Beyond the Shadow (Above & Beyond Book 1)

by Julee Baker

  So . . . try to make things right. But how?

  He rubbed a calloused hand across an unshaven jaw. Not much he could do about what she thought of his decisions the night of the plane crash—but he needed to apologize for the way he’d acted the past couple of days.

  Hawk rumbled a low sigh at his bull-headedness for not listening to her when Elle was hit. She did deserve an apology.

  Question was—would she listen? She hadn’t listened to him about her parents—to the impossibility of finding them during that blizzard. Maybe they should call it a draw and just steer clear of each other.

  No. His grandfather had raised him differently. He needed to try.

  Sam had said to “give it time”. His friend’s optimism was at a higher set-point than his own. Hawk preferred to think of himself as more realistic.

  Whether Sam wanted to admit it or not, his friend still managed to be optimistic about people—even after a stint in Afghanistan. Hawk admired that.

  Lake’s photos showed she had a talent that deserved respect, as did she, regardless of their history. He might have rescued her from the storm, but had he shown her the respect of listening to her then, or the next day? He’d rushed to judgment. Hypocritical . . . that’s what he had been. Refusing to listen to her explanation. Think of how it must be for her, trying to deal with the loss of her parents and now, being responsible for her little brother.

  He should cut her some slack. He thought back to the pain of losing his mom, then his dad a short time later. Of course, it was so long ago, he was a kid—but did that kind of thing get any easier? And he had his grandfather to help him through. Lake McDonald had no other close family, from the sounds of it.

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. This would take some thought . . . and guidance . . .

  She was a photographer—another right-brainer? Hmm. He’d let that angle sit back in his subconscious for a while and simmer.

  In an attempt to turn his thoughts away from the subject, he instinctively reached for one of the many ebony pencil stubs lying around. He played with the lines on the paper . . . the lines formed an idea . . . the idea swirled and moved on the page . . . one page turned into another page . . . and another . . . and another.

  Sometime during that night, his muse slipped back into the studio.

  It was well past one a.m., when, tired but satisfied, Hawk pushed himself away from the drafting board. The big, modified barn doors creaked and groaned as if complaining to be put to work at the late hour.

  He walked a few steps out into crisp, Montana night. Elle led the way through the large, empty yard, stopping a little way out to stretch, accompanied by a doggy grunt, still moving slowly from her highway encounter.

  “You said it, girl.” He patted at the dog. “Why do you let me stay out so late?” Stretching arms and back fully, Hawk breathed deeply of the heady elixir of fir trees and wilderness. The sky glistened this moonless night, not a cloud in sight. Starlight energized him. The diamond necklace of the Milky Way—laid on this midnight blue Montana sky. Could any jewels a woman wore ever compare?

  Never.

  Good to be well away from the eternal daytime that city lights forced on a guy. He’d never pollute this beauty with a security light. He reached down and patted Elle’s uninjured shoulder. She was all the security system he needed.

  He buttoned his shirt the rest of the way and sat down on the porch steps of the cabin for a time, one arm draped over Elle, the other across his knee, enjoying the Montana night and its sounds. A cool breeze shushed its way over the blanket of fir trees. Crickets chirped their rhythmic mantra. A call sounded . . . he and Elle both turned to listen . . . to the west of the river, a Great Horned Owl hooted its eternal question.

  Closer now, more sounds scuffled in the dark, off to the side of the yard. Elle’s ears perked up first, then laid flat, as she uttered a soft but serious growl.

  Hawk chuckled. Probably her nemesis, an old, cagey raccoon he’d nicknamed—Toes—for the footprints the sneaky animal left all over his stuff. Toes was relentless in his attempts at raiding—the cabin, the truck, the studio.

  “It’s okay girl, calm down. Why don’t you give old Toes one of your barks—scare him off?”

  Recognizing the word “bark”, the dog immediately obliged with an enthusiastic, “Rrruuufff”, followed by a half-dozen more.

  Hawk patted her back. “Enough, enough. That should take care of him for tonight.”

