for years, maybe even incarcerated for another crime, but he was back. The game was on. Gage could feel it. He had to finish this. The clock was ticking.
Friday evening. Sunset. Broken Bar Ranch.
Cole banked his small two-seater Piper PA-18 Super Cub over endless, rolling forest, much of it red-brown and dead from the pine beetle blight. In clear-cuts the skeletons of decimated pines had been stacked in pyres, waiting to be burned as soon as the weather turned wet. Through the valleys silvery streams and rivers meandered. A bear startled and galloped for cover as the plane buzzed overhead.
Cole crested a high esker ridge formed by ancient glaciers, and the ranch came suddenly into view. He caught his breath at the sight of the startling aqua-blue, crystal-clear waters and white marl shoals of Broken Bar Lake. Mist rose from the churning river at the outflow, water tumbling down into a narrow rocky canyon. Cole tensed—a muscle memory. That river held dark memories. It had changed everything.
He banked again, following the smooth, curved mounds of glacial ridges that were gold with grass. Wisps of smoke rose from campfires among the trees at the west end of the lake. A few boats and float tubes dotted the waters. Fresh skiffs of snow covered the Marble range. He was overcome with a sense of timelessness. He’d forgotten just how clean, beautiful, unspoiled this wilderness around the ranch was.
He saw the old lodge house with its big chimney, the small cabins nested among alders and aspen, the barn where he used to tinker with engines, where he’d rebuilt his vintage truck. The old wrangler quarters were covered in vines, the roofs caving in, the grass around them grown tall. Something caught in his chest.
Home.
It had been a long time. In more ways than one. Cole wondered if sometimes you traveled so far away from home that it wasn’t possible to find your way back. If he had to pinpoint it, this place had ceased being a real home since the day of the accident. Since his father rejected him.
A dark tightness filled his chest.
He’d returned to BC often enough during the past decade. He and Holly had bought a house in Pemberton. They’d rented the house while traveling the world in search of his stories, staying in the suite whenever they were back. But they hadn’t come up to Broken Bar. He’d never brought Ty and Holly here. Cole had felt no need to see his father, not since their truly epic bust-up thirteen years ago.
He started the descent. He didn’t have to stay long. He’d check on his father, help organize the palliative care, if that’s what was needed, make any decisions required for the continued functioning of the ranch until Jane organized the sale. Then he was out of here. Duty done.
Coming in for the landing, it struck him—the fields were devoid of livestock. Not a cow to be seen anywhere on the ranch. He saw a rust-red truck parked on the east field. A woman stood beside it, hair blowing in the wind. Olivia. She raised a hand up high, giving him the all clear.
He brought his craft in.
CHAPTER 6
Olivia tensed as she held her hair back off her face—the wings of the little yellow single-prop plane were seesawing in high crosswinds, and it was coming toward the ground at a startling angle.
Fat tires smacked the dirt road with an explosion of soft glacial dirt. The bush plane bumbled along the track, a cone of silt roiling out behind it. She blinked into the blowing grit as the craft came to an abrupt halt. The cloud of dust overtook and enveloped the plane. The prop slowed then stopped.
Anxiety twisted through her.
The cockpit side flap dropped open.
A man, tall, climbed out. He raised his hand in greeting, then reached behind the pilot seat. He hefted out a military-style duffel bag. Closing the door flap, he ducked out from under the wings and slung his gear up onto a broad shoulder.
With a long easy stride, a smooth roll of the shoulders, he closed the distance to where Olivia
Friday evening. Sunset. Broken Bar Ranch.
Cole banked his small two-seater Piper PA-18 Super Cub over endless, rolling forest, much of it red-brown and dead from the pine beetle blight. In clear-cuts the skeletons of decimated pines had been stacked in pyres, waiting to be burned as soon as the weather turned wet. Through the valleys silvery streams and rivers meandered. A bear startled and galloped for cover as the plane buzzed overhead.
Cole crested a high esker ridge formed by ancient glaciers, and the ranch came suddenly into view. He caught his breath at the sight of the startling aqua-blue, crystal-clear waters and white marl shoals of Broken Bar Lake. Mist rose from the churning river at the outflow, water tumbling down into a narrow rocky canyon. Cole tensed—a muscle memory. That river held dark memories. It had changed everything.
He banked again, following the smooth, curved mounds of glacial ridges that were gold with grass. Wisps of smoke rose from campfires among the trees at the west end of the lake. A few boats and float tubes dotted the waters. Fresh skiffs of snow covered the Marble range. He was overcome with a sense of timelessness. He’d forgotten just how clean, beautiful, unspoiled this wilderness around the ranch was.
He saw the old lodge house with its big chimney, the small cabins nested among alders and aspen, the barn where he used to tinker with engines, where he’d rebuilt his vintage truck. The old wrangler quarters were covered in vines, the roofs caving in, the grass around them grown tall. Something caught in his chest.
Home.
It had been a long time. In more ways than one. Cole wondered if sometimes you traveled so far away from home that it wasn’t possible to find your way back. If he had to pinpoint it, this place had ceased being a real home since the day of the accident. Since his father rejected him.
A dark tightness filled his chest.
He’d returned to BC often enough during the past decade. He and Holly had bought a house in Pemberton. They’d rented the house while traveling the world in search of his stories, staying in the suite whenever they were back. But they hadn’t come up to Broken Bar. He’d never brought Ty and Holly here. Cole had felt no need to see his father, not since their truly epic bust-up thirteen years ago.
He started the descent. He didn’t have to stay long. He’d check on his father, help organize the palliative care, if that’s what was needed, make any decisions required for the continued functioning of the ranch until Jane organized the sale. Then he was out of here. Duty done.
Coming in for the landing, it struck him—the fields were devoid of livestock. Not a cow to be seen anywhere on the ranch. He saw a rust-red truck parked on the east field. A woman stood beside it, hair blowing in the wind. Olivia. She raised a hand up high, giving him the all clear.
He brought his craft in.
CHAPTER 6
Olivia tensed as she held her hair back off her face—the wings of the little yellow single-prop plane were seesawing in high crosswinds, and it was coming toward the ground at a startling angle.
Fat tires smacked the dirt road with an explosion of soft glacial dirt. The bush plane bumbled along the track, a cone of silt roiling out behind it. She blinked into the blowing grit as the craft came to an abrupt halt. The cloud of dust overtook and enveloped the plane. The prop slowed then stopped.
Anxiety twisted through her.
The cockpit side flap dropped open.
A man, tall, climbed out. He raised his hand in greeting, then reached behind the pilot seat. He hefted out a military-style duffel bag. Closing the door flap, he ducked out from under the wings and slung his gear up onto a broad shoulder.
With a long easy stride, a smooth roll of the shoulders, he closed the distance to where Olivia
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