Beyond the Shadow (Above & Beyond Book 1)

  Beyond

  the

  Shadow

  Julee Baker

  Copyright © 2017 by Julee Baker

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Publisher: Prairie Night Press

  Beyond the Shadow / Julee Baker. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9987422-0-5

  For Michael

  Some heroes wear capes,

  some heroes bring you coffee—lots of coffee.

  J.B.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A world of thanks to my beta readers extraordinaire, former library cohorts and enthusiasts of all things novel: Linda, Marty, Nancy, Angie, Amy, Deb, Sue, and Beth. I’m so fortunate to benefit from such a savvy group of enthusiastic readers. Your time, input, and encouragement is so appreciated.

  A must mention are the writers I became acquainted with, and knowledge gained, through retreats, local chapters of writing groups, and online writers’ chats. Susie May, Rachel, and team—you rock. To writer friends, local and online—it’s great to have community.

  Special thanks to my husband, daughters, sons-in-law, and friends who have encouraged me along the way—you make the journey a joy.

  Recognition to those people, from the past—such as George Bird Grinnell, instrumental in the establishment of Glacier National Park—and from the present—who work diligently to keep the wild, wondrous places the Creator has provided, protected. To those who put their lives on the line to keep us safe while we wander in, and wonder at, those places--bless you in your efforts.

  CONTENTS

  Wolf

  Escape

  Hit & Run

  Bitter Taste

  Cooler Meltdown

  Photo Frame

  Art Lesson

  It’s All Coming Back

  Private Lessons

  Insights Outside

  A Visitor

  A Hawk Grounded

  The New Ranch Hands

  Be Mine

  Into the Light

  ONE

  Wolf

  “O

  N YOUR WAY to grandmother’s house?”

  The sarcasm of the man towering over photographer Lake McDonald came through loud and clear—even over the howling Montana snow squall. It chilled her more than the frigid stream she’d slipped into.

  Lake tried again to gain her footing on the icy rocks, only to be pushed off balance by the intense wind. The stream was shallow, but the current could have knocked a person off balance on a good-weather day. She lifted a hand in the man’s direction. At this point, wherever the guy came from, she’d be thankful for his help—even if it came with a snarky attitude.

  Ignoring her dripping, finger-less gloved hand, he grabbed her upper arm and fished her from the stream in one unceremonious, but impressive move.

  Feet on solid ground, Lake bent over for a moment to catch her breath, then, righted herself. She shoved the hood of her soggy red jacket back from her forehead to get a better look at her rescuer—and was surprised by the effort it took to look away from the hooded amber eyes assessing her.

  She forced her focus back to the reason for her predicament—the wolf that had been chasing her down the western slope of Shadow Mountain.

  Had she finally shaken it? A quick search of the tree line sent her spirit plummeting. The wolf was loping in their direction. With a startled jump, Lake grabbed the solid bicep next to her and pointed to the advancing wolf.

  Her warning, “Wolf!” whooshed out in a frosty cloud, immediately carried away by the wind. His answer was a curious expression landing somewhere between a frown and a smirk.

  What was wrong with him? What part of “Wolf!” did he not understand? They should get moving.

  The predator’s nearness trigged Lake’s flight response. Her feet were moving—but in a Fred Flintstone like motion that was getting her nowhere. Alarmed by the iron grip holding her in place, she pulled harder, in a futile attempt to free herself.

  Over the broad shoulder, she could see the animal—now less than ten feet away—where it stopped, then proceeded to vigorously shake the snow from its coat and—wag its tail? Its hearty “Wooo-ooof” sounded more like a laugh than a threat.

  What the—? Lake’s frozen brows scrunched together—then went pink—along with the rest of her. The “big, bad wolf” she’d been eluding the past half an hour—was evidently some kind of Malamute or Husky, mixed-breed dog. But, seriously—how could she have known? In this storm—covered with snow—well, the dog had looked very wolfish indeed.

  “Your d-dog?” She leaned closer to the man to be heard over the wind, attempting a smile, but another gust of icy crystals blasted across her face, drawing a wince instead.

  “Yeah.” His answer was curt and delivered as he looked her over from top to—well, all-over.

  A blush of warmth pulsed through Lake at the inspection. At least her body could still produce heat. A shaky laugh slipped through her chattering teeth. “I-I th-though it w-was a w-wolf.”

  He shook his head. And . . . was that an eye-roll? Then, almost inaudible, came the low grumble, “Classic newbie.”

  “Whoa . . . Wait a . . .” Did he just call her a newbie? “I’m no newbie.” Lake turned up the volume on her denial—although realizing the present situation did little to support her claim.

  Any leftover warmth from her blush of embarrassment had lingered no more than a nanosecond—now replaced by a bone-shaking shiver. Man, she hadn’t felt this kind of cold before—not even on those nights up near Anchorage, when she and her parents had photographed that gorgeous series of aurora.

  The thought pierced like a knife—the late summer plane crash that took them—still too fresh. She forced her focus back to the man staring at her. Under the stocking cap and gray hoodie—a fierce scowl now etched his dark brow.

