Wild Montana Skies Read online

  Ben refused to flinch. His father had never pulled his punches, and apparently without Mom around to temper him, he went right for the heart. “I’m not running. In fact, if you’ll listen, I’m trying to get you to come to Nashville—”

  “I’m not moving to your fancy digs in Nashville so you can shove me in rehab. I’m just fine here—”

  “Dad! You nearly caught the house on fire.”

  Chet made a noncommittal noise that Ben didn’t know how to track, then opened a drawer, grabbed a flat spatula, and tested the eggs. “You’d better be getting into the shower if you want breakfast.”

  “Listen, I’m just trying to help—”

  “Then stop talking about me leaving and start unpacking—for real.”

  In other words, stay.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “You can do anything you want, son. It’s never too late to start over.”

  Ben stared at him. “I don’t want to start over. I’ve spent the last thirteen years building something—I’m not going to lie down and let someone take it away from me.”

  But yes, maybe it had taken him a month to figure out that he wanted to fight for it.

  Betrayal did that—took the wind out of his sails, kept him gasping.

  It took him three years to recover, find his feet last time. A month seemed record time, frankly.

  But Chet’s words bit at him. Especially as Ben moved to his tiny bedroom in the back of the house. He’d thrown his filthy clothes in a corner, the pile marinating with ranch odors. His clean laundry sat in a basket available to sift through on a daily basis.

  Maybe it did resemble running—a bit. He had simply dumped his duffel bag out on the floor, made some not-so-tidy piles, and dove into some long-overdue house repairs.

  Reverting back to his ranch-hand roots, the ones he sang about, the ones that had launched his now-in-jeopardy career.

  Ben found a clean pair of jeans and an old Bluebird Cafe T-shirt, then headed to the shower down the hall.

  Five minutes later, he braced himself against the tile, letting the still-warming water cascade over his aching muscles, lifting his face into the spray. Another thing his father couldn’t do—shower. The old man somehow levered himself into the tub in his master bedroom, a feat the home health nurse probably assisted him with. Despite his father’s disappointment over his music career, he noticed his father hadn’t turned down the fancy, comfort wheelchair or Ben’s offer for nursing help.

  Thankfully. Ben wasn’t good at that caretaking stuff.

  But he could probably pick up a hammer and start modifying the house.

  Ben scrubbed off the mud, let the heat massage the stress out of his back, then turned off the shower and climbed out, drying off. He wrapped a towel around himself, ran a hand across the mirror to clear the steam, and peered at his bloodshot eyes. He looked like he’d just come off the road after playing a month of back-to-back gigs, catching just a handful of winks between stops.

  Grabbing his toothbrush, Ben stood at the window and cleaned his pearly whites, checking out the sky for rain. Two hundred yards away, on the far side by a creek and nestled in a grove of towering lodgepole pine, Ian Shaw’s unassuming but gorgeous hand-tooled log home gleamed under the caress of morning.

  With wide-planked wood floors and arching beamed ceilings, stuccoed walls, opulent leather furniture, five private bedrooms and baths for each, and a top-of-the line chef’s kitchen.

  So much house for a single guy, but of course, Ben was one to talk. His own place sat on thirty acres outside Nashville, with five bedrooms, a pool, and enough space for the family he’d always thought he’d have.

  Maybe that’s what he and Ian had in common—the hope for family. If they built it, it would happen. Or not. From the talk Ben could scour up, Ian preferred to be alone, or at least surround himself with just a handful of confidants—Chet, his personal assistant Sierra, and Deputy Sam Brooks, who swung by to check on the place when Ian jet-setted off to manage one of his many companies.

  As if Chet and Ben weren’t right across the yard to keep an eye on the place.

  Even after more than a decade away, Ben still knew nearly every person in the town of Mercy Falls.

  Or so he thought.

  Ben moved the curtain aside to get a better look at the silver Ford Escape, a newer model caked with the appropriate layer of dried mud to have driven up in the night.

  So Ian Shaw had a new friend. Interesting.