  The barking tapered off into a soft growl, punctuated at the end with a snort.

  He sat on the steps for a few more minutes, full of thankfulness about being right where he was—appreciating the tranquility of the moment.

  But, there it was again. That feeling that kept gnawing at him. All too common lately. Maybe just a low point after the McDonald fiasco. He pulled in another deep drink of the mountain air and exhaled slowly.

  Life—so fragile—can end so quickly.

  Was it too much to ask, for someone to share what time you had? Besides Elle, of course. He rubbed the dog between the ears. Well, maybe it wasn’t meant to be for him. Women had certainly let him down in the past—or he’d let them down. Suppose it all depends on perspective.

  Was there a woman out there who could understand him and this place, without trying to convince him to move to civilization? Hawk pushed the thought away and soaked in the Montana night for a few more minutes, then, he and Elle entered the cabin.

  For a long time, he laid on the king-sized bed and stared out the window, gaze still cast on the stars glimmering above the treetops, waiting for the blanket of sleep to cover his troubled thoughts. When it finally came, it was interrupted by the dream of arguing with Lake McDonald. Not that the dream was anything new—he’d dreamed of the crash and that night many times. But now they were worse. Now, instead of trying to reason with a voice on the phone—there were haunting blue eyes and an unforgettable face connected to the pleading voice.

  ***

  Lake tossed and turned, then turned and tossed—a strange electricity filling the night. Eventually, she gave up trying to sleep. Slipping from the covers, she padded barefoot to the kitchen.

  Maybe a cup of chai . . .

  In the soft light from the stove hood, she proceeded methodically, adding spices to the boiling water. Soon, soothing aromas of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom pods, pepper, and sliced ginger wafted around her. After simmering the brew for ten minutes, Lake added sugar and milk and covered the mixture, brought it back to simmer, then removed it from the heat and added her favorite Darjeeling tea leaves. A late-night ritual she could perform by heart—and had, many times over during the past few months—when specters of last fall’s tragedy rose, unbidden from the ashes of her memory.

  She poured the comforting mixture into the little violet-covered teacup. It had been a present from her grandmother on her sixth birthday—filled with candy at the time. She stirred and sipped the sweet, spicy liquid and gradually relaxed.

  It would be good to get back to work tomorrow. Throw herself into a project. Cathartic to get—into the zone.

  The only problem with this thought being, it sneaked its way back around to the lost camera and the Snowshine on Shadow content it held.

  Arrrgh. The camera, while expensive, could be replaced—the magical moment in time she had captured could not. Lake sighed. There went relaxed. She did form a new plan though. Perhaps she could enlist Sam’s help. Surely Matthews would allow the sheriff a look around the property.

  This train of thought was not bound for “Dreamland Station” either, Lake mused and finished the chai. She headed back to bed, vowing to focus her thoughts on faraway places, finally drifting off while remembering a photo session for Australia Today magazine, on the beach near Sydney harbor . . . which somehow became oddly mixed with glittering air and a tall man with compelling eyes a smoldering shade of amber.

  ***

  After getting River off to school the nex
t morning, Lake thought about his approaching summer vacation. She considered the timing as she tried to set a schedule for herself. Her alone days would be limited during June, July and August. River was great company and Lake thoroughly enjoyed having him with her in the studio, but, work did not progress as quickly. Some shoots he could accompany her on, others not.

  River expressed a real interest in the work she was doing, and Lake intended to let him tag along whenever possible. So many questions in that little head of his. Yes, Lake thought as a satisfied smile crept over her face, there was a strong possibility little bro would follow right along in the family tradition. He already begged until Lake bought him a simple camera.

  River worked at putting his own book together, while Lake worked on hers. She was thinking of having his pictures professionally bound for him, as a surprise.

  She forced her attention back to the large, four by eight pine worktable full of proofs spread out before her, trying to work out the flow.

