A Matter of Trust(6)

Or fallen.

She didn’t want to think about that—the danger that could occur on a mountain.

Outlaw. The name pressed in, leaving bruises. Maybe she didn’t know how to have fun. Not anymore.

But really, who could blame her? She’d blown her chance at happily ever after—even self-respect—after the tragedy at Outlaw Mountain.

Or more specifically, after Gage Watson.

The top of the lift came into view.

“Life is more than fun, Ollie. And we’re not done with this conversation.”

The T. rex lifted his board to disembark. “Roar,” he said.

“Ollie—”

“Meet you at the bottom, sis.” He slid off the chair and away from her, then bent to clip his boot back into his board. She too slid off, remounted her board, and parked herself away from the lift, waiting for Brette and Bradley on the chair behind them.

Bradley rode his board over and high-fived his dinosaur friend. “Let’s shred this gnar!” He adjusted his GoPro and gave his subject a thumbs-up.

Ollie, in costume, headed to the edge of the bowl. He gave her one last look, wiggled his backside, and slipped off the lip and down the hill.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. But Ella couldn’t help a smile. Her brother, despite everything, always knew how to make her laugh.

He disappeared from view, and her attention turned to the breathtaking scope of Glacier National Park, the jagged horizon glistening white and glorious. Below her, miles away, she could just make out Whitefish Lake, the tiny town of Whitefish, and the run of high-end condos, including the one that belonged to her family, just off the slope.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the smell of pine and crisp air.

Maybe it was time she did have some fun. After all, she’d managed to sneak away from the maddening swarm of the press after the passing of Proposal 241, a bill she’d worn out her voice trying to defeat.

A clear indication that maybe she shouldn’t run again, if 80 percent of Vermont supported the use of marijuana for recreational purposes.

Crazy.

Brette slid over, clipped her boot in, then stood up and adjusted her goggles. She glanced over at the view. “I don’t know, Ella. I’ve never ridden powder this deep. And this is pretty steep.”

Ella glanced at her. “Thanks for coming along. I know I roped you into this.”

“No, I’m glad to be here. I haven’t been skiing in years—since we came out that time with Sofia.” Brette’s wheat-white hair hung out of her helmet in two thick braids. Athletic and petite, Brette was a deceiving package of curves and brains, her journalist mind always on the hunt for a good story. Ella was glad her former housemate was, and always had been, on her side. “I’m just not sure I’m not going to end up taking my own toboggan ride down the hill. Although, if I could get that cute ski patrol to save me . . .”

Brette grinned at Ella and pulled out her phone. “I got a few close-ups.” She thumbed open her app and began to scroll through the pictures. “Here’s a good one. Handsome, huh?”

She handed the phone over to Ella. The glare on the phone made it hard to see, so she took off her glasses, cupped her hand over the phone, and turned away from the sun.

Everything inside her froze. Wait—no. She angled for a better view. He wore his helmet, his face intense and straining as he reached out to fit the sling over the head of the dangling snowboarder. But that set of his jaw under a layer of brown whiskers, the curly brown hair peeking out of his black ski helmet . . .

It simply couldn’t be. “Yeah, he’s handsome,” she managed, her voice barely hitching.

“I think I’m going to fall, just so he can rescue me.” Brette winked at her, tucking the phone back in her jacket.

Ella offered a weak smile.

She tried to remember—had the voice sounded familiar as he called up to the boy?

Maybe.

Yes. She possessed a nearly photographic memory when it came to the regretful moments of her past, and a news article flashed in her mind: Gage Watson, from Mercy Falls, Montana.

He’d returned home to hide.

Or survive.

Maybe restart his life.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. Really, not at all.

Except . . . She’d told herself for years that she didn’t have to see him, track him down, talk to him.

Let her heart remember.

But she’d also told herself that someday she’d face Gage Watson and explain everything.

Maybe it wasn’t him.

She wasn’t going to let Brette crash and find out. “Listen, Brette, just keep your arms open and wide, like you’re reading a newspaper.”

“I’m sorry, what is that? A news—what?”

“I know, old-school term. Try this—pretend you saw, oh, I don’t know, Kit Harrington at the top of the hill, riding your direction, and only you could save him.”