  Ben spit into the sink, rinsed his mouth out. Decided against running a comb through his dark blond hair. Or trimming his whiskers. He had a feeling he’d be heading back out to the sandbagging team for a fresh layer of grime.

  He pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, then headed out barefoot to the kitchen to find his father at the table eating an omelet.

  Chet shoved a plate toward him. “I added mushrooms and picante sauce.”

  Chet had turned on the news of the day—the police scanner squawking reports from the local EMS. Flood updates, a few calls from worried locals checking on the height of the river.

  “Reminds me of the flood of ’64. I was about sixteen, and Dad was working the Marshall ranch, closer to Great Falls. Mom looked out the window and saw this wall of water coming at us, way off in the distance. Dad threw me and Ham into the truck, and we went to the bottoms to move the yearlings. We got them to higher ground, then headed back to the house.”

  Ben retrieved a cup of fresh-brewed coffee.

  “We got to the creek—it was about three feet wide when we’d crossed it an hour before. It had turned into frothy whitewater about thirty feet across, sweeping away cattle and horses, uprooting cottonwoods. And the worst part was my mom, trapped in the house on the other side of the creek, waving at us, holding Ike and Lucille on each hip.

  “My father nearly lost it. He tied one end of the rope to a cottonwood, the other to his waist, and dove into the water. I thought he would drown, but he somehow made it to the far bank. He tied that rope onto one of the cottonwoods, and then Ham and I had to go hand-over-hand through the river.

  “I took Lucy on my shoulders, and Dad grabbed Ike, and we ran in our bare feet up the bluff behind our house. The river simply ate our house, engulfing our front porch, breaking windows, tearing it off its foundation. It took everything, the cattle, the horses, and the lives of thirty-one people. We were lucky.”

  Ben had forgotten about his food. “What did you do?”

  His father took a sip of coffee. Set it down to stare into the past. “We thanked God we were alive. And then we figured out how to keep going.”

  “Is that when you moved here?”

  “Mmmhmm. Dad worked this land for Mr. Gilmore. And that’s how I met your mom. Ruthie Gilmore. See, God can fix even the worst disasters, make something new and whole out of them.”

  If he expected agreement, Ben couldn’t acquiesce. Instead he dug into his now-cool omelet. “The creek is nearly over its banks, but I don’t think it’ll rise much more.” He shoveled in a forkful of eggs. “But the crest did take out the Great Northern Bridge last night—”

  “Shh. That’s an EMS call.”

  Huh? But Ben piped down, watching as the old man’s head cocked toward the static of the radio. Ben hadn’t a clue how to decipher the code.

  “Get the phone,” Chet said, gesturing to the ancient wall-mounted rotary next to the fridge.

  “It hasn’t even rung—”

  And as if his father had magical powers, the old powder-blue phone jangled. Ben picked it up and, to make things easy, handed the receiver to his father. He ducked under the cord and settled back in his seat.

  “Yes, Nancy. I think so,” Chet said, then, “No, not yet. But I’m expecting the new pilot today.”

  He glanced at Ben, as if assessing him. “Yes, on four-wheelers, I suppose, but according to Sam, Swiftcurrent Creek is completely flooded, no access into the pass.”

  Ben put his plate on the table. “Is someone trapped in
the Swiftcurrent Basin?”

  Chet shot him a quelling glance, held up his hand. “Okay, if the National Guard changes its mind, give me a yell. I’ll try to track down our new pilot and get back to you.”

  He handed the phone to Ben to hang up.

  “I’m going to get you this nifty new gadget called a cell phone,” Ben said, hanging up the handset. “What’s going on?”

  His father was digging into his robe pocket. “Youth group. Went camping up in the Swiftcurrent area and haven’t returned. They were due back yesterday, but with the rains, they should have pulled out sooner. They were supposed to take the Swiftcurrent Nature Trail up to the pass, but it’s washed out all the way to Bullhead Lake. Parents are worried.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “Dial this number, then hand me the phone.”

  Ben took the paper, picked up the receiver. “Is the National Guard going in?”

