Mountains of Grace

by Kelly Irvin

  “Come on, talk to Auntie Kim. I’m a good listener, and I have experience with relationship issues.” Kimberly stepped into his path and stuck both hands on her hips. “Besides, you can’t be allowed to attend a community meeting with your attitude. You’re like a keg of dynamite about to blow.”

  He could handle himself. “There are no relationship issues.”

  “Fine, good to know. Have a drink with me after all this is over.”

  Hand on the door, Tim stopped. So engrossed in walking the tightrope of emotion required not to have a relationship with Juliette, he’d totally missed the signs. Kimberly was a sight to behold. When she removed the pins from her bun, her jet-black hair fell in waves to her waist. She had soft milk chocolate–brown eyes and a deep tan. Not to mention she filled out her uniform nicely.

  Even good Christian men noticed that sort of thing. Whether they admitted it or not.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “I’ll buy you a Pepsi or a cup of coffee, pick your poison.”

  “We’re fighting fires on three fronts right now—”

  “If you’re searching for excuses, you can just say no. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

  “I’m just surprised.”

  “You’re one of those guys who doesn’t realize he’s a catch. You’re still stuck in that high school mentality where you were the class goof or your brain hadn’t caught up with your size and kids made fun of you or you had braces and pimples.” Kimberly pantomimed casting a fishing rod and reeling in a big fish. “What you don’t see is that the ugly duckling has become a swan.”

  “A swan?” He laughed, something he hadn’t done in a long time. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but swan is not one of them.”

  “Women like a man in uniform with a gun on his hip.” She had a toothy grin. “Part dangerous, part protector.”

  “I’ve seen you at the gun range. You don’t need protecting.”

  “Nope. I like my men manly.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking your mind off your troubles for a minute. Now you owe me a drink. As friends.”

  A guy could never have too many friends. With a mock salute Tim slid into the truck and took off for Libby. Taking his frustration out on some dude who just wanted to get into his house wasn’t cool. Unprofessional. The first notes of Luke Bryan’s “Play It Again” sounded on his phone.

  Juliette.

  That song had been playing on her Ranger’s radio the night he stopped her two years ago and gave her a bunch of tickets.

  He picked up the phone and pushed a button, and the notes died away. That made fifteen times. Fifteen times she’d called in one day. Fifteen calls he hadn’t answered.

  Plus six increasingly irritated texts.

  But who was counting?

  Maybe he could have her arrested for stalking.

  Twenty minutes later, he tromped into the Libby High School gym. About two hundred citizens packed the bleachers on one side. Nathan Kuntz, the Kootenai National Forest supervisor, microphone in hand, paced in front of them.

  “We haven’t seen conditions like these in almost fifty years.” His hoarse voice matched his craggy, tired face. “We had a wet fall and a snowy winter and then the rain just shut off. Libby has had about three-hundredths of an inch of rain since the end of June.”

  Dan Larson, the forest’s fire management officer, joined his colleague on the hot seat. The West Fork Fire had the potential to be as big as the Caribou Fire, which had doubled in size from one day to the next, consuming almost fourteen thousand acres. It had moved eight miles in two and half days.

  The big issue—resources.

  “We’re doing the best we can,” Dan added. “We have an incident management team coming in from the Rocky Mountain region tomorrow. We’ll be briefing them on the West Fork Fire.”

  “Can you put it out?” Dean Carmichael yelled out. Others joined in. Some simply nodded. “That’s really the question we want answered.”

  “We’re working to contain it. With limited resources we’re focused on protecting property.”

  “We appreciate that.” His Colorado Rockies cap in his hands, Dean stood. “But it doesn’t answer the question. Over in Kootenai, they’re wondering why the fire didn’t get put out before it burned down some houses. We’re wondering if our houses will be next.”

  “We can’t guarantee anything. We’re doing the best we can, like I said.”

