Page 1 of One Last Stand

CHAPTER1

The only superpower he’d ever longed for was flying. To lift off this earth, untangle himself from this life with its griefs and responsibilities and broken hopes—even the constant whirring of his brain—and soar.

The sky today arched a brilliant, endless blue over Mt. Alyeska, the sun’s rays glistening upon a pristine plain of powder-fresh snow that had dropped over the ski resort and sifted into the Teacup Bowl. He stood at the headwall of the Alyeska Chute, his skis pointed just over the edge, the angle into the bowl so steep that, yes, he could spread his arms and simply lift off.

“You’re not serious.” Oaken Fox stood a ways back, wearing skis and leaning on his poles. In his silver helmet, wearing goggles, a scarf, and a ski suit, no one would know that the country music star had just taken to the slopes today after a three-week tour in the lower forty-eight.

Maybe he’d returned to keep Shep from spiraling into darkness. Oaken and his girlfriend, Boo, had shown up on his doorstep last night with a pizza and plans for today’s ski trip.

But even the blue sky and bright sunlight couldn’t seem to break through the hover of grief.

How could London be gone? He simply couldn’t wrap his brain around it . . .

So maybe he just needed to fly . . .

Oaken skied over. “I did mention I grew up in South Dakota, right? Not a hill to be found.”

Boo joined them. She wore a lime-green one-piece ski suit and a matching helmet. No one would lose her on the slopes.

Below them, in the bowl, sat all of Alyeska ski resort, and from here Shep could make out the upper tram terminal along with the ski-patrol shack and first-aid center. Below that, runs fanned out over the mountain in all directions, bordered by a forest of mountain hemlock, spruce and Douglas fir, and way too many tree wells for out-of-control skiers to plunge into headfirst.

And then, of course, freeze to death.

He shook the thought away. Not today. Today was for freedom, flying . . . forgetting.

“Tell me again why we had to go all the way to the top?” Boo said. “Plenty of decent skiing below this ridge of terror. Don’t look at me as I’m snowplowing my way down. I just need someone to catch me at the bottom when I turn into a snowball of doom.”

“You’ll be fine.” Shep pointed to a ridge below, a razorback, with a groomed slope in the valley that twisted its way to the bottom. “The sun is on the snow there—no shadows—and it’s a shorter chute into the bowl. Take the High Traverse to the Center Ridge run and it turns into a blue square.”

“As opposed to the double black diamonds that surround us,” Oaken said. “I’m with Boo on this, Shep. I don’t know about you, but Boo and I are among the bunny-hill aficionados.”

“Hardly. I’ve seen you both ski. Just plan your route and take it easy.” He gestured to the chutes that dropped from the headwall into a massive bowl of powder.

Okay, yes, he could admit that it all looked like an avalanche just waiting to happen. But probably not yet, this early in the season. The snowfall hadn’t been so great as to layer up the seracs or create the shifting planes that could lead to a lethal slide.

Still . . . “I’ll go last to pick up any debris from a yard sale,” said Shep, grinning.

“Funny,” Oaken said. “Just promise to dig me out before the paparazzi find me if I end up face down in the snow.” He looked at Boo. “C’mon, babe. We’ll do this together.”

She pushed off and they traversed the headwall to the nearby chute.

Shep breathed in the crisp air, bright and biting in his lungs. He closed his eyes, taking in the whisper of the wind, the slight rattle of the gondola in the distance. He’d talked one of his ski-patrol pals into driving them up to the top, Boo and Oaken all thumbs-up until they saw the drop, the snow that gathered around jutting boulders and along the cliffside.

He opened his eyes, feeling the silence build inside him, the adrenaline burning. He glanced over at Boo and Oaken—both of them had lied to him more than a little. Boo had attacked the wall straight down, finding air off a small cliff, landing, and then completing a beautiful line down to the High Traverse.

Oaken followed, avoiding the cliff, cutting short turns until the slope opened up and he glided down to Boo.

Shep let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Last thing he wanted was to lead his cohorts into disaster.

Boo raised her pole, and he waved back.

Now to the cliff in front of him. A fairly narrow passage dropped some twenty feet into a thick pillow of powder, and from that, the slope veered nearly straight down some twenty more feet until it started to flatten.

Yeah, time to fly.

He pushed off, lifted his skis from the edge, and found air as he fell. Held his arms out, just for balance—and maybe wings—then landed, spring in his knees, and moved into a sharp turn to slow himself just a little, then eased up and widened it out.

Wind buzzed in his ears, powder drifting up to feather upon his helmet, his goggles, his jacket. Skiing in loose, thigh-deep snow required more leg strength than edge, and he kept his form tight, his speed high, his line wide enough to stay in control. He felt his spirit, at least for a moment, soar. The grief left his chest.

---