  “Not until the campers are located. The army can’t spare the manpower to look for them. They’ve got one chopper, and it’s busy hoisting people from rooftops.” He held out his hand for the phone. “But you know that area well.”

  “Yeah,” he said woodenly, and his father didn’t have to mention her name for Kacey to appear in memory—long auburn hair, mountain green eyes, the kind that could find him in a crowd and stop his breath. She swooped into Ben’s head, lodged right there. No, worse, she sank down to his heart, where a fist tightened.

  “Good,” his father was saying, “because if you can locate the group, we can fly them out.”

  “In what, exactly, Dad? Your chopper is in pieces.”

  Chet grinned, winked, as if letting him in on a secret. “Insurance—and Ian—made sure we got a beautiful new dual-engine Bell 429.”

  Ben finished dialing and handed the receiver to his father. “Wow. So, want me to get Ty on the line?”

  “Ty’s still shaken from the crash. Hasn’t even been in the simulator since it happened. No, it’s going to be a busy summer, and we need someone at the helm who is seasoned, who knows what she’s doing. I hired us a new pilot.”

  She?

  The word must have come out of Ben’s mouth.

  “Yes, she.” His father held the phone to his ear. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Of course not, but . . . I don’t know. I thought with the accident, you were done with PEAK Rescue. I mean, who will take over the team?”

  “Maybe you could.”

  Oh, Dad. “I have a job.”

  His father shrugged, and it opened up the scab.

  “Why would I come to your concert, Ben? You sing about beer, women, trucks, and fast livin’. That’s not my life, and it shouldn’t be yours.”

  Well, that life paid the bills—his and his father’s.

  More, people lined up for days to get tickets to his concerts. Or at least they had, once upon a time.

  Right then, whomever his father had called picked up. “Hi, yeah, this is Chet King. I’m just checking that you’re headed in this morning? You can stop by the house . . . super. See you soon.”

  He handed the phone back to Ben. “Now we have to call Miles. I suspect the team is already busy working the flood, but maybe Jess can ride along in case there are any casualties.”

  “Okay, fill me in here. Who is this new pilot?”

  Ben might have imagined it, but he thought he saw his father turn a shade gray. “Before she gets here, I need to talk to you, son.”

  “Dad, are you okay?”

  Through the window over the sink, he saw a figure move out from Ian’s house, climb into the Escape. From this vantage point, it looked like a woman.

  Really, Ian?

  But he didn’t have time to think that through, sort it out from what he knew about Ian, because his father had turned to him.

  “Son, I know you say you’re not hiding, but the fact is you’ve never been the same since you and Kacey split up—”

  Ben’s gut tightened. “Dad, stop.”

  The Escape pulled a U-ey, started their direction.

  “And I know there’s a lot of hurt there, but—”

  “Hurt, Dad? That’s how you’re framing it?”

  “I know you have unfinished business.”

  “I can promise you we don’t.”

  “And I think the reason you’ve never been truly happy in Nashville is—”

  “I’m happy in Nashville! I have a great career, fans, a house that’s five times this size—”

  “Because you never stopped loving her.”

  And now Ben had nothing. His father stared at him.

  Chet’s voice dropped. “You’re still running from your mistakes, refusing to forgive yourself.”

  “No, Kacey couldn’t forgive me.”

  Although, what good would it do to forgive himself, really? It was over, either way.

  The Escape rolled to a stop in front of their house.

  “That’s the thing. What if you gave yourself a second chance?”

  His dad’s words dug in, even as the car door closed.

  “There’s no second chances, Dad. You can’t go back and fix the past.”

  Chet’s grin was rueful. “Well, I guess we’ll see about that.”

  Boots scuffed on the porch, and now his dad’s expression changed. Hardened. “Listen, sometimes you just gotta have faith. See that it can work out for good. There are second chances. Even grace, son, if you’ll open your eyes to see it. To let it in—”

  “Hello? Mr. King, are you here?”

  Ben simply froze. The voice, sweet, bright, carrying so much of the past and too many fragmented hopes, rushed over the threshold, flooded through the house, and caught him by the throat.

