If Ever I Would Leave You: A Montana Rescue Prequel

by Susan May Warren

  “Your dad left you in your car?”

  “It was an old station wagon—the seats went down. And I was maybe ten or twelve, so big enough to take care of myself and my sister. She was three years younger than me.”

  “You were ten, Ian. You think you were old enough to keep you and your sister safe in a car, alone?”

  “It wasn’t all the time—just when he was desperate, or in between gigs. He’d get depressed and then he’d start drinking…”

  She went quiet. The fire snapped and a log crashed into the bed of embers. Sparks bit the sky.

  “The worst part wasn’t sleeping in the car. I didn’t mind that—we had cardboard we’d put up over the windows, and blankets and pillows. It was south Texas. It wasn’t cold. Often. And Dad tried. But life always seemed to crash over him, take him down.”

  He grew silent, as if he were watching something replay from his past.

  “The worst part was when Mom came back. She’d find us—usually because my dad would track her down in some small-town bar, or we’d run into her with another cowboy. And then Dad would try to convince her to come back. Sometimes she did. For about two years, she and Dad moved in together and he got a long-term job at a stockyard. We got this little house, and she was mostly home when we got home from school.” His face grew hard and he drew a breath. “I let my guard down. Started to expect her to be there. Sometimes she’d make us graham crackers with frosting on it, and have it waiting for us. Just like a real mom.”

  Sierra couldn’t stop herself. She slid her hand over his arm, wrapped her hand around his bicep, holding on. He didn’t move.

  “And then, one day I came home and she wasn’t there.”

  Her throat thickened, imagining a russet-haired, freckled, skinny kid looking for his mother, his heart breaking at the echo in the house.

  “I had this permission slip to join the football team. I was harboring this hope that she’d come to my games, that she’d be proud of me...” He shook his head. “I never joined the team. Debate club instead. And the science fair. I actually won as a senior.”

  He didn’t say it, and she imagined that the worst day of his life might have been when his mother hadn’t shown up for that win.

  “I decided somewhere in there that it didn’t matter—that if I wanted something, I couldn’t wait for people to show up in my life and give it to me. I graduated at the top of my class, got one of the highest SAT scores in the state, which is how I got into Stanford. My father was there when I graduated high school, sitting in the back, sober and shaved. He died about a year later.”

  “While you were at Stanford.”

  “And my sister was sixteen, wild, angry and by that time, pregnant with Esme. I came home, tried to get her to move to California with me, but she insisted on living with Esme’s father. The next time I saw her, she was in the hospital. He’d beaten her, and she’d given birth early.”

  “Oh my.”

  “I should have figured it out then—that she couldn’t pull herself out of the darkness. And I was too selfish to step in and save her. I had my own life, my own plans.”

  “But you did step in.”

  He glanced at the tent, then scrubbed a hand down his face. “Maybe too late.”

  “No. Esme is smart. She loves Dante, but she isn’t going to sacrifice her future for him.” Please, let her words be true.

  But Sierra well remembered herself, the day Rhett walked out the door, his hockey bag hanging over his shoulder, on the way to Minnesota, one airline ticket in his hand.

  He hadn’t even looked back. And the only memento of their three years of dating, two of them with his ring on her finger, had been a basket of smelly socks and his torn Whitefish Wolverine’s jersey.

  Ian closed his eyes, shook his head. “I’ve spent the past year hoping I wasn’t too late. Hoping that maybe this was my chance to make things right. And then, when everything seems golden, I see Dante with his hands on her—”

  He fisted his hands on his knees, flexed them. “I really wanted to hurt him.”

  Sierra swallowed, kept her voice even. “I know. And I shouldn’t have invited you on this trip—or…I don’t know. I wanted you to find out and stop her, but…”

  He looked at her, his blue eyes on her as if seeing her, really, for the first time since they sat down. “You were caught in the middle.”

  She nodded. Then, to her surprise, he touched her hand, still clutching his arm. “You’re a good friend, Sierra.”

