Page 8 of I’ll Be There (Montana Fire #4)

Conner held up his hand. “Yeah. It’s just a little getaway. Me and the guys, hanging out at Fort William, watching them carve canoes.”

“Actually, it’s the world’s largest fur trading post. They have an entire compound, and it’s all living history, so you can ask questions and—are you sure you want to go to Fort William ? For your bachelor party ?”

“We promise to bring him home in one piece,” Pete said, coming up to take the tray from her.

Liza looked at Conner. “Who are you?” She shook her head. “ Ho -kay, but...are you sure you don’t want to do something more exciting? Like maybe a fishing trip out to Lake Superior, or you guys could rent fat bikes and go trail riding?”

“Who’s renting fat bikes?” John, Ingrid’s husband, came down the path carrying a try of hot dogs in one hand, skewers in the other. He reminded Conner a little of Tom Selleck.

“Oh no, they’re going to Fort William,” Liza said, taking the hot dogs from him.

“Fort William?” Grace appeared right behind him. “But—I mean, it’s definitely a tourist stop, but—I thought you guys might like to go zip-lining. We have a new setup north of town, through the trees.”

Yeah, that actually did sound—

“No, they should go, and take Romeo,” John said. He stepped away from them and called back up the trail. “Romeo!”

“This should be fun,” Grace said and headed to the fire with her plate of cookies.

“What—no, John.” Conner shot a glance at Pete, who wore what Conner supposed might be his own exact expression.

Uh oh.

A kid, about twenty, came down the path rolling a wheelbarrow filled with chopped firewood.

Tall, wide shoulders, a little on the lean side, he possessed the wiry build of a young man used to hard work.

He wore his dark blond hair a little shaggy behind his ears, a green Evergreen T-shirt, now dirty and soiled, work gloves, and a pair of jeans.

“Sorry, Uncle John. Took a little longer to get this cord chopped.” He brought it over to the fire pit and began to unload it, stacking it.

“Romeo is our nephew—he’s here for the summer, earning some cash for college.” John walked over and began to hand Romeo the logs. “But he needs a day off, and frankly, it would do him good to see a little history.”

“Oh, it’s not...well...” Conner glanced at Darek, who was frowning at him, then to Reuben, who had stilled, cell phone in hand.

“It’s sort of a bachelor...party.”

John raised an eyebrow. “That’s not the bachelor party I had.”

“We don’t want to hear it, Dad,” Darek said.

Oh, this was a bad idea, mostly because—

“I don’t know—”

“No worries, it’s all good,” Romeo said, lifting a shoulder. “I got work to do.”

Silence fell between them as Pete looked away and Reuben wore the look of a big brother. Shoot. “No—it’s fine. I mean, it’s great. We’d love to have you.”

Oh no. No, no—but really, what could go wrong? It’s not like he was going into combat.

“Can I go?”

The voice stopped him.

Liza smiled. “Surprise.”

Conner whirled around and for a second, the wind shucked out of him, turned him hollow. Febrile.

Jim Micah.

Best friend from ages past, cohort, fellow Green Beret, the man he would have died for—nearly did a couple times in Iraq.

Micah had aged, yes—a few more lines around his gray-green eyes, and a glint or two of silver in that enviable thatch of black hair—but he still possessed the same side-slit smile, the shake of his head as if to say, What, recruit, did you get yourself into now ?

“Micah.”

“You didn’t really think you could get married without me.” Micah pulled him into a hug. “You dog, you. I never thought I’d see the day.” He gave Conner a thump on the back, enough to know he still possessed the ability to take him down, hold him there.

Conner thumped him back. “I know, right? But—how...oh wait. The text. You got one.” He glanced at Liza.

She grinned at him, so much light in her eyes, how could he not forgive her? “You’re surprised?”

“You have no idea.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Micah said. “I had to drive up from Minneapolis, thanks to today’s storm.” He looked past Conner to Liza. “And you must be the lovely bride.” He walked over, kissed her cheek. “I’m so sorry Lacey couldn’t be here. The kids had a soccer tournament.”

The kids had soccer— “What, are you a soccer dad now?”

He laughed. “Yeah, mostly. I’m still running an SAR outfit out of Nashville, doing some private contracting, consulting, and now I’m coaching soccer.”

“Raising up a superstar?”

“Well, Johnny is five, so it’s a little early to call him Beckham or anything, but we have high hopes.” Micah winked, and Conner fell back into the easy friendship.