  No. His father did not call—

  “In here!” his father hollered.

  Ben stared at his father even as the footsteps stole his breath, stopped his heart. And yes, he had the crazy urge to get up, push away from his father, and simply, well, run.

  Put this town and his father’s meddling behind him.

  He didn’t want to rehash the past. Didn’t even want a second chance.

  “Dad . . .” His voice shook.

  “This is why you came home, Benny,” his father said quietly. “Not for me. And not for you. For her.”

  Then he looked up, past Ben, and smiled. “Kacey Fairing. Finally. And, I might add, just in time.”

  He glanced at Ben, grinned as if he hadn’t just put a fist through his son’s chest.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Right, Ben?”

  2

  It simply wasn’t fair that seeing Ben King could shear open the scars, rip through thirteen years of healing right to the bone.

  Kacey refused to let him unravel her, wouldn’t let him see her flinch.

  The jerk stood with his hands on the hips of his faded low-hanging jeans, dressed in a black T-shirt still clinging to his wet chest, his dark hair damp and tousled from a recent shower. Worse, he smelled clean and fresh, despite the scruff of a night’s whiskers, a dark layer on his chin.

  She hated to admit it, but Ben King in person was every inch as stunning as his album art, the in-the-flesh embodiment of his dazzling CMA accolades.

  But country megastar and local legend Ben King had no business standing in the middle of his father’s A-frame kitchen staring at her as if she owed him an explanation.

  She wasn’t the one who’d run off in the middle of the night. Who’d left her to pick up the pieces while he became an international star, with swooning fans, computer wallpaper, and albums dedicated to “the ones who gave my music life.”

  Once upon a time, she thought that had been her.

  For a second, his expression tightened into incredulity.

  Yeah, well, she had her own feelings of disbelief, thanks. Disbelief and not a little latent fury. But she could get to that later.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, a reflex she instantly regretted, before she turned to Chet and squatted to pet the chocolate lab that insisted on making f
riends.

  A sight for sore eyes. Sweet. As for Chet, the sight of him nearly undid her. Trapped in a wheelchair, his once-robust body withered under the destruction of his accident, his leathery, lined face evidence of the fatigue of doing daily battle with his uncooperative body.

  But although his body had aged a century since the last time she’d seen him, his brown eyes still held the same warmth, lit by an internal fire, a joy in his expression that made her feel instantly home.

  “I’m glad to see you too, Chet,” she said quietly, meaning it. She got up and hugged him around the neck, and for a second sank into the grip of a man who had known her and loved her anyway.

  She stood up, Chet’s hands still clasped to her forearms. “I’m so sorry about Ruth.”

  He nodded, and for a second grief flashed in his eyes. “She fought hard, all the way to the end.”

  Of course she did. Ruth had taught them all what it meant to stand tough.

  “Thanks for coming over so quickly,” Chet said, and she had the feeling he didn’t realize she’d spent the night in Ian Shaw’s guest room.

  However, Ben clearly knew, because he instantly threw her under the bus. “She was next door, Dad.” And his tone didn’t suggest anything other than something lewd.

  He was one to talk. Her mouth tightened. “I came into town last night and found out the bridge to Whitefish got knocked out. I met Ian, and after he introduced himself as my new boss, I took him up on his offer.”

  A decision she’d doubted the wisdom of until she slept like the dead in his plush, queen-sized guest bed. Two days of exhaustion plus her requisite Ambien made for instant, blessed unconsciousness.

  Still, she’d locked the door, just in case her subconscious decided to take a midnight stroll. Thankfully, she woke still clutching his thousand-count Egyptian cotton pillows.

  “He could have been a murderer,” Ben muttered.

  She glanced at him, shook her head. “I know how to take care of myself, thanks.”

  Ben quirked an eyebrow. “Is that why you’re nursing a goose egg?”

  Her hand went to her head. She moved her hair to cover the gray-green lump. “It’s just a bump, in the line of duty.”

  “Kacey’s done three tours in Afghanistan,” Chet said to Ben, and the frown that creased his brow suggested he hadn’t known.