  His voice was gruff and contained a note of urgency. “You’re ten minutes away from turning into a human popsicle. We need to get you warm—fast.”

  Warmth—she couldn’t agree more. “Right. My Jeep’s over . . . a . . . it’s right over—” The wind threatened to eat her words as she turned three-quarters of a circle, shouting, “there . . . I’m pretty sure.”

  Aggravation? Lake watched the amber eyes flash hot. Not a wow-hot . . . well, okay, even in her half-frozen state she had to admit they were . . . but something else . . . an angry hot.

  “Pretty sure will get you pretty dead, pretty quick out here,” he shouted back at her and nodded in the direction she’d pointed. “There’s nothing that that way but billions of tons of granite we like to call the Rockies.”

  After a look up the mountain, he turned back to her. A couple days of dark growth scraped across her cheek as he leaned to her ear with a curt command, “Follow me. This could get worse. My cabin’s nearby. You need to get dry.”

  He turned and started back up the slope.

  “I can’t.” She hollered at the broad back.

  He turned back, concern sounding in his question, “Can’t walk?”

  She shook her head. “No. Of course I can walk. But my camera . . .”

  Lake opened her mouth to say more, but shut it and winced as another gust o
f frozen bee bees hit her face. After the blast passed, she continued, “I dropped my camera back there. I need to find it.”

  That was an understatement—she needed that camera in the worst way. At least now, she’d have his help. Which way? Her eyes searched the wall of white behind her. Earlier in the day she’d gotten several spectacular shots. The final draft was due soon, finding that camera was crucial. If she could just manage to finish the book her parents had been working on—well, it could help her and River dig out of the financial hole their parents’ deaths had left them in. Plus, there was no way she could afford to replace that camera right now. It was her star piece of equipment—her and River’s livelihood.

  “No way—not today.”

  “You don’t understand,” she motioned with her arms . . . then frowned. What was the matter with her arms? They moved in slow motion. Weird . . .

  “No. C’mon.” He walked away from her.

  “But, I need—”

  “No,” came the stern command.

  He didn’t even turn around for the last one.

  Unreasonable . . . Arrgh . . . She had no choice. All she could do was hope the waterproof case lived up to its price tag. With a sigh and a last look behind her, Lake gave up and trudged after the abominable “No!” man in front of her, his form now fading into the billowing white that lay ahead.

  Could nothing go right anymore?

  Back in the day, in the safe little universe where she used to live, she would have prayed. Back in the day, she believed God listened. Back in the day, she would have cried. Back in the day—before she’d cried herself empty—before God forgot about the McDonalds.

  Lake shook the thoughts off and struggled after the man and dog. Her wet jeans were stiffening in the freezing temps. Her legs felt like lead . . . what she could still feel of them. And her hands—those fingerless gloves were great for working the camera and changing lenses—not so much when it came to keeping hands warm in blizzards.

  A couple hundred stumbling feet later, she had to stop and rest for a moment—close her eyes from the biting wind. When she opened them, the man was back in front of her. He was talking. Huh. She watched with a detached fascination as he took his own stocking cap off and pulled it over her head, then pulled his sweatshirt hood up over his own dark hair, which had quickly been dusted with frozen bits. He then turned his attention to her hands as another violent shiver shook her. He peeled off her wet half-gloves and discarded them.

  If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the transfusion of warmth when the strong, tanned hands closed over hers. He slipped his too-large, but oh-so-warm gloves over her hands. Lake sent a silent glance of appreciation to the dark-fringed, amber eyes.

  The wind around them howled like a beast ready to feed. She realized he was saying something to her. Lake struggled to hear.

  “Get on my back.” He motioned to his back.

  “What?”

  “Piggyback. You’ll never get up there at this rate. You need to get warm. Hurry up.”

  She felt so tired—and confused. “You don’t understand. My camera—I need to find it.”

  A grumble rumbled from deep in the broad chest, right before he pulled her on like a backpack and set off. She couldn’t have matched his pace under ideal conditions.

  Shivers became shudders. Lake gave up. All she could do was cling to him—this rock of a man. Her former boyfriend, Jeremy, was no wimp—well not physically anyway—but no match for this guy. Burrowing her head against his shoulder, she concentrated on holding on.

  Lake felt almost one with him as he worked his way up the rough trail. It was a weird feeling, relying on someone else again. It seemed a lifetime ago since she’d felt that luxury. His muscles worked a steady rhythm, his strength evident even through the heavy clothing. Cold as she was, an unexpected moment of contentment stole over her.

  Thank G . . . She stopped herself. Huh, old habits . . . old useless habits . . .

  Every once in a while, a heavy breath or grunt sounded over the wind as he struggled up the steep terrain. With his arms holding her legs around his sides, it had to affect his ability to balance, but there was no stopping him from his mission. Stamina like this took serious training. Ex-military? Such determination.

