A Matter of Trust Page 3

  And kids with iPhones. The little red record button made everyone stupid.

  “You made it down in record time!”

  Gage glanced around and spied Jess Tagg, EMT from PEAK Rescue, jogging up to him. She wore her blue jumpsuit uniform, and her blonde hair was in a singular braid down her back.

  He said nothing, hoping she didn’t see the truth in his eyes.

  Stupid, bravado decisions got people killed. He should have known better than to take the run on his own.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Jess said and eased past Hunter’s mom to unzip Hunter from the sled.

  The woman turned to Gage. “Trudy Corbin. We can’t thank you enough.”

  “It’s my job, ma’am,” Gage said, but her words landed on soft soil. See, what he did mattered.

  Pete Brooks came up behind him, pushing a litter to transfer Hunter into their pretty blue Bell 429 chopper. “Ty called in the evac—said you’d need to get this one to the Kalispell Medical Center, pronto.” Pete, also in his PEAK jumpsuit, wore his dark blond hair pulled back in a man bun.

  “Yes. Call ahead to my dad, see if he’ll meet you in the ER. I think he’ll want this case.” Gage looked at Trudy. “My father is an orthopedic surgeon at the hospital. He’ll know what to do to get Hunter back on his board.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think we’ll be taking any more trips out West anytime soon.” Her mouth made a dark line as she turned back to Hunter.

  Gage knew the look of a disapproving parent too well.

  “I thought you were on avalanche control today,” Pete said to Gage as he examined Hunter’s splint.

  “I was—came out at 6:00 a.m. this morning. We bombed along the backside of Timber Bowl. But the snow is still pretty unstable. We’ll probably be back in the morning, if the forecast is right.”

  “Come over to the ranch when you get off. We’re all watching America’s Missing tonight. They’re showing the episode about the girl we found this summer.”

  The body PEAK Rescue found last summer in the Avalanche River had been reconstructed with the hope that her identification might unearth leads to the missing niece of local billionaire Ian Shaw. His niece, Esme, had vanished in Glacier National Park three-plus years ago. Only recently had they discovered that she was, indeed, alive, confirmed by a cryptic phone call Ian received from her last summer. But not even a backtrace of the call and all of Ian’s best sleuthing efforts had unearthed the origin. The missing girl might have nothing to do with Esme’s disappearance, but identifying her made Ian feel like he was doing something to help someone else find answers.

  It didn’t mean he wasn’t also holding on to the wild hope that it would lead to answers for himself as well.

  “I’m going to take one more run from the top, along the perimeter, make sure we don’t have any more renegades,” Gage said. “I caught a couple of teenagers skiing in the undesignated area today.”

  A muscle pulled in Pete’s jaw, and it took a second for Gage to connect the dots, all the way back to the death of Pete’s father over a decade earlier, in an off-run ski accident.

  He had no words, so he glanced up the mountain, saw it covered in shadow. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it back up on top.

  Pete said nothing as he tested for a pulse in Hunter’s leg. Meanwhile, Jess radioed in his vitals to Kalispell ER. “We gotta get moving,” he said to Jess, who shot him a look, a nod, all business.

  Whatever had gone down between Pete and Jess last summer had clearly cooled, not even a simmer remaining. Maybe it had something to do with Jess’s extra-friendly relationship with Ty. It seemed that the guy had been putting in more than average hours remodeling her money pit house, helping her paint her bedrooms and most recently gut her kitchen.

  However, whatever had happened between Pete and Jess, they could still get the job done and now they worked together to get Hunter onto the litter and gurney.

  “Need help getting him to the chopper?” Gage asked.

  “No. But you’d better steer around the Base Camp Saloon. I saw Tallie in there, and you know how she loves a great hero story.”

  “I leave all the hero stuff to you, Brooks,” Gage said, grinning, and hiked up to grab his board. He radioed in and confirmed his last trek up the mountain to resume his patrol.

