High Intensity (High Mountain Trackers HMT 2G #2)

Chapter 7

Seven

Jillian

I lift my hand at the guy in the truck as he drives off.

I don’t think he even glanced in my direction.

Then I look back at the load of firewood he literally dumped at the end of my driveway. I guess it was na?ve of me to think I’d be left with a tidy, stacked pile on my porch without putting in some serious elbow grease myself.

The prospect of carrying every log up to the house is a bit daunting, but maybe I can find a bucket or a bin in the garage. I haven’t been in there since I stumbled around in the dark during the power outage, but this time at least I’ll be able to see something.

Cobwebs are the first thing I notice, and a light shiver runs down my back. Not a big fan of spiders, at least not indoors where I don’t expect them. I grab the broom leaning against the wall just inside the door, and with a few well-aimed sweeps clear most of them away.

Other than some drywall sheets leaning against the back wall, and an old workbench with a few rusted tools under the single window, there isn’t much there. No bucket or bin in sight. But when I glance up, I notice a rope hanging down from a plastic sled up in the rafters. Now that could be useful.

It helps to be able to drag the wood to the porch steps, but I’m still sweating buckets when I finally put the last log on the pile. Still, while I have the sled out here, I may as well load it up with the empty boxes I’ve been collecting on the back deck as I unpacked. I’ll load them in the back of the SUV and drop them off at the recycling depot just up the road when I head into town later.

Ten minutes later, I’m on my way to the bathroom to get out of my sweaty clothes and hop in the shower, when the ringing of my phone in the kitchen stops me. The phone number on the screen doesn’t quite register until I already have the phone to my ear.

Shit .

“Jill?”

Chris is the only one who calls me that, and I’ve grown to hate that name. But that might be because of the visceral reaction I have to the sound of his voice. I feel instantly ill.

My instinct is to hang up on him, but a kind of sick curiosity stops me.

“What do you want?” I snap, none too graciously.

“I actually stopped by to talk to you after seeing you at the grocery store, but I discovered you sold your place. I’ve been worried about you.”

“ Now, you’re worried about me?” I remind him.

“Come on, Jill, please…” His tone is patronizing, and anger starts to burn in my gut. Even more so when he adds, “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Oh, I know it doesn’t,” I fire back with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “So, I’m asking you again, what is it you want, Chris?”

I can sense his annoyance in the heavy silence, but I can play this game as well—if not better—as he can. Call me petty, but I feel a faint sense of victory when he caves.

“Fine, I was trying to be considerate so you don’t get blindsided. Rachel delivered a healthy baby boy last Saturday.”

Hot bile surges up and coats the back of my throat. I don’t know why I react like this. It’s not like this is unexpected after bumping into him and his very pregnant wife at Albertsons, but I didn’t need it in my face.

Still, I force myself to say, “Congratulations.”

Of course, Chris can’t simply leave it at that, and pushes his luck.

“You know, he actually looks just like?—”

I immediately cut him off with a warning.

“No. Don’t you dare go there, Chris. This conversation is over.”

Without waiting for his response, I end the call and immediately block his number. Whatever connection remained between us over the years—maybe shared grief is all it was—is no longer there.

Chris has moved on by recreating what we lost. I guess that’s what upsets me; I know there is no way to get back what is gone, and to even try feels somehow like a betrayal to the memories that remain. That doesn’t mean I’m stuck in the past; I’m simply moving on in my own way.

I hold it together until I’m in the shower and then I allow the memories to flood me. Images of Macy’s dimpled grin. The strawberry-blond braids she favored to a ponytail. The stuffed bunny she dragged everywhere. Her adorable squeaky little voice. Reading her Llama, Llama, Red Pajama at bedtime.

Then inevitably come the darker flashes. Macy as an infant, struggling for air when she had pneumonia. Her first bloody scrape after tripping on the sidewalk. The sheer panic when I found the backyard gate wide open. The squeal of tires. Her lone new butterfly hair clip in a spreading pool of her blood.

The tears follow; hot, plentiful, and never quite as healing as I wish they were.

I don’t allow myself the indulgence of crying often anymore. There was a time it was all I did, and it absolutely drained all the life out of me. It doesn’t bring any relief, only makes my heart feel emptier.

Chris wanted to fill the hole in his with another child and couldn’t understand why that felt offensive to me. The void Macy’s loss left in my heart will always be there, but I found other ways to give me purpose and nourish my soul. Those differences turned out to be insurmountable and, to be honest, I don’t think either of us tried very hard.

When I open the bathroom door, I find Peanut and Nugget right outside.

“I’m fine, guys,” I reassure the dogs, giving them scratches before I continue to my dresser.

Maybe I’ll take the crew for a nice long walk along the creek. We’ve had nothing but blue skies since that storm came through, and today the temperature has actually been quite bearable. They could do with the exercise, and frankly, so could I.

I dress warmly, strap on my snowshoes while sitting on the bottom step of my deck, and walk out my backyard. It’s one of the things I love about this house, there is nothing between me and Mother Nature, but a chain-link fence and a gate.

My dogs don’t run off, they tend to stay in a pack when we’re out on a hike. They monitor each other, so I can just enjoy my surroundings. The snow is pristine back here, untouched, and I watch as the dogs walk in front of me, sniffing everything. You’d think the snow would obscure scent, but often times a snowfall will cover and actually preserve a trail, making tracking easier.

When we return, it’s close to six and the sun is already down. I’m carrying Nugget, whose little legs couldn’t keep up with the rest of us, but my lungs are full of fresh air, my face is flushed from the exercise, and my head feels clear. I lead the pack around the side of the house to the front, so I can dry the dogs with a towel on the porch before letting them inside.