  Oh. Because at his touch, her mouth dried, and suddenly her entire body heated, a warmth that could only mean trouble. “I’m just, um, doing my job.”

  Nice. Because, no, her job description didn’t include sitting under a sleeping bag with him while the campfire crackled and stirred sparks into the night.

  A lot of sparks, especially with his strong, warm, fingers woven into hers. She was curled up against him, her shoulder tucked behind his, his leg pressed against hers, and suddenly she was very, painfully, aware of his body, solid and warm next to her.

  A good friend. Yeah, well, perhaps she was trying to be, but right now all sorts of crazy not-just-friend thoughts scrambled into her head. Like the desire for him to move his arm, put it around her, pull her close to him.

  And then, he did.

  As if he might be reading her mind, he simply lifted his arm, as natural as if they’d been together for years, and drew it around her.

  Heaven help her, she let him, nestled in his embrace.

  “You cold?” he said.

  No. “It’s nippy out.”

  He nodded. “You should go to bed.”

  “And leave you here in the cold? I don’t think so.”

  Oh, Sierra, what are you doing?

  He smelled smoky, a hint of pine in his flannel shirt, and she gave in to the urge to relax against him.

  It was more delicious than she’d imagined, his body firm and safe, his shoulder the perfect pocket for her head. She closed her eyes, sighed...

  Really, what was she doing?

  She took a breath, sat up. “Sorry.”

  “For what?” He hadn’t pulled his arm away.

  “I just...I’m sorry. I’m not trying to come on to you.”

  “What—? Sierra, you’re not coming on to me. It’s cold out and—”

  “I mean—you’re warm, and comfy and there’s lots to like, but—”

  And now her face felt hot as their words tangled. Lots to like?

  Yes, lots and lots, but, “I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw.”

  His mouth tightened. “C’mon, Sierra. Why are you calling me Mr. Shaw again?”

  She pushed away from him and he released her with a sigh. “Because you’re my boss. And I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I am your friend. But I’m not trying to be anything else but that.”

  She held his eyes then, hoping to hide the traitorous what-ifs still lingering in them.

  He considered her without speaking, and she just wanted to slink away, but the man had been through enough hurt tonight. And he did need a friend, so, “I just want you to know that I’m always here for you…as a friend. And an assistant, of course.”

  Then he sighed. “Right. Thank you, Sierra.”

  “You’re welcome—”

  “Please don’t say, ‘Mr. Shaw.’”

  Oh. Fine. “Ian.”

  His smile was sad though, his eyes so blue in the firelight that she just wanted to take back her words, pull his arms around her. Even—yeah, sink into the romance of the campfire, the dark velvety sky overhead, the dance of the wind in the pine.

  Open up her heart and confess that she’d never leave him. Because, sadly, while she could only be just friends, she hadn’t learned her lesson from Rhett.

  She gave her heart away to men who didn’t really want it. So, yeah, that made her pitiful, but frankly she couldn’t imagine her life without Ian Shaw.

  Didn’t want to. And even if he never loved her back, she’d be here.


  Ready to pick up the pieces.

  So she settled in next to him, relishing the warmth of his shoulder, resigning herself to be content as she pulled the sleeping bag up to her chin.

  Ian hunkered down next to her, said nothing.

  So she filled in the words for him. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  Chapter 5

  No, no it wasn’t going to be all right. Because while Esme might have given in to his demands—and he felt a little like a prison warden when he’d issued his or-else, tonight Ian had gotten exactly what he’d hoped for.

  A clear and present picture of just exactly where he stood with Sierra.

  I just want you to know that I’m always here for you... As a friend. And an assistant, of course.

  Of course.

  Sierra’s words lingered in Ian’s head as she slipped into quietness, nestled beside him. And yeah, after she relaxed into slumber, he gave in and put his arm back around her because despite the sleeping bag, she was shivering a little.