  Lake gave it a good hour before giving up. The flow wasn’t flowing. Almost nine a.m., and the only major thing she’d decided was that she needed a cup of coffee. Shoving the photos aside, she rubbed bleary eyes. Time for a break. Coffee. Strong coffee . . . And umm . . . maybe Suzanne would have one of those pecan rolls left. She could almost taste it right now, freshly baked, oozing sticky caramel and pecans.

  Yeah—caffeine and sugar—maybe after an infusion, she could brainstorm a way to recover the missing camera. She grabbed her denim jacket from a peg by the door, hurried down the street and was soon ogling the array of goodies at Suz’s counter.

  “Mornin’ Lake.” She smiled and pulled a plate from the shelf behind her. “Saved a pecan roll for you. Usual coffee?”

  Lake nodded. “I’m getting too predictable.”

  Suzanne winked and added, “Gonna stay, or should I bag it?”

  “You know, I think I’ll grab a booth. All I’ve been doing is spinning my wheels this morning. A few minutes away from the studio would do me good.”

  Lake looked around for an empty booth, but her spirits plummeted when she spotted a group halfway down the aisle to her left. It was Hawk Matthews, having breakfast with Sam and a few other men. Her mood turned dark.

  “On second thought, make that to go. I see the fearless leader of Glacier Rapid Retreaters is here. Wouldn’t want to interrupt an escape planning session.” She got the shot off and hoped it was loud enough for Matthews to hear.

  From the glare he sent her direction . . . Bullseye.

  ***

  That’s it. Hawk’s adrenaline surged. Any intentions of apologizing to Lake McDonald disintegrated. How long was he supposed to endure this venom from her? And here, in front of the team. Seven pairs of eyes turned his direction. Sure—she lost her parents. She was having a hard time with it. He got that. He’d been there himself. But continuing to bad-mouth him, all over town . . . C’mon . . . really . . . how much more?

  But—she had helped Elle when the dog was hurt. She was maddening . . . frustrating . . .

  He narrowed his gaze and watched her out of the corner of his eye. The aroma of the eggs, sausage and freshly brewed coffee in front of him, so mouth-watering five minutes ago, now turned his stomach. She was at it again . . . something derogatory to Suzanne. He heard his name and another jibe.

  The hate in her eyes could kill without a weapon.

  It was torture. Slow torture. Every comment that crept its way back to him twisted the knife of failure deeper into his gut. Goading him.

  Hadn’t he told himself, just the other night, to exercise compassion . . . empathy . . . to endure . . . remember that she was suffering?

  But so was he.

  He snapped. Right. Okay. If she wanted this, so be it. They’d have it out—but not in front of Suzanne’s cash register.

  “Someone needs to dam up the poison pouring out of Lake McDonald,” he uttered through gritted teeth. His blue-jeaned thigh hit the table as he stood, setting the silverware jumping and Sam’s coffee crookedly spinning over, flooding onto the sheriff’s crisp, tan shirt.

  “Hawk. No.” Sam stood too, momentarily distracted by the hot coffee.

  With an adroit move that hearkened back to their football days, he evaded Sam’s hand as it shot out to stop him and stood before Lake in seconds. Hands firmly on her shoulders, he ushered a stunned Lake through the swinging silver doors behind the counter into the back room, past trays of pink cupcakes with colorful sprinkles, past stacks of cream colored plates—make that pieces of cream colored plates. He’d pay Suzanne later for the stack that got in the way of his elbow. He opened the metal door to the cooler and pressed Lake into the cold room, still holding her shoulder, deftly avoiding a kick sent in the direction of his shin.

  Sam wasn’t far behind. “Hawk. Watch yourself. Let her go,” came his warning. The sheriff’s arm stopped the cooler door from closing.

  “Yeah.” He answered Sam without taking his eyes from Lake’s and dropped his hands to his sides. “You know I’m not going to hurt her.”

  “Yes—but she doesn’t.”

  His friend’s words hit the mark.

  “I should have you arrested,” Lake hissed the words. “Sheriff, this man assaulted me.”

  “You okay, Lake? Listen—let’s dial things down a few notches here,” Sam started.

  Hawk interrupted. “We need to talk.” He ground the words at her.

