche in Spain had obviously dealt him quite a blow, and he was still doing his best to come to terms with his past. She couldn’t fault him that.
But he didn’t make any such assurances.
He said nothing, which told her everything she needed to know.
Why had she thought things would be different this time? Now, more than ever, she should have been prepared. Brock had always been honest with her. He’d never pretended he was going to stay.
Then again, she never expected his leaving to be like this. She’d thought he would at least have the decency to tell her goodbye.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as if those two words could fix everything, could put her back together.
Walk away, she told herself. He’s not thinking clearly. Neither are you. Just walk away before you say something you’ll regret.
But she was beyond the point of reason. The sight of those packed suitcases had reopened old wounds she thought she’d at last left behind. She just didn’t have it in her to stand by and watch someone she loved walk away. Again.
This time, she would at least have the last word.
“I was wrong about you, Brock,” she spat. “You’re no hero.”
Then she spun on her heel, wanting nothing more than to put as much distance as she could between the two of them. He could go all the way to Spain for all she cared. It still wouldn’t be far enough.
* * *
Brock watched the television coverage of the avalanche in Spain until his eyes grew bleary. By the time darkness fell over Aurora, he could rattle off all the facts about the disaster as if he’d been there when it occurred. The skiers had been skiing off-piste, which meant they were on the wild, untamed side of the mountain. The area hadn’t been groomed or checked for safety, and the weather over the whole region had been rated a level four—high risk for avalanche activity.
This tragic storm of circumstances had ended with four skiers buried alive. Only one had made his way out. Brock now knew their names, their hometowns and which of them had had wives and children.
The ski patrolman who’d perished had been a newlywed. His wedding picture had flashed across Brock’s television screen at least half a dozen times. Sure enough, the smiling groom in the photograph had been a man Brock had trained during his time in Spain. They’d worked alongside one another, laughed with one another, shared a meal of pisto manchego together in a pub high atop the Spanish Alps.
And now that man was gone.
Brock had hoped busying himself with the details of the disaster and memories of his time in Spain would occupy his thoughts and ward off the memory of the hurt in Anya’s eyes when she spotted his suitcases.
He was wrong.
She was everywhere—in his thoughts, under his skin, in his heart. Right along with the snow. How was he supposed to choose?
He wanted to stay. He wanted it as much as he wanted his brother back. When he’d left Anya at her mother’s house earlier that day, he’d had every intention of coming home and making the call he’d been avoiding for weeks. He’d even gone so far as to dial the phone number of the avalanche unit in Utah, letting his thumb linger over the call button for a prolonged moment before he finally pressed it.
He
’d hung up after the first ring.
He’d been unable to do it. He just wasn’t ready to go. And for a fleeting moment, he’d thought that perhaps he’d never be able to leave this place behind. Maybe—just maybe—he could stay here and make a life with Anya if she’d have him.
Then while his phone was still resting in the palm of his hand, it had lit up with a text message from a ski patrol buddy he’d once worked alongside in France.
Slide in Formigal. Three skiers dead. Plus one of our own.
Eleven words.
Eleven words that had changed everything.
He’d turned on the television and stared, transfixed at the sight of the mountain where he’d stood twelve months before. That’s not the same mountain, he’d thought bitterly. The jagged peak on the screen was a different mountain altogether—one with a wide path of death and destruction stretching from top to bottom. The landscape in Spain had forever been altered.
So had Brock’s plans for the future. He’d made the call.
“Brock, I was beginning to wonder if you were avoiding me,” the voice on the other end had said from Utah.
“No, of course not,” Brock had said.
“How are things going up in Alaska?”
“Great. Couldn’t be better. The folks up here will be just fine after I’ve moved on.” Who had he been trying to convince—Guy Wallace or himself?
“Are you ready to come to Utah and take a look around?” Guy’s voice had been hopeful to the point of begging.
They need me there, Brock had told himself. He didn’t have a choice. Not really. What would happen if he decided to stay in Aurora? Would he turn on the television one day and see a scene similar to the one in Spain being played out in Utah? At least he’d done something to help the people in Formigal. Four people had died, but one skier had been rescued. It had been little comfort. If the same thing happened in a place where he’d refused to go, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself.
“Yes, I’m ready,” he’d said.
“How soon can you get here?” There had been audible relief in Guy’s voice.
“Is tomorrow quick enough?” Brock had begun dragging his suitcases out of his closet even before the call was completed.
Sherlock and Aspen had watched him, their heads tilted at identical, curious angles. Brock hadn’t been able to stomach looking at them, certain that on some level they knew exactly what he was doing—running away from something, rather than toward anything. When Anya had gotten there, she’d seen right through him.
You’re no hero.
Perhaps the dogs could too.
His actions had been guided purely by instinct. The slide in Spain had reignited a fire inside him—one that even the thought of Anya’s soft skin and lovely eyes couldn’t quench. He couldn’t stay in Aurora indefinitely. He’d trained the team. They were ready. The dogs were ready.
But there were still dozens of mountains scattered across the globe that weren’t.
The logic didn’t quite ring true, even to his own ears. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop packing, to slow down and think things through.
Something was wrong with him. He was broken. Broken in a profound and permanent way, and he had no idea how to fix it.
And now he’d broken Anya’s heart too.
He turned off the television, tossed the remote control on the floor and dropped his head in his hands. He could watch TV until the sun came up, and he still wouldn’t be able to erase the memory of the hurt he’d seen in her eyes.