  He could kid himself all he wanted with that justification but really, if he were honest, he just needed to hold on to her, let all that warmth and hope seep into him.

  And sure, it stirred to life that long simmering urge for more, but really, she’d drawn the line between them.

  I am your friend. But I am not trying to be anything else but that.

  If he’d had any hope lingering after the revelation that she’d invited him on this trip to reveal Esme and Dante’s relationship—something he could hardly blame her for, really—it died with the way she made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t coming on to him.

  Roger that.

  He’d tried to talk some sense into her, but she’d shut him down again with that lethal Mr. Shaw and then he had nothing.

  He longed to tell her how much it meant to him to have her talk sense into Esme. How yeah, he wanted to be her friend, and more, but every time she called him by his formal name it screeched all his feelings to a halt. Not just because it made him feel like her boss, but right then, he became her old boss. The man years older than her, and he couldn’t shake the image of the old, rich guy chasing his cute assistant.

  Then, all he had to do was remember how Sierra had laughed while talking with Deputy Sam, or the girls on the trail, or even how she related to Esme to see how impossibly young and sweet she was.

  Ian didn’t have a right to pursue her. Just because she was in his life every day and had promised to never leave him didn’t mean he had the right to see her as anything but what she’d claimed.

  His assistant. No, lucky him, his friend.

  Okay, really, he was lucky to have her as a friend.

  An incredibly beautiful, kind and way-too-tempting friend. Especially when she sighed in her sleep.

  Overhead, the sky scattered stars across the bold darkness. The fire was dying, but he didn’t want to jostle her to add fuel, so he simply leaned his head back on the log. He slid his arm away from her and folded it over his chest. She stirred, but curled in even more to him, and he took a long, low breath and tried to sedate his heart.

  Just—only—friends.

  He stared at the sky, searching for a star to wish on.

  It was the clank of pots that roused him. The strike of a match, the hiss of a gas stove, the clack of a whisk against dehydrated eggs. Then, the sizzle of bacon, and he opened his eyes.

  The sun had just begun to glimmer through the trees. Someone had fed the fire—a fresh log crackled, the flames curling around it, and he simply longed to stay still and savor the moment.

  Sierra was still curled next to him. Sometime in the night he’d turned, nestling her close. He swallowed, and the realization that maybe others had seen them rushed through him.

  He sat up, removed his arm.

  Which, of course, only caused Sierra to emit a little sleeping moan.

  Her eyes opened. She looked up at him, the wrinkles of his jacket pressed into her face, her dark hair in tangles, her eyes big as she blinked, orienting herself.

  “Good morning,” he said, and offered a smile.

  She pushed away from him, a sheen of what looked like panic in her eyes.

  Yeah, he knew what it looked like. A couple chaperones cuddling up.

  He felt a little hypocritical after his reaction to Dante and Esme’s own cuddle-fest last night, but this was hardly the same thing.

  Thankfully, only Chet and Ruthann were up, and now Chet came over and dropped a load of firewood next to the ring. “I was about to give you the nudge,” he said to Ian. He glanced at Sierra, who had gotten up, was brushing herself off. She took off for the facilities down the path.

  Ian, too, got up, grabbing his sleeping bag.

  Behind him, Ruthann was turning bacon. His stomach rumbled.

  “I’m perking some coffee,” she said, not looking at him.

  He didn’t know why, but he felt like a misbehaving teenager. He glanced at Chet as he began stuffing the sleeping bag in its case. “It was a cold night.”

  “Mmmhmm,” Chet said, crouching by the fire. He always reminded Ian a little of Hans Solo, only older, with graying hair, a grim set to his mouth. Capable, down to earth, and pulling no punches.

  “Nothing happened.” Sadly, except, well, maybe that was for the best. Because the minute Ian got back today, he was making flight arrangements for Connecticut.

  Or maybe Sierra would make those arrangements. Because she was his assistant, not his girlfriend, and he knew that better than anyone. “Really, Chet. We were cold, we shared a sleeping bag, and we fell asleep. Nothing we need to go to confession about.”