  She narrowed her stare at him. “All right,” came her answer, cold as her expression. Then to Sam, “I’m not hurt Sheriff. It’s all right—but please, stay by the door,” she finished, not lowering her defiant stare one notch.

  The shelves in Suzanne’s little eight by twelve, stainless-steel cooler vibrated with the electricity. Sam hesitated while he appraised them both. Satisfied, he nodded. “I’ll be right outside the door.” He looked from one to the other, assessing, then commanding, “Talk.”

  The door clicked softly shut.

  “We need to straighten things out. Right here—right now.”

  His stare bounced off the hate in her eyes like sunlight off ice.

  “I really have nothing to say to the man responsible for my parents’ deaths.”

  He scowled at her. “You seem to have plenty to say—when my back is turned. Let’s get it said to my face—here and now. If you have the guts.”

  “Don’t touch me.” Lake warned as Hawk leaned closer.

  “I won’t touch you.” The revulsion in his voice was not lost on her. He waited for Lake to say something, anything, but she didn’t make a sound, just sustained her glare.

  He’d be happy to start. “Okay. If you won’t talk, then you’re gonna listen—and listen good. I’ve had it with the poison coming out of that mouth of yours—about how I handled the rescue.”

  She rolled her eyes and huffed a, “Rescue?! What rescue?”

  He pushed his hands through his hair in frustration, then, slapped them to the cool metal of the walls on each side of her shoulders. Lake flinched.

  “I – did – everything – in – my – power – to find your parents that night. Quinn broke his femur, we almost lost him. It was time to call everyone in. I- had- no- choice.”

  “You were scared.” She spat at him.

  Hawk muttered some French. “You bet I was . . . and so was every man out there. You’d be a fool not to be.” He inhaled deeply of the cooler air, gathering his thoughts until he calmed. “For heaven’s sake Lake,” He shook his head in emphasis, but didn’t lower his gaze, “we’d had ten inches of snow—we got twelve more after that. The winds were pushing sixty. I don’t control the weather.”

  “You gave up. Why should you care . . . they weren’t your parents?”

  He sighed and gave her a hard look. “It was the first search I’ve ever had to call for weather. Do you think a decision like that doesn’t haunt you?” Both his face and his voice softened, “I knew your parents Lake. Worked with them once. Like
d them. Do you know how hard—?”

  His voice trailed off as a realization avalanche rolled over him. The realization he knew Lake McDonald hadn’t faced yet.

  It changed everything.

  He searched Lake’s face with his newfound insight, “But that’s not the real problem, is it? You’re not brave enough to face the real issue.”

  Lake narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about—I know just what happened out there. You got scared—”

  There was a moment of silence as Hawk searched the blue eyes.

  “Who’s scared, Lake?”

  She stared at him.

  Hawk pressed on. “Like I said. I don’t control the weather.” He leaned forward. “But that’s who you’re really mad at, isn’t it—the One who can control the weather—I’m just a convenient place to vent because you haven’t had the guts to confront who you’re really mad at—who you really blame.”

  “You . . . you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” He searched her face.

  At that moment, all the frustration he had toward Lake McDonald—all the pain she had caused him—drained away. It turned to . . . pity? Sympathy? No. A blend he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She was so full of hate and hurt. Hawk dove deeper into blue eyes, trying to capture, put a name to what he felt. She was a mess—one beautiful mess—a mess that was clouding his days and haunting his nights.

  “I lost my parents . . .” he said quietly. “I was mad at God.” His hands dropped from the cool wall beside her shoulders and he stood his full six-foot three frame solidly in front of her. “Straighten it out with Him—and leave me out of it.” He finished firmly.

  That struck a nerve. He could see it happening. Her icy stare cracked.

  He watched, mesmerized, as one glistening drop slipped down a flushed cheek and ran around the curve and tremble of a soft lip. That’s when the second revelation avalanche rolled over Hawk Matthews. Gave him a—weak in the knees feeling he hadn’t felt in a—well, he couldn’t say he’d ever felt this—