  The last hours on the mountain were always the most dangerous, with shadows masking the hollows and the bumps and runnels in the hill that could unweight a skier, send him airborne, only to land in a heap of broken skies, poles, and bones. And, with the lifts closing, some of the hotshots jumped off trail into the undesignated areas, took their last ride down through the trees and deep powder.

  It was the patrols’ job to make sure everyone got down the mountain safely.

  Gage skated over to the express lift and caught the last chair up. He clipped on his helmet and watched the skiers and snowboarders as they finished their runs. He didn’t see the T. rex.

  The wind had whipped up, and Gage tucked his chin into his gaiter, the chill welcome after the heat radiating off his body.

  “I leave all the hero stuff to you, Brooks.” Yeah, well, the last thing he needed was Tallie Kennedy, their local reporter, showing up with a microphone and a cameraman. Although it wasn’t so long ago he knew exactly how to schmooze a reporter into giving him air time or to strike a pose that might end up on the cover of Snowboarder magazine.

  But that had been back when he’d been young and stupid and thought he could do something amazing with his life. Thought, really, that he was amazing. Gage “Watts” Watson, lightin’ it up on Verbier.

  Echoes. He shook them out of his head.

  Wind caught the snow lying in packed layers over the cornice of the bowl, dusted it into the air. He pulled on his goggles and slid off the lift, clicking his boot into the binding of his board. The patrols were calling in, making their last runs of the day.

  Shadows covered the back of the bowl, and he stood, staring at the layers of white and gray, the dangers hidden under the frosted, creamy layers. They’d bomb again tomorrow morning and maybe by then get the last of the crust off, open it to powder hounds.

  “Ski patrol, Watson. I’m skiing down the perimeter of Timber Bowl—”

  His finger paused on the walkie as he spied a form moving down the bowl and into the shadows.

  He pulled out his binoculars, found the skier. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Come again, Watson?” He recognized Ty’s voice on the other end.

  “I’ve got a snowboarder outside the perimeter,” he said. “I’m after him.”

  “Gage—”

  But he cut off Ty’s voice and clipped the radio to his chest harness.

  Pulled on his goggles.

  And breathed in the last of the sunny day, letting it find his lungs, his pores, his bones.

  Time to fly.

  Gage pushed off and leaned back. The powder drifted up around him, whisper soft, fairy dust on his face as he held out his arms and floated through the snow. He scanned his route, remembering it well from the maps, eased up, and turned on his inner edge and shredded the hill. Powder flew out like a fan behind him. He leaned back and rode the white, catching the boys now in view.

  Oh, they had nothing on Watts Watson, two-time freeride world tour champion, record setter, and gold-medal winner of the Xtreme Verbier, the biggest mountain event on the planet.

  He edged down a narrow gully, soared over a cliff, catching big air, and while he was at it, added a flip during the forty-foot fall. He stomped it clean and sweet on the snowfield and could now see the T. rex in detail, its head bobbing wildly as the rider took a sweeping turn, caught air, and added a heli-move before landing in a puff of powder.

  Gage would give the kid props—he could pick a line. Graceful and smooth, with a little bit of snow poetry as he picked an aggressive line, over cornices, down a nasty couloir, flying off cliff faces as if he had wings.

  The kid rode like he’d been born on a board. />
  Not unlike himself, Gage supposed.

  Gage excelled in picking the most creative route down the mountain; it was almost an art, with the powder his canvas. He would study the route, find the one that utilized the rolls, the ridges and drops, see it in his mind as he slashed and carved the mountain into his own masterpiece. He could handle any terrain, from fresh groom to half-pipe, but freeriding allowed him to let go and enjoy the God-given majesty of the mountains.

  How he loved the hot sluice of blood in his veins, the scrape of frozen breath in his lungs. Even the clench of his chest when he scared himself and caught air off a hundred-foot drop, leaving his stomach in the heavens. Flying. Then he’d land on a pillow of white only to attack his next big cliff, all the way to the final snow field. His body sore, the wind chafing his ears. Every cell inside him bursting with life.

  And he didn’t mind the roar of the crowd, either, on and off the slope.

