Page 4 of One Last Storm
“Yep. We’ll call when we get to Clearwater.” He ended the call and turned to face his family.
Tillie straightened, her mouth grim. She put a hand on Caspian’s head. “You need to go.”
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the windows where snow continued to pile against the glass. Dark and getting darker out there. “Yeah.”
“But Dad,” Hazel’s voice went small, “what about Christmas?”
Now his chest just ached. He walked over to her, settled his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be back, pumpkin.”
Shep was already moving, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call Axel, get him to the Tooth.” He glanced toward the windows.
Moose headed up the stairs and changed into jeans, a sweater and found Dawson by the door. “I’ll stick around here in case…” His mouth tightened.
In case Moose and the team got into trouble. He shook his cousin’s hand. “Get those ribs going. We’ll be hungry.” Then he winked.
The house shuddered under another fierce gust, and somewhere outside, something metallic clanged and rattled in the wind.
Moose crossed to Tillie. Pulled her close, kissed her forehead. She felt warm and solid and perfect in his arms. Leaving her felt like tearing off a limb.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered against her hair. “Take care of our girl.”
She nodded against his chest. “Please come back.” Then she lifted her head and kissed him, sweetly.
But the light had dimmed, the grief edging her eyes.
He headed for the door, grabbing his heavy winter coat from the hook.
Hazel’s voice stopped him cold.
“Dad? If Santa can’t bring my puppy because of the storm, do you think you could ask him to make sure Winter’s okay instead? That’s more important.”
He turned to her, crouched and she went into his arms, held on. “Be safe, Daddy.”
He pulled her close, savored the embrace a moment. “I will,” he said. “I promise.”
And this one, he planned on keeping.
CHAPTER 2
TILLIE
Twelve weeks of keeping this beautiful secret, and Christmas morning was going to be perfect.
Well, maybe.
Tillie pressed her palm against her still-flat stomach, watching Shep’s truck disappear into the thickening snow. The storm growled, building with lethal intensity—fat flakes swirling past her second story bedroom window like nature’s own snow globe gone wild. Through the gray-white curtain, she could barely make out the dark silhouette of the mountains. The wind howled around the timber house, rattling the windows and sending snow spiraling in violent gusts.
But if Winter Starr’s plane had gone down…yeah, she got it. And Moose knew how to fly his chopper in the darkest storm.
Please, God, bring him home.
Her body cramped, a fist curling through her, squeezing and she lowered herself to the big king bed, gripping the tall bedpost.
Breathe.
But her chest tightened, her throat burning. Please, no.
Stress. Had to be stress. Just worry about him flying in conditions like this. And whatever had been eating at him this morning. He’d looked strange. Distant. Something was bothering him.
