“And you had me for lunch.”
She closed her eyes, and he instantly regretted his words. “Sorry—it’s fine. It’s over. I’ve started over, and I like my life—”
“But you were famous. A champion—”
“And look where it got me. Where it got you.” He made a face. “Stuck in the middle of a blizzard, chasing your brother down the face of a mountain.”
“That’s not your fault, Gage.”
He lifted a shoulder.
She was just looking at him. “Can I tell you something?” she said softly. The wind seemed to have died with the rising of the sun, although it still shook the tent. “It’s incredibly hard to follow a line perfectly.”
“You did great yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t. But I tried. And I also found that if I looked too far ahead, I lost where I was. But if you looked back, you would see that I was all over the mountain.”
“As long as you made it safely down,” he said.
“That’s the point. You gave me a line. A safe one. It was my job to ride it. And if I didn’t, it wasn’t your fault.”
He knew she was trying to make a point, but it was too late. “In the end, any way you cut it, it was my fault that Dylan died, and we both know that, Ella. You were right to help Dylan’s family—I should have thrown him off the chopper that morning. I know that. So please, listen to me. It’s in the past, so let’s just leave it, okay?”
She shook her head. “Not if you keep blaming yourself.”
“There’s no one else to blame. And if I don’t get you off this mountain safely, then we’re right back there, aren’t we?”
Her eyes were glistening, and she reached up, wiped her cheek. “I hope not. Because I don’t want to go back. And I know I can’t say it enough, but I’m so sorry. I was ambitious and hurt and I should have walked away from the case.”
He stared at her, wishing she might add, “But not from you.”
Aw, shoot.
“I understand ambition, Ella. I lived it, breathed it. It’s what made me a champion.”
“No—you don’t understand!” She blew out a breath. “Fine. Listen,” she said, her voice shaking. “It wasn’t just ambition. My parents asked me to help the McMahons, and I wanted to prove to my parents that I was worth all the energy and all they’d sacrificed to give me a future. But . . .” Her expression turned so forlorn. “I just managed to destroy the life of someone I cared deeply about.”
He frowned.
Cared. Past tense. But really, what did he expect? That she’d pine for him? “What did you mean, you wanted to prove to your parents you were worth it?”
She sighed. “I’m adopted, Gage. I should have told you that—or I would have, if we’d gotten further into our relationship. My parents are . . . well, the Blairs are my adoptive parents. I’m a Slovakian refugee. Me and Ollie.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
She swallowed, made a face. “I lived in Serbia with my parents—my Slovakian parents—until I was eleven years old. My father was a philosophy professor at Belgrade University and a pastor. My mother was a physician. We lived in Belgrade with my older brother, Jovan, who was seventeen, and Ollie, who was four.”
She took a breath. He didn’t move.
“We were refugees from the war between Serbia and Kosovo.”
He stared at her, trying to reconcile her words with the composed, preppy lawyer he’d met at Outlaw.
“We came to America under refugee status, and my parents started working for the Blairs. My parents died in a car crash a couple years later, and that’s when the Blairs adopted Ollie and me.”
She met his eyes. “Jovan died in the NATO bombing of Belgrade. It happened right outside our apartment, actually. By then, most of us who were left in the city were living in ruins, and Father was working in the underground, getting fellow Slovaks out of the country. I’ll never forget the day Jovan died. We were getting ready to leave, and he went out. I never knew why. Father was standing at the window, watching for him when he saw him come home. It was early in the morning, and Jovan was simply crossing the street . . . and then, the world exploded.”
He could almost see it in her eyes, the grief flashing there.
“Ella—”
“It was so senseless.” She clenched her eyes closed, and he wanted to stop her from reliving whatever she was about to say.
“The bomb destroyed part of our building.” She opened her eyes, her gaze far from him. “I was in bed with Ollie, and we woke up to the explosion, our room raining debris, the wall in our room shattering open to the world. Mama was screaming—Papa had been blown back into the kitchen.” She looked at him then. “There was nothing left of Jovan. Papa looked . . . and then we fled. Papa had already connected us with a church in Vermont, and the Blairs sponsored us, brought us into their home. They were good people. Had no kids of their own, so . . .”