A Matter of Trust(67)

“Where is Ollie?” Ella asked. She noticed that Ollie had left Bradley their stove, food supplies, even a bottle of water, now empty. And that gave her the clues she needed, even before Bradley answered.

“He left early this morning to get help. I thought maybe—you haven’t seen him?”

Ella shook her head. She glanced at Gage. “The track outside—it’s his.”

Gage nodded, then scooted out of the tent and touched her arm to urge her away from Bradley.

He pitched his voice low.

“Whatever he did, he’s not getting enough blood flow to his foot. We need to get him out of here, but the mountain is too treacherous to sled him out. We need to call Kacey and ask her to bring in the chopper and airlift him out.”

Ella nodded, but he’d taken off his glove and now found her own ungloved hand.

“We’ll go after Ollie as soon as we get Bradley out, okay?” Gage gave her hand a squeeze.

“You need to go after Ollie now,” came a voice from inside the tent. She frowned and followed Gage back to the tent entrance.

“Why?” Gage said.

“Because I’m not the only one who fell going down the Great White Throne.” He reached over and gripped the destroyed helmet. “This is Ollie’s.”



Brette couldn’t blame her upset stomach on watching Jess and Ty walk out of the barn together—but she wanted to.

That was silly—she barely knew the guy beyond his ability to make eggs and pick a good cowboy movie. But the way he smiled down at Jess, warmth in his eyes, the way he held the door open for her, even the way he stood beside her, almost protectively, as they mapped a route into Heaven’s Peak by snowmobile, made Brette want to know Ty Remington better.

Want to know what it felt like to really wake up in his muscled arms, his low baritone sliding through her as he whispered good morning.

The thought took her up, made her draw in her breath. She hadn’t had a thought like that since—well, since she knew better.

Besides, Ty was probably already taken. Probably by Jess, if she read things correctly. Except, since he’d returned from his excursion, he kept looking over at her, a warm, almost worried smile tipping his mouth, as if checking on her. She sat on the stairs, her hand to her roiling, spasming stomach.

“We could take the snowmobiles in through Haystack Creek, toward Crystal Point, around the backside of Heaven’s Peak, then follow this tributary along the base,” Pete was saying as he and Ty, founder Ian Shaw, and a guy named Miles, who’d come in earlier, studied a map.

Miles had a military look about him, his dark hair shaved short, his body lean and tough. He wore a solemn take-no-prisoners look in his eyes.

“We could catch up with them here, below Bishops Cap,” Pete said, finishing his suggestion.

What a disappointment Pete the so-called epic rescuer had turned out to be. Sure, he’d said the right thing—“I’m not about the limelight—I’m just trying to get the job done”—but it came out surly and a little hard-bitten.

Which left her hoping for an interview with billionaire Ian Shaw.

He’d shown up about a half hour prior, pulling up in a mud-splattered pickup. She might not have even recognized him if Sierra hadn’t greeted him when he came in. He wore a stocking cap, dark hair curling from the back, a down parka, work pants, and snow boots as if he’d been shoveling his own walk like a normal human being.

He shucked off the parka, hung it on the hooks by the door, and stepped out of his boots. “How’s the search going?” he asked as he took the cup of coffee Sierra offered.

Chet, sitting at the computer and watching the radar, gave him an update on the two call-ins from Gage. Ian actually leaned forward, looking at the weather maps, rolling up the sleeves on his flannel shirt as if he might actually dive in, go after Gage and Ella himself.

Interesting. When he wasn’t dressed in a tux and being auctioned off as an eligible bachelor for charity, Moneybags helped run rescue missions.

Apparently, no one here cared about the rumor that suggested he’d left his wife and son behind in Katrina to die. Or that he’d made his billions off the catastrophes that caused the BP Gulf oil spill.

She had just been gathering the fortitude to introduce herself when he came over. “Ian Shaw. I hear you’re a friend of the victim?”

“And Senator Ella Blair, one of the rescuers. I’m her . . . I’m a journalist.”

“Really,” Ian said. His eyebrow quirked up. “And you just happened to be here, at this opportune moment, when a senator’s brother gets lost?”

“I’m her friend. Oliver just happened to pull this stunt while I was here.”