Page 11 of I’ll Be There (Montana Fire #4)

“Then one day he came to me and told me I had to leave. He gave me some cash—a lot of it—and...this.” She held up a thumb drive, gave a quick look around, then shoved it back into her pocket.

“He said it was my insurance in case Kayle or anybody else came looking for me. He told me that the only person I could trust was...well, you.”

A fist punched his chest, took out his breath. “Me?”

“He gave me the burner phone, told me to check it once a month, and that if he could, he’d contact me.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “I guess...”

If he could... Conner touched her arm. “You’re safe with me. He’s right. You can trust me. What do you need me to do?”

She pulled out the thumb drive, fisted it in her hand. “I have never opened it, but I think it might have clues to who killed him.” She opened her palm, held the drive out to him.

Conner stared at it, unable to move.

A tiny whoosh of air, the faintest of coughs as if from a car backfiring—and Harmony jerked back, slammed against the timber wall.

She cried out, crumpled.

“Shooter!” He jerked around fast and spied a man leaping from the outpost building. The shooter took off running toward the northern gate. Two seconds and Conner had memorized him—gimme cap, green military pants, and a gray T-shirt.

“Blue!” He dropped next to her. Blood saturated her shirt. He found the wound—not dead center in her chest, but through her lung, probably collapsing it, the way she fought for breath. “Stay with me!”

Micah ran out from the shadows. “Get into cover!” Swooping in, he lifted Blue into his arms and dashed into the powder magazine, secured behind the timber fence.

Conner followed, scooping up her bag.

Micah set her down on the floor of the powder room, moving his hands over her body, pressing down. Only when Conner dropped the bag on the floor did he hear the familiar clunk of a weapon.

Conner pulled out a 9mm Luger. “Are you kidding me?”

“We need help—” Micah said.

But Conner took off, sprinting toward the northern gate. He heard shouting, then someone calling his name, but his gaze fixed on the man in the gray shirt just cutting out of view. “Stop him! He’s the shooter!”

He realized, right about then, that he might be scaring everyone as he shoved past a family, the kids scattering out of the way, but hello — “Get down! Get—”

The tackle came from his blind side, as if the guy had played defensive-end for the Minnesota Vikings. He flew across the grass, the apprehender clamping him around his chest.

He landed so hard, the breath whuffed out of him. His tackler gripped his wrist and banged the gun out of his hand.

Conner sprawled for a second, coughing, sucking wind, trying to get his legs under him.

“Stay down!” An arm crashed down over his shoulder blades, a knee shoved into his back, and his attacker at least knew defensive moves because he grabbed Conner’s hand and turned it in a submission hold.

“Get off me!” Conner reared back, slamming his other elbow into the man’s thigh, but he’d apparently been apprehended by a buffalo.

“Stay still. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

Shoot him?

“You’re letting the real shooter get away! Get off me!” He struggled, despite the agony shooting up his arm. “Call 911—there’s an injured woman—”

Big Man grabbed his hands, twisted his arms behind him, and nylon flex-cuffs tightened down on his wrists.

“You’ve got the wrong guy!”

His captor hauled him to his feet.

“I’m not the shooter!”

Conner glanced back toward the armory, spotted Pete and Reuben near the entrance, Romeo nearby. And running through the crowd, a couple EMTs with their go bags.

Please, Blue, live.

“Save it for the Mounties, Rambo,” Big Man said and grabbed Conner’s arm again, this time in a lumberjack grip deserving of the man’s size.

It was only as Big Man pushed Conner away from the gathering crowd that Conner realized he’d never got hold of Blue’s thumb drive.

A reception in an ice arena felt a little like having a party in a fallout shelter.

Or a tomb.

The breath of the dead seeped into Liza’s skin as Grace opened the door, setting down the door stop and flicking on the lights to the ice arena.