  Chet got up. “I’m not judging you. But I am wondering what took you so long.” He winked then, walked away, and Ian couldn’t move.

  Oh, no, was it that obvious?

  Clearly not to Sierra, who came back, her face refreshed, her hair tidy. She headed over to the picnic table to help Ruthann.

  She only glanced once at Ian.

  Gave him a smile, something cool, every bit of Mr. Shaw in it.

  Ian packed his gear, noting that the boys in his assigned tent were just stirring, then returned to the smell of eggs over the campfire. Sierra handed him a tin cup of coffee.

  “Thanks.”

  “Everything is better with coffee.”

  Yeah, maybe. And with the sun tipping the ragged pines, gilding Little Matterhorn to the south and the air fresh with the scent of the running creek, the loamy earth, yes, maybe Sierra was right.

  Everything was going to be all right. And probably, he should start the day by telling Esme that.

  He walked over to her tent, still zippered shut. But he could hear movement inside—the girls waking. “Hey, Esme, could I talk to you for a second?”

  Silence, and Ian stood there, feeling Sierra’s gaze on him.

  “Esme?”

  “She’s not here, Mr. Shaw,” said a voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  The door zippered open, just a fraction. He could see inside—the tumbled, rumpled sleeping bags. Then a face. “She wasn’t here when we woke up—we figured she’d gone to the bathroom.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Maybe twenty minutes?”

  He looked at Sierra, who’d stepped out of the campground ring, coming toward him. “I didn’t see her at the bathroom.”

  He stared at her, nonplussed.

  “The bridge?” he suggested, and she nodded.

  He shoved the coffee into her hands and took off, not at a run, but yeah, something didn’t feel right. He put everything into the fact that she was probably just at the bridge, maybe thinking about her future. Figuring out the right words to say to Dante.

  But, no—he stood in the expanse, listening to the rush of the creek below, just breathing, listening to his heartbeat.

  Maybe she was already talking to Dante. He turned and ran back to camp.

  Sierra was waiting, her arms folded over her chest, and he pinpointed her expression as
worried. Especially when she looked up, bit her lip.

  “She’s not there.” He marched over to Dante’s tent. “Dante, are you in there?”

  No response.

  He unzipped the tent.

  The boys were still sleeping—and Dante’s bag lay empty. Cold, and practically untouched.

  “He’s not here,” Ian said, then looked at Sierra. “He’s gone.”

  Sierra was advancing toward him even before he stood up. She caught his arms, her hold firm around his biceps, her eyes pinned to his. “Ian. Just breathe. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. You told her last night to break up with Dante, right? Maybe she’s doing that right now.”

  He stared down at Sierra, so much calm in her hazel-green eyes, and it centered him, kept the panic from rising to choke him. “You’re right. She’s around here somewhere. I’m sure they’ll be back by breakfast.”

  But he couldn’t eat, and by the time they’d fed the crew and the sun cleared the mountain, Ian was pacing the camp.

  “Before we jump to conclusions, maybe we should send someone to Avalanche Lake,” Deputy Sam said.

  “Didn’t she say that Dante was going to show her Granite Park Chalet?” Sierra added.

  Ian nearly took off at a run.

  Sierra grabbed his arm. “Ian—wait. We need a game plan.”

  “I’m going up the trail—”

  “Fine. I’m going with you. But we should spread out—send a few people down the trail toward McDonald Lodge.”

  “I’ll do that,” Willow said. “Jared can help me.”

  “Ruthie and I will bring the kids back. Ben’s in town, in between tours, and if we haven’t heard from you by then, he and I will head back here,” Chet said.

  Ian forgot that Chet’s son, country music star Ben King, had once worked as a trail guide in the park, during the summers.

  “Thanks, Chet.”

  “I’m sure they’re around somewhere—we’ll find them,” Sam said, clamping him on the shoulder. He took off down the trail to the lake.