Jim Micah. Here. It was as if God were giving him the thumbs-up on tomorrow’s excursion.

He might even hope big and believe that maybe, yes, he could finally keep that promise to Justin. To himself.

Find Justin’s killer.

“So where are we going tomorrow?” Micah asked.

To find answers.

“A field trip into the past,” Conner said.

Liza put her arms around his waist. “Promise you’ll be back by the afternoon? We have decorating to do.”

“I promise.”

Liza refused to live as a victim. As least in the waking hours. Midnight, however, turned her into a coward. Until then, she could lie to herself, find a novel, brew a cup of tea, binge-watch episodes of Parenthood .

And sometimes, text Conner.

But when the night deepened, and the streetlight outside her home clicked off, when her old house began to creak in the wind, the temperatures dropping, and when her body began to betray her.

..that’s when she got up and prowled. Or sometimes sat on the stairs in the darkness, nursing a cup of water.

Because if her bladder filled, then she couldn’t fully sleep, fall into REM sleep.

If she didn’t sleep, she couldn’t awaken trapped under the rage of a grizzly, putrid breath razing her a moment before he clamped razor teeth onto her shoulder.

He wouldn’t lift her, trapped in his jaw, and shake her so violently that her parts unfastened, knocked around inside her.

Most of all, he wouldn’t rake knife-edged claws across her body, cutting her arm from wrist to shoulder, leaving a gaping, ugly maw.

Breaking her.

If she never slept, then the memories stayed tucked deep into her brain, locked away, helpless to roam her waking thoughts and reduce her to the fetal position.

Three days.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. Conner’s kiss on the beach left an indelible touch.

But more than the anticipation of her wedding night—an intimacy much different than the one foisted on her as a teenager—she relished the idea of the afterward, where she tucked herself into Conner’s embrace and truly, finally. ..slept.

The house strummed its own music at night—the hum of the furnace during the chilly months, the creaking when the wind rattled across her porch.

Springtime brought the rush of the lake, ferocious on the shore nearby, and the patter of rain against the shingles.

She’d hung a wind chime, and now it sent out a delicate melody into the steeped night.

Liza got up, treaded downstairs to the kitchen.

The light from the fridge washed over her feet, freshly pedicured, as she spied the leftover fruit salad.

She scooped out grapes, melon, and bananas into a bowl, then stood in the darkened kitchen, eating them one by one, replaying Conner’s face when he saw Jim Micah.

I miss him. His raw-edged words about his brother clung to her, thickened her throat. Maybe she’d helped, just a little, by sending that text to Jim Micah.

Please, Lord, heal him of this terrible wound.

She finished off the fruit, glanced at the clock. One a.m.

Her entire body buzzed with fatigue.

Outside, it had begun to rain, a soft patter on her roof.

Liza grabbed her raincoat and slipped her bare feet into boots before unlocking the back door and flipping on the light.

The glow pressed out through the rain, illuminating the path to her pottery shed.

She flipped up the hood, ducked her head, and sprinted the distance to her workspace.

Track lighting ran the length of the ceiling, and tall shelves held her pottery in different stages of completion. Raw and drying to leather-hard, freshly fired but unglazed, glazed, painted, and finally glost-fired and finished for shipping.

Sadly, the finished shelf still seemed emaciated to her eyes. It’d taken six months for her arm to heal enough for her to function again at the wheel. A long time to delay her business.

She stored the clay body—she preferred earthenware—in bags on shelves near her throwing wheel.

On the other side of the shed stood her kilns, two electric stoves.

She walked over to the finished shelves, picked up a pitcher, part of her new collection.

A black ribbon encircled the orange body with a white trail cutting through the black.

Along the white streak she’d etched, I have come, that they might have life, and have it in the full.

The verse for her “Abundant Life” line of pottery, based on John 10:10.

She’d thrown, glazed, and painted this pot before she’d been tracked down in the woods and mauled.

In fact, she hadn’t painted anything since that day—just thrown a few pots, trying to get her hands to feel right again.

She put the pitcher back and headed over to the bags, sealed tight to keep the clay fresh. When she opened a bag, a scent lifted, earthy, almost tinny, raked from the minerals pulled from creek beds and other sources that comprised the clay body.

She pressed her hand to the hard and grainy clay, the feel of it soothing and familiar.

Yes.

She shucked off her jacket, hung it on a hook near the door, and grabbed her apron.

Then she carried the bag over to her work table. Taking the wire knife, she sliced off a chunk.