Page 4 of One Last Shot

“Bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Axel said.

She rolled onto her back. “Please. Don’t patronize me. The only reason you didn’t go down there is because you’re a moose.”

Axel’s blue eyes widened. “Hey? I’m not the moose in the family.”

”Right.” Moose, the boss of this little rescue team, outweighed his brother by a good twenty pounds. Wider shoulders, taller.

But Axel was no slouch. Now he held out his hand, gripped hers, and pulled her up.

Away from the crevasse, Macie lay in the snow, London affixing an inflatable splint to her leg. Nearby, a ski patrol sled waited with Copper Mountain patrols, ready to ferry her down. Her mother held her hand, weeping, her dad behind her, holdingtheir skis.

High overhead, a chopper came into view.

“Now he decides to save the day,” Boo said and tromped over to London. She knelt beside Macie in the snow. “Great job, kiddo. You were super brave.”

London had clearly administered some painkiller because Macie was smiling more freely now. “That’s because you said you wouldn’t leave me.”

She had? She didn’t remember that, but it sounded like her. “Yeah, well, that’s what rescuers do.” She winked.

“Let’s get her down the mountain,” said one of the ski patrols, and Boo stepped back while they lifted Macie onto a litter and then onto the sled.

Her parents strapped on their skis, following.

Boo tromped back over to Axel, now winding up the gear, restowing it. She worked out the ice anchors. Dropped them into the duffel bag.

Moose had set down the chopper on a flat outcropping some one hundred yards away. Shep tossed her the snowshoes, and she fixed them on, then grabbed a gear bag.

They set out in silence, heading toward the big red bird, adrenaline still thick inside her veins. She could use a workout, sluice off some of the rush.

But how she loved a good-outcome rescue. Lived for it, actually.

After all, she had nothing else.

Oaken Fox never slept on planes, which today left him groggy,crabby, and in need of a nap.

Mostly, it didn’t bode well for his upcoming demise.

Because he wasn’t a hero, and no amount of trickery by the camera was going to make him one.

Goldie had sold the producers a bunchof Who-Hash about country star Oaken Fox being a hero, and apparently it was up to him to deliver.

Most likely, he’d plummet to his death in front of millions. At least it would be epic. And hopefully painless.

His manager really should have warned the camera crew not to stand too close to him lest they be hit by lightning because, yep, it was that bad.

But clearly no one but him was paying attention to the fact that God had it out for him.

Oaken pulled his wool cap down over his ears, tucking his chin into his parka. Probably—and it only took one look at the dour gray skies and the hidden but white-capped Alaska Range to the north to conjure this thought—he’d freeze to death on his way down, so maybe it didn’t matter.

His body would be entombed in layers of snow and ice, never to be found again. Or at least, not until the thaw, when his remains could be picked over by bears and wolves?—

“Okay, the sound levels are right. We’re nearly ready.” Huxley Shaw, the associate producer, gave Beto Gomez, the cameraman, a nod as he trained the camera on Oaken. She stepped away and addressed Oaken. “Don’t forget to smile. Your fans love your smile.”

Then she flashed Oaken a thumbs-up, like she might be one of those fans.

Oaken shoved his gloved hands into his parka, the snow lifting off the semi-frozen lake behind Huxley into the pellet-gray horizon. A different day, different circumstances, and Oaken might not hate fifty hours alone in the woods of Alaska. Even maybe at a tiny, remote log cabin like the one behind him. Although he’d prefer one less ramshackle, with the roof intact, and maybe running water and an outhouse that didn’t list to one side.

Still, the moment the chopper from Anchorage settled them down on the shore, the snow crusty and thin, melting after a snowstorm dumped five inches on the mountains twodays ago, the moment he breathed in the thick pine-scented air, the sense of wild lurking in the dense forest surrounding the clearing, he felt it...

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