Until I Found You (2 page)

Monkhood had some advantages. He slept when he wanted to and wrote at night, an old habit he still enjoyed; and to keep from becoming a weird recluse, he free-lanced for Leona Darby and the
Clarion
. With journalism and Christianity in common, the two of them had become good friends. The morning of the stroke, when Leona failed to show up at the office, it was Nick who found her and called 9-1-1. He often visited her in rehab and had promised to keep an eye on the house. But Leona wanted more.
And Kate,
she had scrawled on a paper tablet.
Be her friend.

Nick had agreed, of course. But the last thing he needed in his head was the image of the pretty redhead he’d seen in photographs displayed in Leona’s home and office. For now, monkhood suited his purposes.

With the Harley burbling at an easy pace, he decided to pick up tacos for dinner and then hammer out the article for
California Dreaming.
The free-lance work was a good distraction while he waited to hear from his agent about his newest manuscript—a memoir about what led to that night on Mount Abel. The income from a sale would be nice, but mostly Nick wanted to atone for
CFRM
.

He navigated the next few miles at a snail’s pace, then slowed even more as he came around the hanging hairpin. What he saw put him on full alert. A quarter of the road had crumbled into a muddy slide. Nick braked to a halt, whipped off his helmet, and heard three short blasts of a horn . . . then three long ones . . . and three short ones.

SOS.

Someone had gone over the side and was alive. He snatched his phone and called the Meadows fire station. Captain Rob McAllister picked up on the second ring.

“Rob, it’s Nick Sheridan. The hairpin crumbled.”

“How bad?”

“It’s down to one-and-a-half lanes. Someone went over the side.”

“How far?”

“I can’t see, but they’re honking an SOS.”

“We’re on our way.”

Nick wasn’t about to wait for the rescue crew before he climbed down the canyon, but first other drivers needed to be warned. Helmet unstrapped on his head, he steered the Harley to the top of the hill, parked it across the lane and turned on the emergency flashers. He hoped no one plowed into it, but that was a risk he had to take. As he strode up the hill, the car horn continued to honk, three beeps at a time, over and over, in a cry as calm and desperate as the radio signals from the
Titanic
. He strode purposefully to the edge of the hairpin, looked down, and saw a metallic gray BMW wedged in a patch of scrub oak. The flimsy bushes made a fence of sorts, but any minute the roots could pull loose and the car would plummet another two hundred feet to the rocky bottom of the ravine.

He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello!”

Hooonk. Hooonk.

“Hang on,” he yelled. “I’m coming down.”

The horn blared again—three erratic beeps that sounded like
Yes! Yes! Yes!
He sized up the slope, didn’t like what he saw, and decided to approach from farther down the road at a more horizontal angle. Staying close to the mountain, he walked several feet past the crumbled road before venturing to the cliff’s edge. A slight bulge in the mountain offered the best approach, so he gingerly found footing and began the descent.

When he was halfway to the car, he called to the driver. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-y-yes.”

A woman. Nick knew just about everyone in Meadows, and he didn’t recognize the BMW. A visitor, he decided. Or someone speeding down an empty road the way he sometimes did. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.” She sounded a bit calmer. “I’m afraid to open the door—”

“Don’t.”

“Are you close?”

“About thirty more feet.” His boot slipped and he landed on his chest. Grunting, he maneuvered with the climbing techniques he’d learned in Yosemite for the “Daredevil” chapter of
CFRM.
His foot slipped again and knocked a rock down the slope. Female whimpering made his gut clench.

“Are you still there?” she called to him.

“Just a few feet to go.”

He inched to a spot where he could see the shrubs bending with the weight of the car, their roots straining against the mud and close to breaking loose. Any minute the car could plummet to the distant bottom of the ravine. He listened for sirens but heard nothing. The rescue squad was at least five minutes away, and it would take time to rappel down the
mountain. Nick glanced again at the scrub oak and got a bad feeling. He needed to get the woman out now.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m just . . . just shaken up.” An off-kilter laugh spilled through the window. “It’s—it’s a good car. I c-c-could do a BMW s-safety commercial.”

“You could star in it,” he replied lightly.

Bracing in the mud, he peered through the window and saw a woman in her twenties with blue-green eyes, ivory skin, and a swish of auburn hair. She was beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way, and he recognized her instantly from Leona’s gallery of photographs. This was Kate, Leona’s granddaughter. Kate, whom he had called when he found Leona unconscious on her deck.

The woman’s alto voice skittered out of her throat. “I-I’m afraid to m-m-move.”

