Page 4 of Tribulation Pass

Next to the library was the police station, still under construction, but it promised to be as spectacular as the library. Being born into the Ashbury family hadn’t been her choice, but it had given her privileges most people only dreamed of. And she certainly recognized money when she saw it. Laurel Valley was exactly the kind of place Derek or her parents would have wintered for ski season.

Another boom of thunder shook the sky and this time it was followed by a crack of lightning so bright it had her seeing stars and her hair frizzing around her face.

“And that’s close enough for me,” she said, pressing the accelerator.

She saw the sign where Main Street continued, and she veered hard to the right, so she didn’t get stuck in the endless roundabout cycle. There were more businesses on each side of the road—mostly restaurants, adventure and sporting goods stores, and places to rent seasonal equipment—but the farther she drove, the sparser they became.

The first drop of rain fell as soon as the road changed from two lanes to one, and she barely had time to see the sign proclaiming private property and the cameras situated high on poles, before the sky opened up and she couldn’t see anything at all.

She’d never experienced rain like this—the big heavy drops that exploded as they hit the windshield. The electricity in the air made the hair on her arms stand on end. It was violent and full of rage.

Her wipers were doing double time, but she was barely inching along since she couldn’t see two feet in front of her face. All she could do was pray she was the only person foolish enough to be on the road right now.

Her front bumper hit the tree before she could see it, and she jerked forward against the seat belt with a tinyoomph. The windshield wipers swished loudly, but they were fighting a losing battle. She couldn’t stop now. If she’d found the tree then she wasn’t too far from the house.

The palms of her hands were damp, and her heart thudded in her chest. She turned on the radio and Berlioz’sSymphonie Fantastiquefilled the tiny car.

“That’s the perfect music for impending death. How about something else?” She flipped the dial again until she found the classic rock station, and then she wiped her hands on her jeans and took the wheel again.

“Just a little farther,” she said, trying to reassure herself.

She put the car in reverse and then inched her way forward and back onto the road. She didn’t know how long she crept along, but it felt like hours. Tall grass brushed her window, and she realized she was totally disoriented. And then the car stopped moving altogether.

She pressed down on the accelerator, but the tires just spun in place.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Don’t panic.” She checked her phone once more, but there was no signal.

She had two options. She could wait it out or she could start walking and try to find help. She looked at the map Mac had drawn on her paper. She was in the home stretch. It couldn’t be much farther. At least, she was praying it wasn’t too much farther.

With that decided, she dug into one of the boxes in the back seat and grabbed a windbreaker with a hood, not that it would do much good, and she grabbed her workout sneakers instead of the designer ones she currently had on.

“No time like the present,” she said after she’d zipped up the jacket and tightened the hood.

She grabbed the keys, said a little prayer, and stepped into chaos. The wind pushed her back against the car, and rain lashed at her face. She held her arm in front of her eyes long enough to lock the car, and then she stuffed the keys in her pocket and started walking.

ChapterThree

Summer was officially over.The chill in the air hadn’t been there a week before, and the wind had shifted direction so waves rippled gently across the lake. Rain was coming. But for now…life was perfect.

Sunlight hadn’t yet broken between the peaks of the mountains, but the promise of it was there, casting a pearly gray light over the land—his land. The quiet and his own thoughts were all he needed. He leaned against the cedar porch railing, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, wearing only a pair of navy flannel pajama pants.

Winston lay at his feet, never as excited about a new morning as his owner, and snored lightly. He was a seven-year-old English bulldog who tolerated having a human living in his house.

Duncan O’Hara was a man of routine. Being the oldest of five and growing up on a ranch where something always had to be taken care of or tended to probably had something to do with that. He liked the mornings best and was up before most. He liked the way the sun rose like clockwork, but how it was always different—the colors, the light, the shadows. He liked how the light touched his land like radiant fingertips and spread until it reached the land of his ancestors. There was no more beautiful place on earth than Laurel Valley.

The problem was, everyone else thought so too. Over the past decade or so, Laurel Valley had turned into a vacationer’s best-kept secret. Between the skiing and snowboarding in the winter, and the fishing and kayaking in the summer, their sleepy, quiet town turned into a circus a few months out of every year.

But when tourist season was over, things slowed back down to a normal pace and the faces he passed on the street once again became familiar. His father had served as mayor for years, and his younger brother, Hank, was the developer for the area, and they’d done a good job of regulating the population and the kinds of businesses that could come into town. The people of Laurel Valley wanted jobs and stability for the locals, and they wanted the off-season population to stay small.

Duncan understood what the tourism meant for the town. It didn’t mean he had to like it. He’d always considered the beauty of Laurel Valley to be his, and he made it a point to spend as little time in town as possible during tourist season.

In his experience, people were generally a nuisance.

His mother said he had an artist’s temperament. He’d hole up for days or weeks at a time while he was working, be surly, or downright rude if someone interrupted him, and then he’d surface like a drowning man gasping for air and rejoin his family or friends in whatever they were doing, as if he hadn’t missed out on large gaps of time.

He wouldn’t apologize—couldn’t if he tried—because he knew he couldn’t change how he was. When a person was surrounded by so much beauty, it was impossible not to get lost in its grandeur. It was impossible not to get caught up in his art.

Speaking of work, he needed to get a couple of hours in the studio before the storm rolled in. He turned to head inside just as his phone rang. He looked at the number and scowled.

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