  “Right now, what we want to emphasize is preparation for evacuation.” Fresh in a clean, wrinkle-free uniform, his cowboy hat firmly tucked on his head, Emmett entered the fray. “Pre-evac orders mean you should be ready to go in under an hour when the evacuation is ordered.”

  “Do we need to evacuate now?” Mrs. Washington piped up. An octogenarian who still drove her mauve Cadillac, she would need some extra time just to walk from her house to the garage. “I don’t want my Sybil and Huck to be in danger.”

  Everyone knew Sybil and Huck were her two Siamese cats. They were almost as old as their owner.

  “Your homes are not in immediate danger.” Emmett scrubbed at his smooth-shaven cheeks with one hand. “But I wouldn’t object to you visiting your sister in Florida, Mrs. Washington.”

  “So the evacuation is coming. You’re just pussyfooting around it.” Craig Barlow jumped in. “Come on, Sheriff, you don’t think this fire can be contained.”

  “I know everyone is worried. I’m worried. I’ve got kids and my parents and my brother living here. Family just like you do.” Emmett didn’t need a microphone. “I’m saying my prayers morning, noon, and night that I don’t have to evacuate them. But we have to do what we have to do. My advice is to stay calm, stay in touch with your neighbors, help each other out, and those of you who are on pre-evac notice, keep your phones charged and close by. Pack some bags. Fill any prescriptions you’ll need. Pack food for your animals. Be ready to go when that Reverse 911 call comes in. Okay? The Red Cross has opened a shelter at the Assembly of God church. And folks, pray for your firefighters and your first responders.”

  A smattering of applause echoed through the gym. People stood and their murmurs grew and grew until they reached a crescendo. Looking distracted, Emmett strode toward Tim. “We should get back to the office—”

  “Folks, folks, wait, wait. One more thing.” Lincoln County Commissioner Keith Carbine flapped both arms. The microphone squealed. People clapped their hands to their ears, but they stopped talking. Everyone froze. “I just wanted to say that the other county commissioners and I are on top of this situation. From our perspective, the coordination between the various agencies has been fantastic. We’re in good hands, folks.”

  “Politicians.” Tim snorted. “Like he’s done anything to help this situation. We’re shorthanded and all he wants to do is get his fifteen minutes of fame and get reelected—”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Richard Dillon gave Tim and Emmett a thumbs-up as he hopped down from the bleachers and strode by them. “A blowhard if there ever was one.”

  Emmett tipped his hat at Dillon. “Drive safe, Rich. And don’t open that six-pack of Coors before you get to the house, you hear me?”

  Dillon chuckled and disappeared through the double doors.

  Emmett took Tim’s arm and drew him to the other side of the basketball hoop hanging at the end of the court. “Seriously, son, what is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing—”

  “That guy on the court is our boss.” His irritation reverberated as clear as a Montana summer night. “It’s one thing to think about trash-talking him. It’s another to actually do it in front of citizens.”

  “Sorry, sorry. You’re right.” Tim rubbed both temples. His head pounded. His sinuses ached from smoke and dust. He smelled of BO. “It’s been a long day.”

  “What happened with Juliette?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Word’s floati
ng around the office that you broke up.”

  “Three fires coming at us from all sides and all people can talk about is my love life?”

  “You chewed out poor little Cammie this morning for not putting your phone messages in your box. She wasn’t even on duty. That’s not you, buddy.”

  “I’m fine. Just sleep deprived.”

  “We all are.” Emmett slid his hat back on his head. His blue eyes were icy bullets. “Can I make a suggestion?”

  It wasn’t really a question. “Sure. Please do.”

  “Go see your friend Pastor Matt.”

  “We’re really busy. Maybe tomorrow—”

  “That wasn’t a suggestion, actually, so much as an order.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “And then go home. Get a few hours’ sleep. I’ll be your alarm.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Again, not a suggestion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  20

  Libby, Montana

  Nothing like getting sent to the principal’s office in the middle of an emergency. Ten minutes later Tim knocked on the door of Pastor Matt’s double-wide trailer in an older neighborhood on the western city limits of Libby. Matt had painted the ramp and railing since Tim’s last visit. The bright blue stood out against the tan trailer.