  A punishing gust sucked away another frosty breath. She burrowed her face tighter. What a mess. What would her parents have thought? She’d rushed preparations—that’s what. Always risky—bad mistake. But she needed to finish their book in the worst way. All those funeral expenses . . . then the bills . . . and all their parents’ money tied up in a piece of property they’d planned to build their dream home on. Next to nothing was left on hand.

  And now, her best camera was MIA—boomeranged away when a stray branch caught the strap during her run from the wolf. The perfect photos were on that camera, along with spectacular Snowshine on Shadow shots. Incredible shots. She could have worked those into a future exhibit.

  Current financial worries had clouded her judgment in her rush to prepare. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Blunders like this weren’t only hers now. Six-year-old River, was the only family she had left. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let her little brother down.

  Lake’s eyes, squinted shut against the biting cold, opened at the solid thump of boots on wooden porch steps. She was peeled off her rescuer’s back—peeled because she couldn’t seem to move herself. Brain told body to move, but body ignored. He set her on her feet with a loud clunk at the cabin door, his arm still supporting.

  His dark beard stubble scraped her cheek again and she caught a warm, woodsy scent as he leaned toward her ear.

  “It’ll take a few minutes to get your land legs back.” He brushed snow from her and then himself.

  No kidding. Lake studied him.

  Out of the wind and with no need to shout, his voice had a pleasant, husky timbre a person might even call magnetic. The kind of voice people paid attention to. Lake forced her stare down to her legs and rubbed at them. Still numbed from cold, they wouldn’t obey.

  Observing her trouble, he picked her up and pushed the door open with his foot. The big dog budged ahead and ran toward the hearth as they entered his cabin . . . if you could call a structure this beautiful a cabin. Lake blinked her surprise. More like a ski resort. Not huge, but spacious. Glowing firelight danced and shimmered over golden woods from floor to beamed cathedral ceilings and walls of glass. Stunning.

  The welcoming warmth of the wood fire enfolded her. Warmth . . . ohhh. Had anything ever felt as wonderful?

  “Sit next to Elle. I’ll try to find something dry that you can wear.”

  “Oooow wooooorrr.”

  Lake jumped at the dog’s comment.

  “A wolf? Comical. Elle wouldn’t hurt a mouse.” He turned to the dog. “You behave yourself.”

  After another sassy, “Wooo-oo-ooo,” Elle laid her head across Lake’s thigh.

  “Yeah, don’t get too attached to our visitor, Elle. What we’ve got here, I believe, is one of Colter’s spies, snooping around the old mine . . . again. I should knock the guy from here to Kalispell for sending a greenhorn out here on a day like this.” The low muttering continued as he worked his boots off.

  Lake frowned. “Snooping? What? I—I have no idea what you’re talking about. Listen—my name’s Lake McDonald. I’m a photographer. I have permission from the Conservancy to photograph on Shadow. I have a release form.” Lake’s cold fingers fumbled through her pockets. “It must have fallen out of my pocket, but I can assure you . . .”

  She stopped at his look. Sure, a lot of people were confused by her name—it sounded more like a place than a woman’s name—but this guy looked—almost stunned.

  “Lake . . . McDonald,” he repeated softly.

  She smiled at him and shook her head, squeezing water from the dark-brown, side-braid she always wore. “I know, I know. Lake McDonald . . . that’s a place, not a name, right? My parents fell in lo
ve with the lake in Glacier Park.” She renewed her smile and continued, “With the last name McDonald, well, I guess they couldn’t resist. I get it all the time. I’m used to—”

  A buzz and crackle pulled both their attention to a short-wave radio sparking to life on a corner table.

  “Aidan . . . Matthews . . . Matthews come in . . . Hawk . . . Hawk . . . you there? It’s Sam. We’ve got a missing woman. It’s . . .”

  Lake couldn’t hear the rest. With three long strides, Aidan “Hawk” Matthews had moved to the radio and grabbed the headset. “She’s here Sam . . . Cold, but okay. Yeah. Uh-huh. Umm . . . don’t know yet.” He signed off, but hesitated before turning back to Lake in grim silence.

  Lake’s expression turned from stunned to stone. Aidan “Hawk” Matthews. She knew that name . . . in her darkest moments—had cursed that name.

  Lake stood to face the man responsible for her parents’ deaths.

  TWO

  Escape

  “Y

  ou,” she choked. Her knees trembled. Any heat from the massive stone fireplace was snuffed by the chill that fell over the room.

  “Yeah . . . me.” Hawk Matthews locked her in a look that took them both right back to the night of her parents’ plane crash. Only this time, there was no crackling phone line, no blizzard, no half- continent between them.

  Her hand fisted. Thoughts of pleading with him the night of the crash came back as vividly as if they had happened yesterday. There had been no getting through to the unfeeling monster—it was this man’s decision that had called off the search that night—dooming her parents. She wanted to smack his arrogant jaw.

  Little good it would do; her fist would bounce off him like a tennis ball off a brick wall. Lake forced herself back to calm—an outward calm anyway. Hadn’t she preached to River—physical violence doesn’t solve anything?