Not a brightly lit, domed building like bigger arenas, the Deep Haven ice arena had been converted from a former emergency vehicle garage, the ceiling crossed with dusty beams. On the far end, a raised platform offered a space for a band, or maybe a head table.

Still, short of the school gymnasium, where the floors had recently been revarnished, Liza had run out of options of where to hold her reception.

“It’s not so bad,” Grace said, keeping her jacket on, blowing on her hands. “We’ll ask them to turn off the cooling units, and once we get tables in here, along with some draping and pine trees, string the twinkly lights, it’ll be beautiful.”

Liza affected a smile at Grace’s enthusiasm. Frankly, fatigue had simply shut her down, rendered her incapable of argument.

Around four in the morning, she’d finally climbed into her car, locked the doors, and curled up with a blanket, sinking down in her back seat.

Her own personal panic room.

But she never fell fully asleep, the buzz of worry keeping her from collapsing into exhaustion.

Two days.

She should have told Conner about the nightmares last night, when he had looked at her with sincere concern. But that was exactly why she couldn’t—she’d led him to believe she was fine.

He deserved better than the mess she’d turned out to be.

If she had the strength to admit that, then maybe they wouldn’t be throwing together this wreck of a reception.

Grace came up to her. “I have an entire army of Christiansens and Deep Haven friends willing to help pull this together. We just need you to say yes.”

“Yes.”

“Perfect,” Grace said, pulling out her phone.

“My dad already talked to the local nursery about bringing in potted trees, and Annalise Dekker is head of the hospitality committee at the church—she’s rounding up more tables.

Raina is contacting Pierre’s to see if they have chafing dishes, and Darek and Casper found the muscle to transfer the tables from the community center—they called Coach Caleb and enlisted the help of the football team. ”

She texted as she talked. “I have twinkle lights in my car—I called Noelle Hueston—she always has thousands of them on her house, and she’s lending us her stash.

” She looked up as she started to walk. “All we have to do is make sure you and your groom have that meeting with Pastor Dan, and we’ll be all set. ”

“Meeting?” Liza followed Grace out to her SUV. Her eyes widened a little at the number of boxes shoved into the back.

“My mom is watching Yulia for me, or she’d be down helping. But they’re working on tonight’s party.”

“Tonight’s party?” Liza asked as Grace piled a box into her arms.

“You don’t think only the guys get to have a bachelor party, do you?” Grace winked.

Right. “You didn’t have to do that—”

“Oh, yes I did. Listen, Max and I eloped, so I didn’t get all the fuss. Not that I minded—much—but if I can pamper you, I’m going to.” She closed her tailgate and picked up her boxes. “Twinkly light time!”

Grace’s phone buzzed before they could get inside. She held the door open with her hip and answered it.

Liza went in. Stood on the steps at the entrance of the ice arena.

The ice had been removed for the summer months, leaving just the bare cement floor.

With the lights on, chasing away the shadows, maybe yes, she could see Grace’s vision.

Pine trees edging the far wall, white lights draping the rafters, and more lights adorning the back of the platform.

It might even be magical, once they brought the tables in, covered them with burlap tablecloths, paper doily place mats, and linen napkins, and wrapped the chairs with tulle, added the bouquets for each—

The table bouquets.

She put the box down. “Grace! Did we order more—oh, sorry.”

Grace had come around the corner, juggling the boxes. “Pastor Dan—he needs to talk to you.” She held out her cell phone.

Liza took it. “Hey, Pastor.”

Good looking, married to their first female fire chief, Pastor Dan had helmed the Deep Haven Community Church for the past decade. She remembered when he first came to town, had watched him nearly perish in a church fire.

“I just wanted to remind you that you should bring your wedding license with you. And any special scripture you’d like me to focus on as I prepare my remarks.”

Silence, but her mind drew a blank. “Our wedding license?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “The one that makes you officially married in the state’s eyes?”

She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Um, where was I supposed to get this?”