“I can see why.” If he stayed calm, so would she. “We have to get you out of there.”

She shook her head. “If I move, the car will f-f-fall.”

“We’ll work fast.”

Pressed against the seat, she had one foot on the brake and was pushing as if her strength alone could hold the car in place. It couldn’t. Neither could his. God alone had that power. Nick hoped He planned to be merciful today, because Leona loved Kate and needed her.

Her pale eyes flared into black disks. “Did you call 9-1-1?”

“They’re on their way.”

“How long?”

“Ten minutes. We can’t wait.” His gaze shifted to the bottom of the canyon. A few boulders jutted from the mountain, but most of the remaining drop resembled an expert-level ski slope. Nothing at all blocked the fall.

If Kate kept panting, she’d hyperventilate. And if she
thought too much, she’d be paralyzed with fear. He inched closer, braced against the slope, and kept his voice casual. “I’m going to pull you out of there.”

He reached through the window and popped the door lock, praying God would keep the BMW steady for the two seconds he needed to open the door and pull her free. He hated to break her gaze, but they had one shot to get the angles right. He stepped back, gripped the door handle and prepared to grab her. The next step would be difficult. “You have to undo the seat belt.”

“I-I c-can’t move.”

“Yes, you can.”

“B-b-but—”

“Trust me, Kate. I’ll won’t let you fall.”

“You know my name—how—”

“Later,” he said. “We’ll do it on the count of three.”

She inched her hand to the seat-belt release button, closed her eyes, and pushed. The belt rolled smoothly into place. In the distance, a siren wailed. “Wait!” she cried. “They’re coming!”

A root pushed through the crumbling earth. “There’s no time.”

“But—”

He gripped her wrist through the window. “One—”

“No!”

“Two.”

Her fingers dug into his leather sleeve. Before he said “three,” a branch snapped and the BMW started to roll.

K
ate clawed at the man’s arm
as he yanked her out of the car. If he lost his grip, she’d cartwheel down the slope like the BMW. The crunch of metal rattled in her ears; so did her screams, each one louder and more piercing than the first, until she slammed against the dirt and lost her breath. She scrambled to her knees, but the ground shifted and she splatted on her stomach. Pedaling crazily in the mud, she lost her footing completely.

“Kate! Stop fighting.”

His tone stopped her cold. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. A siren blared in the canyon, but it sounded no closer than a minute ago. Paralyzed, she stared into a pair of brown eyes so full of understanding that she didn’t want to ever look away. Dark hair formed a widow’s peak above brows that slashed across his high forehead, and a leather jacket fit his shoulders like body armor. Flat on his stomach but above her, he was wedged against a slight upturn in the slope and squeezing her wrist so hard his fingers were bone white. Streaks of mud covered his angular face, and his jaw sported at least three days of bristle.

Kate had never seen this man in her life, yet he knew her name. How? Who was he? An angel sent by her father? Of course not. Bible stories were just stories—a piece of her childhood like
Cinderella
and
Sesame Street
. No matter who he was, he held her life in his hands. A fresh scream gathered in her throat, but she swallowed it.

“That’s better,” he said with calm authority. “I have a good grip, but we have to work together, all right?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“I’m going to pull you up. Use your feet, but don’t struggle.” He clamped his other hand over her wrist for a two-fisted grip. “Here we go.”

Slow and steady, he pulled her toward the bulge in the mountain where tree roots gave her a place to wedge her toes. A final tug brought her over the lip of the rise, and she sprawled next to a pair of long denim-clad legs that ended in heavy motorcycle boots. Tasting mud, she wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked into the brown eyes she’d never forget. “You saved my life. I can’t thank you enough. I’d still be in the car. I’d be—”
Dead . . . injured . . . trapped.

He slid his hand from her wrist to her cold fingers. “You’re safe.”

“My things—”

“We can get them later,” he said, as if he were inviting her to have coffee. “There’s an old fire road down there.”

She took a mental survey of the contents of the car—her purse and phone, clothing, her MacBook, the locket from her father, the jewelry box made by her grandfather that held little things she treasured. Some items could be replaced; others couldn’t. Tears sprang to her eyes at the prospect of losing the locket, but she blinked them back. “C-can you see the car?”

“No, but it looks like the trunk popped.” His gaze trav
eled down the canyon until he focused on something, maybe the car. What he saw made his brows snap together. “Kate?”

Her name again. “How—”

He interrupted. “How full was the gas tank?”

