Falling Hard (Colorado High Country #3)(5)

She walked to the kitchen, where she swallowed two Tylenol and poured apple juice into a sippy cup for Daniel. When that was ready, she measured out a dose of acetaminophen into a medicine spoon and carried it, together with the juice, to his room. She found him sitting up in bed, his beloved blankie clutched to his cheek. She sat down beside him and pressed her wrist to his forehead.

He was hot—at least a hundred and two, she guessed.

She really ought to take his temperature, but the thermometer was back in the kitchen, and she was too damned tired. “I know you feel icky, sweetheart. It’s time for more medicine.”

He opened his little mouth and took the medicine without a fight, then buried his head against her chest.

“I brought you some apple juice.” She wanted to keep him hydrated and knew from experience that apple juice was her best bet at getting him to drink. “Can you take a few sips for me? I know it hurts to swallow, but your body needs lots of good juice to fight the bad germs.”

He took a swallow, then another, then turned his head away.

“Good job.” She set the juice on his bedside table, wrapped him in his blanket, and held him, stroking his back, her cheek resting against his dark, downy hair. “I’m so sorry you’re sick. You’ll start feeling better soon. I promise.”

“Soon” was a relative term. To an almost-three-year-old, Ellie supposed the word meant “right away.” In reality, they’d gotten their first doses of antibiotics about ten hours ago, so they had about fourteen hours to go before the medicine kicked in.

Exhausted and certain that Daniel wouldn’t want her to go, she made him an offer. “Do you want to sleep with mommy?”

He nodded.

She scooped her son up and carried him down the hallway toward her room. She had just tucked him into her bed when she noticed a scraping sound coming from outside. She peeked out her window to see a man shoveling what had to be more than two feet of snow from her sidewalk. She didn’t have to see his face to know who it was.

Jesse Moretti.

She recognized his parka, his big build, and the Jeep idling at the curb.

He’d done so much to help her. She needed to make sure she thanked him properly with a card or a phone call or something.

She had turned back toward her bed when the thought struck her. Maybe he was the person responsible for shoveling her walk these past two years. When had he moved into the neighborhood?

No. It couldn’t have been him alone. Could it?

She slipped out of her bathrobe, crawled back into bed, and wrapped an arm around Daniel, fatigue and illness quickly dragging her under.



*

Jesse stowed the snow shovel in the back of his Jeep then climbed into the driver’s seat, glancing at Ellie’s dark windows as he headed up the highway toward work. He hoped she and her little guy were feeling better.

Jesus.

What a small fucking world it was. Jesse had come to Colorado to get Iraq and Afghanistan out of his mind, and he’d ended up buying a cabin behind Crash’s widow. What were the odds?

Dan Meeks. Crashhawk, or Crash for short.

Jesse was so used to thinking of Dan by his nickname that it hadn’t clicked for him until he’d seen the SOAR patch and had thought for a moment about Ellie’s last name. Crash had been one of the best damned Black Hawk pilots Jesse had ever known. There’d been a good half dozen times when he and his crew had appeared from the sky like avenging angels, raining hellfire down on the enemy and getting Jesse and his element to safety.

Jesse parked in the staff parking lot of Scarlet Mountain Resort and trudged uphill through the dark in almost three feet of fresh powder to the chalet-style building that served both as Ski Patrol HQ and the First Aid Center. Plow crews were busy clearing snow from the sidewalks around the lodge and the massive guest parking lots, sunrise still a good hour and a half away.

Jesse stomped the snow from his boots and stepped through the door. “Mornin’.”

“Hey, Moretti.” Matt Mayes, ski patrol supervisor, sat at the dispatch desk, his avalanche rescue dog Boomer dozing near his feet. A former champion alpine skier, Matt still ripped up the slopes at age fifty-nine. “Coffee’s fresh if you want some.”

Jesse walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup, calling to Matt over his shoulder. “What’s the forecast?”

“At the moment, it’s minus ten on top with a wind chill of minus twenty-five. They’re calling for clearing skies with a high of about thirty.”

That would mean busy slopes. There was nothing like blue skies after a big snowfall to drive the state’s hardcore powder hounds into the mountains. It didn’t matter how cold it was. Of course, the weather in the Rockies could change without warning. That’s why the dispatch desk watched the forecast throughout the day.

Jesse took a sip of his coffee. It was thick and black and bitter—exactly the way he liked it. If this shit didn’t wake you up, you were probably dead. “Hey, do you know anyone who rides horses?”

Matt looked confused. “You want to go riding?”

Jesse shook his head. “SnowFest is coming up in a month or so, and I want to sign up for the skijoring race.”

Forget paragliding, BASE jumping, and slacklining. Skijoring was the most insane sport Jesse had seen in his time in Colorado. Skiers made their way down a snowy street in the middle of town, skiing over big ramps and collecting rings along the way—all while being towed behind a galloping horse.