“The courthouse. Although often that’s the groom’s job.”

“I probably said I’d get it since he lives in Montana...” Oh no.

Silence.

“What time are we meeting? I’m sorry—”

“Three o’clock sound okay? We have a memorial service this evening, and I need an hour or so to prepare.”

Oh. “I told the guys to meet me at the ice arena to decorate. Then, I thought we’d head over to the church, do some decorating there—”

“Liza, you can’t decorate until after the Sunday service tomorrow. But you’ll have plenty of time—the wedding isn’t until Monday, right?”

“Right.” She knew that. “Rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.”

More silence on his end, then, “Do you need some prayer, Liza?”

She gave a tinny laugh, trying not to let her voice quiver. “Probably. I’ll be okay. Three o’clock. See you then.” With a marriage license!

But as she hung up, a tiny, frenetic gasp escaped her lips. “Oh...oh...”

“Liza, are you okay?” Grace was unwinding the twinkly lights, placing them on the floor below the beams they would wrap, coiling other strands where the trees would go.

Liza sank down on the steps before her knees could outright buckle. “I...we can’t get married.”

“What?” Grace dropped the lights and strode over. “What’s going on?” She knelt before Liza, took her hands. “Listen, it’s going to be fine—this is going to be a beautiful reception, and even if it wasn’t, you have the most amazing groom—”

“I forgot to get a marriage license.” She fought a strange, prickly hysteria trying to bubble through her words.

Grace’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh my .”

“I don’t know why I didn’t remember this, but...of course I must have told Conner I’d get it, right? Because how could he do that from Montana?”

Grace eased her phone from Liza’s grip. “Just breathe. I have an idea.” She stood up, already dialing.

Liza lowered her face into her hands, shaking her head.

“Ivy, it’s me. I need a favor...just a second, the reception in here is terrible.” She pointed to the box of twinkly lights, then walked out the door.

Ivy. Of course. If anyone could help her get a license on short notice, it was the assistant county attorney.

Liza grabbed the door to get up and walked into the room.

She must have jostled the door stop because the door closed behind her with a soft click.

A cold trickle slivered through her as she tried the door. Not a push door, this door had a handle, a latch. And didn’t budge. Nice. Now she was locked in.

Grace would be back any minute, however, so Liza began to unpack another box, pulling out the lights, lining them up below the beams, then finally draping three strands on the platform.

Noelle Hueston owned enough twinkly lights to light the new Vikings stadium.

Liza picked up the longest strand, found it hooked together with five others, and dragged it over to the nearest socket.

“Twinkle, twinkle.” She plugged it in.

A crackle, buzz.

The entire room plunged into darkness.

Oh! Liza’s breath huffed out, and she pressed her hand to her chest.

Pitch black, no windows in the entire arena.

Breathe. Just breathe .

She touched the wall. Sank down, pulled her knees up to her chest.

Just stay calm.

Her breathing came fast, one over the next. She pressed her back to the wall, cool fingers tickling down her spine.

Grace would be back any moment.

Any. Moment.

The darkness seeped into her eyes, her pores, no hint of light. She focused on her heartbeat, trying to make it slow.

She willed her brain not to feel the cool breath of the air in the domed room spiriting over her forearms, lifting the fine skin on the back of her neck. She forced herself to listen to her breathing, not the echo of silence rebounding through the room.

She would not be a victim, would not release herself to the tumult of panic taking possession, wrenching her back—

Please, Grace, where are you?

No light, no voice sliding over her— Hey, Liza, what are you doing sitting here in the dark?

Oh, God, please don’t abandon me now. Please—

She felt her core begin to soften, her resilience breaking off in tiny pieces, that tight little ball she’d cocooned herself inside cracking open. No— no—

She lowered herself to the ground, brought her knees up, and tucked her head between them, her hands over her head. Then, with everything inside her, she fought the breaking of everything she’d worked so hard to regain.

I am not a victim.