He’d been almost relieved when she’d gotten angry. Anger he could handle. He deserved every ounce of righteous indignation she could muster. She’d placed her trust in him. She’d shared her secrets with him, and he’d done the same. In the end, he’d disappointed her as much as the others. Maybe even more so. She had every right to be angry.
But that wounded look she’d given him the instant she’d figured it all out was simply too much. He’d never felt less heroic.
You can’t save everyone.
Truer words were never spoken. He couldn’t save everyone, even after a lifetime of trying. He couldn’t even save himself.
He dragged himself off the sofa and climbed into bed. Sherlock and Aspen followed him, but unlike most other nights, they didn’t curl up by his feet. They slept on their dog beds, facing the other direction. Brock was certain they knew he was leaving them.
He closed his eyes. Exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket. And on his last night in Alaska, Brock wasn’t tormented with dreams of snow. Tonight he dreamed of Anya dressed in white lace, walking toward him and holding a bouquet of fresh lavender tied with a smooth satin ribbon.
Chapter Sixteen
Anya’s feet crunched through a layer of fresh snow as she headed for the ski mountain the next morning. She’d risen so early, she’d decided to walk instead of taking her car. As it was, she’d still be the first to arrive at the ski patrol cabin.
She hadn’t slept a wink. How could she after all the things she’d said to Brock? If he’d harbored any doubts about leaving town so suddenly, she was sure she’d put an end to them.
You’re no hero.
She cringed just thinking about it.
She’d been hurt. But so had he. She could see it the moment he’d opened his door.
And now he was gone.
Anya wasn’t sure she could believe it until she saw it for herself. She didn’t think it would sink in until she sat at that table in the ski patrol cabin where they gathered before training sessions and failed to see Brock sitting beside her.
And what about Sherlock and Aspen? Where were they?
Her heart hurt. She’d even brought Dolce along this morning. She figured she could use the moral support.
Dolce trotted at the end of her leash as they made their way across the lakeside path that led from the Northern Lights Inn to the mountain. Every few feet or so the little dog turned her head to make sure Anya was still behind her.
When they reached the ski area and the forest surrounding the cabin, Dolce pinned her ears back.
“What’s wrong? Do you hear something?”
Anya bent to pick her up, but just as her fingertips skimmed the fur on Dolce’s back, a loud grunt echoed through the woods. Anya recognized the sound at once as a moose. She’d never been afraid of moose, having grown up in Alaska. Dolce, however, found it terrifying. The dog bolted in the opposite direction so fast that before Anya could react, the leash slipped from her hand.
“Dolce, wait!” A thread of panic wound its way through her as she watched Dolce scamper wildly through the trees. The snow was so deep that it appeared to swallow the little dog, leash and all.
“Dolce! Dolce!” Anya’s frantic screams bounced off the trunks of the surrounding evergreens and echoed through the canyon.
She whipped her head around as her own voice called out to her on all sides. She strained her ears, desperate for any indication of her dog’s whereabouts. Nothing. Not even the tiniest yip.
How did this happen?
Everything had changed in a matter of seconds. Dolce was gone without a trace. Even her tiny paw prints were impossible to find. The path she’d cut through the fresh powder intersected with trails of other animals that called the forest their home—snowshoe hare, moose, elk and who knew what else. Anya followed the one that seemed to head in the direction Dolce had disappeared. It led to a clearing just above the base of the ski mountain—a good sign, in Anya’s opinion. Dolce should be easier to see out in the open, away from the clusters of evergreen trees.
She shaded her eyes against the bright morning sun and peered into the distance. It was a gorgeous day. The sky was clearer than it had been in weeks and stretched out in an endless streak of robin’s egg blue so bright that it almost did
n’t look real.
Just as Anya thought she spied a faint movement in the snow off in the distance, a loud boom echoed across the clearing. Anya ducked, convinced that what she’d heard was a gunshot. Her chest vibrated with the force of the noise. It had sounded like a bullet hitting a plate glass window, which made no sense at all. Hunting wasn’t allowed anywhere near this area.
The ringing in her ears ebbed but was followed by a deep rumble that she could have sworn she felt in the soles of her feet. Anya stood back up. Nothing appeared amiss as she scanned the area that spread down into the valley. But when she turned and looked behind her, she could no longer make out the crest of the mountain or the neat ribbon of the Black Diamond trail snaking its way uphill. Instead, all she saw was a tumbling wall of white barreling toward her with what was certainly the speed and force of a freight train.
Avalanche.
She might have even attempted to say it aloud. But the word stuck in her throat. She nearly gagged, but as the first chunks of hard-packed snow tumbled past her, she was able to shake off her initial shock and horror at what was happening. Everything within her screamed a single, death-defying syllable. Move!
She knew better than to try to run downhill. Outrunning something of this magnitude was impossible. She didn’t make any definite decision whether to head left or right—time to evaluate her best option was a luxury she simply didn’t have. Her moves were guided purely by instinct. She swiveled toward her left and began running as fast as she could.
If she could just make it back to the forest, perhaps she could find some sort of shelter. She ran as swiftly as her legs could carry her. But after only one or two steps, she tripped and fell to her knees. The snow was coming quicker now. There was no time—no time to think, no time to do anything.
Tears stung her eyes, and her breath came so fast, she was sure she was hyperventilating. This realization was the slap in the face she needed.
For weeks now she’d been training for a scenario just like this one. Granted, she’d never thought she would be the one to fall victim to an avalanche. The plan was for her to be the one coming to the rescue. But plans changed. And even though she’d been caught completely off guard and unprepared, there were things she could do to increase her chances of survival.