  He’d lost himself to it once, and now felt the tug of old habits as he chased down the T. rex.

  Gage recognized where he was heading even before the kid hit the cliff.

  He pulled up, not wanting to land on him, then saw him further down the hill and let himself go. He found the rock, sighted the fall line, sent himself over.

  Let the wind take him.

  And for a long second, Gage cut free of his legacy, the guy with tragedy in his wake.

  Just clear blue sky ahead of him.

  He landed in a puff and followed the trail down the mountain.

  The chalet came into view, just over another rise. Gage watched T. rex and pal fly over it, catching easy air.

  He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing an edge as he followed.

  He nearly came down on top of them, but they weren’t looking back. He stayed in their blind spot until they hit the chalet.

  They had their gear off and were fist bumping on their way inside when he rode up and showered them with snow.

  “Hey!”

  Oh, he’d give them hey.

  They turned away then, probably seeing his ski patrol jacket, and hustled inside.

  That’s right, you should run. Gage unbuckled his bindings, hot on their trail.

  He propped his board up, unhooked his helmet strap, and strode inside.

  T. rex and pal were making a getaway into the packed Base Camp Saloon.

  “You!” he said, pushing past families seated on the vinyl chairs of the luncheon area. The smell of burgers and onion rings lifted off the grills, and the familiar thump of heavy ski boots thundered around the room. Exhausted skiers looked up, their mittens and helmets scattered across tables, as he stormed through the room.

  “You, Mr. Dinosaur!”

  T. rex didn’t turn and disappeared into the saloon.

  Gage reached the door four strides later and yanked it open.

  The après-ski crowd rocked the room. A country singer crooned on stage, ski bunnies dressed in leggings, turtlenecks, vests, and UGGs sang along while bums in jeans and flannel shirts danced in the middle of the room, frothy beers held high.

  Gage knew the party too well and set his jaw, looking for the duo.

  He found the pair scooted into a booth with a group of ladies. T. rex was busy deflating his suit.

  The kid looked like an escapee from a prep school out East, with short red hair, a smattering of cedar whiskers, mischief and youth in his eyes. He lifted a beer—probably an illegal one—and toasted his partner in crime.

  Said partner looked about his age, dark hair, narrow nose, wide cheeks—he looked English, or at least high bred.

  Both of them reeked of too much money, too little sense.

  Gage had met the type before, and the memory dug under his skin and lodged there like a burr.

  “This is where the fun ends,” Gage said, stepping up to the table. “Show me your passes.”

  T. rex jumped up and out of the booth. “Dude! We were just havin’ fun.”

  His buddy edged up next to him, GoPro in hand.

  Gage palmed it and yanked it out of the kid’s grip. “Sorry, this isn’t going on YouTube.” He tossed it onto the table. “Your passes. Now.”

  He spied one of the dinosaur’s mittens on the table, with a pass attached, and grabbed it. “I just scored me a season pass,” he said and glanced at the picture. “Oliver Blair.”

  T. rex was peeling off his costume, no more fun and games in his eyes.

  Gage spied GoPro’s pass on a lanyard tucked inside his jacket. He yanked it over Pro’s head.

  “Hey!”

  “And Bradley Van Dosen.” Yeah, the kid looked like a Van-something.

  A small crowd had formed around them.

  “Leave them alone,” said one of the ski bunnies in the booth. She’d scooped up the camera.

  “No,” Gage said and swiped it away from her. The last thing he needed were pictures of him on the internet. “You think I’m just wrecking their good time, but if they got hurt, we’d have to send our crew out there in the night trying to track them down in an avalanche zone. And every second we’re out there, the temperature drops and suddenly it’s our lives in jeopardy because you guys thought it would be fun to break a few rules.”

  “It was for the powder,” Bradley snapped. Gage wondered if there were a few hash marks after his name. Maybe a Jr., Tripp, or Iver variation.

  “I get it—I do. I love riding powder as much as the next guy. But you’re not doing it here.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Oliver said. “You are kicking us off the hill?”