  The door swung open. Matt stood back to let Tim pass.

  “Nice legs.”

  “Thanks.” Matt grinned and curtsied. “I got them about a month ago. I’m practicing for next year’s Paralympics. I’d like to try out for the Invictus Games too.”

  When Matt and Tim knew each other in high school, Matt had been a long-distance runner who excelled in several track and field events. Then he went to Afghanistan and got blown up by a roadside bomb that took the lives of three guys in his unit.

  “Good for you.”

  “But you didn’t come here to curry favor by complimenting me on my sexy legs.” Matt eased into his wheelchair and removed his fancy prostheses. “You look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”

  “Thanks. I do nothing but compliment you, and then you turn around and abuse me.”

  “Come on, Timmy, what’s the scoop?” Matt ran his hands over the black crew cut he kept after being medically retired from the Marines, even though it showed off a scar that zigzagged behind his left ear and disappeared around his temple. “I never hear any of the good stuff. I’m stuck here all alone.”

  Which was a fairy tale, of course. As a youth minister at their church, Matt constantly stayed ahead of youth mission trips, fund-raisers, neighborhood prayer walks, and dozens of other activities designed to draw his charges closer to Jesus and keep them there.

  “Emmett suggested I might need a consult with Pastor Matt.”

  “Or a whop upside the head?”

  “Or that.”

  Matt leaned back. “Is this a one-soda or two-soda consult?”

  His way of reminding Tim that he still held a six-pack of Pepsis in one hand. He offered Matt one, grabbed another for himself, and stowed the rest in a fridge covered with candid photos of kids hiking at Glacier National Park, Matt leading the way.

  That was the problem with talking to Matt. A guy didn’t dare feel sorry for himself. Matt did all the things he’d done before Afghanistan. In fact, he did more and he did them better. He never felt sorry for himself. At least, he never admitted to it.

  Tim threw himself on a couch covered with a blue plaid flannel blanket and stuck his long legs on the scarred pine coffee table. He took a long sip of soda and stared at the ceiling. A wave of drowsiness swept over him.

  “Make yourself comfy.” Matt popped the top of his can. “I’ll just sit here and admire the dirt you’re leaving on my coffee table.”

  Tim closed his eyes and studied the inside of his eyelids. “It’s Juliette.”

  “Figures.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Something smacked him in the nose. Startled, he opened his eyes and straightened. A wad of notebook paper fell to the floor. “Hey. No need to get violent.”

  “How many times in the last year have we had this conversation?” Matt burped and excused himself. “You like her. She likes you. You’re God’s man. She’s a lapsed Christian. You’ve done everything you can as a friend to help her find her way home. She hasn’t done it. What do you think happens next?”

  “She got a job offer in Billings.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She asked me to go with her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no.”

  “But you wanted to say yes.”

  “Everything in my gut wanted to say yes.”

  “That wasn’t your gut talking.”

  Tim set the soda on the table with a bang. “I’m not that kind of guy. I’ve never been that kind of guy. This is my heart talking, not other parts of my anatomy. I did a stupid thing.”

  Matt removed his Bible from the table and laid it in the bag attached to his chair. “You fell in love.”

  “I told myself I could handle it. People think Juliette has it all together. She doesn’t. She needs friends. She’s got the Amish girls, but they don’t evangelize.” Tim ducked his head and studied drops of condensation that darkened the tan of his uniform pants. “I wanted to be her friend. I knew better and I let it happen. It sucks.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because Emmett made me come see you.”

  “Why are you really here?”

  “I guess . . . I guess I want someone to tell me it’ll be all right.” Tim cleared his throat. “I know it’s stupid.”

  “Not stupid, stupid.” Matt’s lopsided grin took the sting from his words. “Human.”