I’m crouching down, trying to wipe as much snow off the animals as I can, when a truck pulls into my driveway. The dogs immediately start barking.

“Quiet,” I tell them as I get to my feet.

I recognize Wolff as he gets out.

“Hey,” I greet him, wondering what he’s doing here.

Wolff

I’m not sure why I’m here.

We were ordered to go home, get some rest after thirty-six hours of searching. The last twenty-four of those we spent trying to track down the final crash victim.

Eleven-year-old Hayley Vallard has been missing for almost seventy-two hours since the plane dropped off the radar.

Last night, the NTSB investigators took over processing the crash site, and we were able to focus on the search for the girl. Unfortunately, it has been frustratingly fruitless so far, but none of us was willing to give up. So Dan, JD, Jackson, and I kept pushing through the night, hanging on to the unlikely hope we might find her alive.

Then a couple of hours ago, Jonas, Fletch, and James showed up at base camp, calling us back for a briefing. The four of us were sent home for the night, told to rest up while the old guard took over the search.

I was home long enough to have a shower, but felt too restless to even contemplate hitting the sack. So, I hopped in my truck and drove here.

“Hi.”

I’m feeling a bit ridiculous now, standing here with nothing better to say.

Jillian tilts her head and studies my face for a few beats before jerking her head toward the door.

“Come in. I picked up some beer yesterday.”

I kick off my boots on the porch and carry them inside with me, dropping them on the boot tray next to Jillian’s. The dogs give me a good sniff-down as I follow her into the kitchen.

“Sloane mentioned you found the plane,” she prompts me as she sets a beer bottle in front of me on the island.

I nod. “We did.”

I don’t volunteer anything more and watch her fill a kettle with water. Then she grabs a mug down from the cupboard and tosses in a tea bag.

“You’re not having a beer?” I observe out loud.

She shrugs. “I prefer tea.”

Interesting. I briefly wonder who she had in mind picking up those beers yesterday, when she returns to the subject of the crash.

“That can’t have been an easy scene.”

I take a reinforcing drink from my bottle before answering her.

“Pretty horrific,” I concede.

“Never gets easier, does it?”

Her comment reminds me she’s not a stranger to death in all of its grisly forms. Maybe that’s why I was drawn here. She’s someone I could talk to, she’d get it.

“It doesn’t. These people didn’t even see it coming. Makes you wonder what the fuck they were doing out in that storm in the first place.”

I realize that question has been bugging and angering me since I heard of the crash.

“And now a young girl is still out there somewhere.”

“The girl? You haven’t found her?”

“She wasn’t with the wreckage, and we’ve been looking for her since last night.”

“Do you think she could’ve survived? I don’t know—gotten injured, maybe confused, and wandered off?” she suggests.

“It’s possible, but it’s hard to believe we wouldn’t have found her by now. We covered a decent amount of ground.”

She does that head tilt again, like she’s sizing me up.

“What?”

Her generous lips stretch in a soft smile.

“You wanna be out there.”

“Damn right I do,” I admit. “But the boss sent us home to get some rest.”

“And instead you’re here, having a beer,” she points out, as she turns to the water kettle which is boiling.

“It would appear so…”

She pours water in her mug and leaves it to steep, as she opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients.

“I assume you haven’t eaten yet?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You okay with double-decker grilled cheese?”

“Can’t say I know what it is, but it sounds pretty good.”

Looks amazing too.

I watched her layer four pieces of sourdough bread with a thin spread of pesto, sliced tomatoes, turkey, and fresh mozzarella, stacking two together to make two massive sandwiches. Then she popped those in the toaster oven on the counter.

She’s just pulled them out, all browned and oozing.

Damn. I didn’t think I was that hungry, but my mouth is watering and my stomach is growling.

We don’t talk much while we’re eating, Jillian apparently starving as well. I’m surprised to see the petite woman devour her entire sandwich in equal time.

“Thank God for yoga pants,” she announces, sitting back as she pats her stomach.

Who knew a woman with a healthy appetite could be all kinds of sexy?

Or maybe it’s because it is Jillian.

It’s probably a combination of a full stomach, the beer, and a serious lack of sleep catching up with me, but I find myself suddenly yawning big. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Think you’ll be able to sleep now?” Jillian asks as she gets up from the small kitchen table and gathers our plates.

Probably, even though I’m enjoying sitting in her kitchen, watching her putter around.

“Yeah, I should get going,” I reluctantly admit, pushing myself to my feet. “That 6:00 a.m. briefing will be here soon enough.”

“Like I said before, if you think I could be in any way helpful, I’m here. The snow does not affect the dogs’ sense of smell. In fact, they sometimes track better.”

I’d actually been thinking about that. Maybe I should bring it up with Ewing tomorrow morning.

“Yeah, I do. I don’t make the calls though, but I’ll make the suggestion at the briefing.”

She follows me to the door and waits for me to shove my feet in my boots and shrug my coat on. Then I turn to face her.

“Dinner was great. Again.” I bark out a laugh. “Jesus, you’d think I only show up to mooch a meal off you.”

She flashes me a pair of pretty, wide, green eyes. “Damn, and here I thought you sought me out for my sparkling personality.”

Her comment throws me for a second, but then she starts laughing. A free, lighthearted sound I could listen to all night.

“One of these days I’m gonna knock on your door and take you out to dinner.”

She seems as stunned at my promise as I am. That came out of the blue.

She nods pensively, then steps in and gets on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek.

“I think I’d like that.”