  It was the change of tone, dropping a few pitches away from anger or outrage to something that gave Gage one second of warning before the kid continued. “Of all people—seriously? Gage ‘Watts’ Watson?”

  And, despite the warning, for a long, clear second, Gage couldn’t move. Just blinked at Oliver as the kid stepped back, a crooked smile forming on his face, half disbelief, half awe.

  “Guys, do you know who this is?”

  “Stop,” Gage growled.

  “I saw you this morning, and I couldn’t place it—that feeling like I’d seen you before. And of course—dude! I have all your videos, that descent down the Broken River face off Craigieburn—that . . . that was over the top. He did a 1080 front flip off a 150-foot face—”

  “Please, stop.” He glanced over Oliver’s shoulder and noticed one of the girls thumb-tapping on her phone.

  Maybe texting.

  But probably googling him.

  Perfect. He had no doubt what might pop up first. Hopefully it would be his world championships. Or maybe that North Face commercial shoot.

  But most likely—

  “Wait, Gage Watson, that guy from Outlaw?” said one of the girls.

  And bingo, there it was.

  Gage’s jaw tightened. He took off his helmet, aware that his hair was matted and thick with sweat as he turned to Oliver. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said quietly, dark and lethal.

  And, frankly, he might as well make the most of it.

  That was what cautionary tales were for, right? “So hear me when I say, that kind of stupid behavior gets people killed. I should know, right?”

  Oliver’s mouth clamped shut, a bloom of red on his face.

  At least he’d gotten the kid’s attention. He held up the passes, a little show-and-tell that reinforced his words. “Get off my mountain. Stay off my mountain.” He pinned a dark look on Bradley, sending his words home while he handed them back the camera. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, not even wincing at the flash of the camera phones.

  Clearly, Gage would never escape the limelight.

  She’d found her ski legs again. Ella’s entire body burned, a refreshing ache that meant she’d worked hard on the slope, forcing herself to find again the rhythm, the courage, leaning into the adrenaline that had the ability to set her free from herself, her rules. Her relentless ambition.

  Snowboarding made her step outside of herself, take risks.

 
; Live.

  Yes, maybe Ollie had been right. She had forgotten how to let go, have fun.

  Politics and the law did that to a person. The ever-present press of responsibility, the knowledge that constituents’ eyes always watched.

  The frustration of seeing nothing accomplished after two years in office. So much for making an impact on her world. She didn’t know how Brette was going to spin her recent epic failure into a campaign plus, but . . .

  “Here you go—two hot cocoas,” Brette said and slid into the booth across from her. “I have to admit, I did better than I thought. Last time I was skiing, it was with you and Sofia, nearly three years ago.”

  A white headband held back Brette’s two braids, which, along with her white one-piece snowsuit, turned her into a Norwegian ski bunny. She’d unzipped it and pushed the top down to her waist, revealing a purple turtleneck underneath.

  “I remember,” Ella said. “Sofia fell in love with that guy—I thought he was going to follow us back east.”

  “What was his name—Richard? Or Randy?”

  “Something like that. I thought he was too old and creepy for her, but she always did have a thing for older men.” Ella sipped the cocoa. “I haven’t heard from her since she went back to Spain.”

  “Me either.” Brette stretched her legs along the seat of the booth. “Thanks for talking me into coming along.” She blew on her cocoa. “I can’t really afford it, but it’s still good to get away from the dog-eat-dog world of a freelance writer. Please, please let me work on your campaign.”

  “I don’t know if I’m even going to run,” Ella said.

  “Well, if you do, we need to get working on your biography. You’re the walking American success story.” Brette took a sip of her cocoa. “Serbian refugee to state senator? How your hard work landed you in Yale Law School?”

  “It wasn’t my hard work—it was my parents’ sacrifice, not to mention my adoptive parents’ money. Besides, I don’t need a political biography to run for office for a second term.”

  “In today’s world, you do. And I’m sorry, but a girl doesn’t graduate from law school at twenty-three without some pretty hard work,” Brette said. “I remember those days when you’d spend the weekend doing homework while Sofia and I got into trouble.”