  “You’re the one person I can count on to tell me the truth. You won’t sugarcoat it, but you also won’t laugh at me. The worst thing that could ever happen to you happened and you survived. You did more than survive—you thrive.”

  “You make me sound like a Hallmark card or one of those Wounded Warrior commercials.” Matt rubbed his stumps with both hands. “Do you remember Krissy Martell?”

  “From tenth-grade biology? The straight-A girl?”

  “Yeah, the straight-A girl with the freckles and the cute butt.”

  “I don’t believe I noticed—”

  “You did too, liar. Anyway, we reconnected at MU before I dropped out and enlisted. She said she’d wait for me. Sent me care packages, wrote me letters, Skyped with me.”

  “Was she a believer?”

  “Yep. Then I got blown up.”

  It was obvious where this story was going. “How long did it take her to bail?”

  “A couple of months after I got back to the States and started rehab.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. But the point of this story is that I thought losing my legs was the worst thing that could happen to me. Losing her hurt even more. I was drowning in self-pity and misery and I was hanging on to Krissy like she was my lifeboat. No wonder she bailed. I thought I was a Christian, but all I did was shake my fist at the sky and demand to know why God let this happen. How could He let me suffer like this? Then Krissy, in the nicest way possible, told me she couldn’t handle it. She loved me, but she couldn’t see herself fitting into my life now.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Everything was stripped away. Down to the bone. And that’s where I found Jesus. He’s my lifeboat. He’s my Savior. He’s the one I rely on. People let you down; Jesus never will. Sometimes you have to go through the fire to figure that out.”

  “I get that.”

  “I don’t think you do. My body was ripped apart, but my mind was in worse shape.” Matt’s voice grew hoarser with each word. “I even went to a Christian psychologist. He had all these pat answers about God wanting me to move from the dark to the light, stuff I already knew. I kept saying, ‘I know all that. Intellectually, I know that. How do I do it? How do I get there emotionally?’ No one could tell me.”
<
br />   “Do you still feel that way?”

  “Not most days.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “What I was feeling was grief. I had to go through those pesky stages of grief. I had to give up, get on my knees—so to speak—and give it up to the Lord. I gave Him my hurt over Krissy. I gave my desires for a life mate to Him. I gave my insecurities over the parts of me that are missing to Him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “It took time, believe me. I don’t have any magic pills for you, my friend.”

  “What I’m going through doesn’t begin to touch what you’ve been through.” Tim grabbed a pillow and smacked his head with it. “I feel like such a loser even complaining to you.”

  “You’re not complaining. You’re seeking answers. Answers I wish I had.”

  “So you didn’t get any answers.”

  “Nope. But I’ve reached a compromise with Him. I trust He’ll do cool things with what’s left of me. And no matter what happens, when I get to the New World, I’ll get my old, complete body back. In the meantime, He gives me work to do, fulfilling work. He sends me where I’m needed. I choose to go, even if I go alone.”

  “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Me neither. We’re not alone.”

  Tim groaned. “I get a stinky, old ex-Marine?”

  “No way. I’m getting a dog.”

  A short-term solution, but still a solution Tim could get on board with. “Yeah, can I help you pick him out?”

  “Pick out your own dog.”

  “Fine.”

  “Pray for Juliette and let her go.”

  “If you love her, let her go? Seriously, that’s the best you’ve got?”

  “Her parents planted seeds. You planted seeds. Give them time to sprout. Your primary concern, whether you like it or not, is for Juliette’s eternal salvation.”

  “I know.” Which irked Tim like the perennial thorn in Paul’s side. “I pray for her constantly.”

  “But are you willing to give her up if that’s what it takes, if that’s part of God’s plan for her?”

  The question plummeted through the air and smashed into Tim. A massive ton of boulders, each one marked with words like selfish, lonely, hungry for affection, and unfulfilled. “It’s like you said. Intellectually, I know what the right answer to that question is, but emotionally, it’s killing me.”