“I topped off in—”

Boom!
An explosion blasted through the canyon. In the same breath, he pulled her against his leather jacket and rolled to the outside of the ledge to shield her from flying debris. Flames crackled in the distance. She smelled gasoline and tasted acrid smoke, but what she smelled most vividly was the leather jacket—a wall between herself, the fire, and the abyss.

Above them the siren died. Silence amplified every other sensation—the pounding of her heart, the rasp of the stranger’s breath, the crackle of flames feasting on dried brush. Fresh shudders rocketed from her chest to her belly, then to her ice-cold feet. If she’d been in the car, she would have burned to death. She would have—
Stop it!
But the shaking owned her until the same hand that pulled her to safety coaxed her to hide her face in the crook of the man’s neck.

His arm tightened around her middle like a seat belt. “We’re safe now,” he murmured. “Just stay still.”

“Easier said than done,” she muttered. “I c-can’t s-stop shaking.”

“That’s normal.”

Nothing seemed real—not the accident, the man, and especially not the giant bird that had caused her to swerve in the first place. A condor—what were the odds? Years ago the species had been nearly extinct when a recovery program brought it back from the brink, but the birds were still rare. Her grandfather’s coverage of the early recovery efforts had earned him a Pulitzer Prize. The pictures still hung in the Clarion office, a testament to her grandfather’s love of nature.

Though rattled by the accident, Kate could hardly wait to tell Leona about Condor Number 53, but first she had to get out of the canyon. She’d been safe for a full minute now, and her thoughts were beginning to land like jets arriving at LAX, one after another in a patient yet urgent pattern. Foremost in her mind was the bristled jaw pressed against her temple, the strong arms holding her tight, and the cold ground soaking through her thin sweater.

She didn’t dare move, so she spoke to him with her eyes on a button on the jacket, the one over his heart. “You saved my life,” she repeated. “I don’t know how to thank you—”

“I’m glad I was passing by. I’m Nick Sheridan. I recognized you from pictures in Leona’s office. We met on the phone—”

“You called when she had the stroke.”

“That’s right.”

Memories assailed her—her phone ringing in a noisy restaurant, how she had complained about the unknown caller ID, then struggled to hear over the clatter of dishes and the buzz of conversation. When Nick Sheridan identified himself as Leona’s friend, Kate had assumed he was middle-aged or elderly—a mistake, but neither did he remind her of Joel, who was wire thin, fashion conscious, and insanely neat. She couldn’t imagine Joel climbing down a mountain to save her, needing a shave, or even getting dirty. Not that it mattered. Joel lived in New York now. People came and went from her life—everyone except Leona. That’s just the way it was.

A deep voice bellowed down the mountain. “Hey, Nick!”

“Down here!” he shouted. In a normal tone, he said to her, “That’s Rob McAllister. He’s the fire captain.”

Kate craned her neck toward the road, where flashing amber lights indicated a rescue vehicle. She couldn’t see past the lip of the cliff, but a man in a dark uniform stood near
the edge with his hands on his hips, assessing the situation until he narrowed his gaze to Kate and Nick. Squinting, the fireman cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Anyone hurt?”

Nick’s breath brushed over her ear. “How are you?”

“I’m all right,” she answered. “Shaken up, but no broken bones, not even a sprain.”

“Rob can send a couple men with a stretcher, or we can use harnesses and climb.”

“Which is fastest?” She didn’t want to spend another minute in the canyon.

“Harnesses.”

“Then I’ll climb.”

Nick shouted back up the hill. “I’m with Kate Darby—Leona’s granddaughter. Send down a couple of harnesses. We can climb out.”

“Broderick’s on his way,” the captain replied.

The next five minutes passed in a blur. A fireman rappelled down the mountain, helped them into bright yellow harnesses and told her to let the winch do the work while she walked up the hill. The man named Broderick climbed with her to the lip of the asphalt where two other firemen lifted her to safety. One made sure she could stand on her own while the other man undid the safety harness. As soon as he finished, a third fireman wrapped her in a wool blanket that felt wonderfully warm and dry.

Captain McAllister approached from the downhill side of the road. “Miss Darby,” he called in a firm voice. “Let’s check you for injuries.”

The fireman walked her to the rescue truck, where she sat on the top of the built-in steps. After she wiped her face and hands with a towel, the captain took her pulse and blood pressure, then checked her eyes for dilation and asked her routine
questions that she answered easily. The blanket warded off some of the chill, but she could hardly wait for a hot bath at Leona’s house . . . except how would she get there? And what would she wear? What about her car, her purse, her wallet, ID, credit cards, the laptop, her phone? Overwhelmed, she closed her eyes and groaned.

Captain McAllister put a large hand on her shoulder. “Your vital signs are normal, but you should be checked out at the ER. Is there someone who can take you?”

Kate shook her head. “I’m all right.”

“You should still be thoroughly checked.”

If she went to the hospital, they might keep her. “Really, I’m fine. The airbag didn’t even deploy.”

The captain patted her shoulder in a fatherly way that matched his gray hair. “You’re a lucky young lady.”

“Yes—” Her throat narrowed to a pinhole. If Nick Sheridan hadn’t come to her rescue, she would have been burned alive. She thought of the random things she liked to do to help people—a generous tip for an exhausted waitress, helping a friend move—but nothing compared to the risk Nick had taken to save her life. The sun glared through the clouds, blinding her as she pondered the miracle she had just been handed.
Why me?
She should have died in that canyon in a random accident caused by a random bird. But condors weren’t random. They were rare and special to Leona.

Rocked again by the trembling, Kate looked past Captain McAllister to the spot where roadkill testified to the reality of Condor Number 53. Kate hadn’t imagined the giant bird, yet nothing seemed real—not the accident, not Nick Sheridan, who at that exact moment climbed out of the canyon, head first, then broad shoulders and long legs. He worked the latches on the harness like a pro, handed it to a fire fighter, and accepted a towel in exchange. After wiping his face and
hands, he approached her with long strides that ate up the pavement.

“Hi,” she said with a shy smile. “We meet again.”

“How are you feeling?” A twinkle lit up his brown eyes. They weren’t as dark as coffee, more like milk chocolate.

“I’m all right. Just a little . . . shaky.”

Captain McAllister harrumphed. “I’m trying to convince her to go to the ER, but she won’t listen.”

Nick studied her for a moment. “I’ll take you if you’d like.”

“No. I’m fine.” She fluttered her hand to prove it. “Magic Mountain could charge money for a ride like that—the Canyon Drop . . .” A ridiculous giggle came out of her mouth. Kate never giggled.

An amused smile lifted Nick’s lips. “How about the Toaster Coaster, complete with exploding car?”

In spite of her terror, Kate laughed. “Or the Mudslide. Very basic.”

Captain McAllister studied her with the patience of a man accustomed to seeing people cope with accidents, even tragedy. She supposed stupid jokes were better than hysterical sobbing, but her nerves were as taut as piano wires. One slip and her feelings would explode like the car.
No. Don’t think about it.
She bit her lip hard to refocus her mind, a trick she had learned as a child.

Captain McAllister put away the blood pressure cuff. “How’s Leona? Is she home yet?”

Kate shook her head. “I’m supposed to pick her up on Thursday. How long will the road be closed?”

“Not long,” he replied. “An emergency road crew’s on the way. They’ll have it open in a matter of hours.”

“But how?” Kate couldn’t imagine it.

Nick pointed to the inside of the curve. “They’ll cut the road deeper into the mountain.”

Repaired or not, Kate didn’t want to drive San Miguel Highway ever again. But she had to do it, and so she would.

The reality of the accident settled into her bones like a winter chill. Leona’s old Subaru had a million miles on it, but Kate could drive it for now. She had to call her insurance company, but she didn’t have her phone or even the number. She qualified for a rental car, but she didn’t have a license. Tomorrow promised to be awful. She’d drive to Los Angeles on a back road, spend hours at the Department of Motor Vehicles, and more hours on the phone with her bank, credit-card companies—all that, while getting ready for Leona’s homecoming, an effort that included cleaning, stocking the kitchen, and meeting the handyman who was installing grab bars in the bathroom so Leona wouldn’t fall . . . another accident, another random event.

Dizziness sucked Kate back down the canyon.
I almost died and I’m thinking about
grab bars.

The captain’s radio crackled with a call from another crew. Listening in, Kate learned the car fire was out and a wrecker was on its way from Meadows. Her possessions—some of them—had been tossed out of the car and were strewn across the mountain.

The hope of finding her purse launched her to her feet. “I want to go down there,” she said to Captain McAllister.

He patted her shoulder again. “Not today, Kate. Go home and rest.”

“I need my purse—”

“What’s in that canyon is just stuff.” He gave her a determined stare. “Trust me. It can be replaced.”

But it wasn’t
just stuff.
It was
her
stuff. Yes, the car was insured and so was her phone, but the locket from her father was priceless and utterly irreplaceable, a memory she sometimes held in her hands. And her ID and credit cards. If
she found her purse, she wouldn’t have to go to Los Angeles. Between the DMV and facing the depths of the canyon, she’d gladly choose the canyon.