Page 68 of One Last Stand

“What’s a postern gate?”

He looked up at the massive granite wall. “It’s a small back door, sometimes in a really obscure location, that can’t be easily accessed by an army. It’s even too small for a horse. It allows the castle to be regarrisoned if it’s under siege, to send messages out to other people, and in the event of being overtaken, the family or whoever can use it to escape.”

He walked past her, still looking up. “It wasn’t without its dangers, however. A traitor could open the gate and let marauders in, and if they could overwhelm the guards at the main gate, they could let the horde in.”

“That would be bad.”

He glanced at her. Smiled. “Gotta watch for the invading horde.”

She realized she was completely overthinking this. A month ago, they’d been just friends, just stepping over the threshold of something more.

Aw, shoot. Maybe the kiss had just been an emotional moment for him. Sneaking in, like a marauder.

Yes, probably. Frankly, she’d been emotional too. It wasn’t every day that she came back from the dead.

“Your dad said it was just a story, but I thought maybe the backside of a mountain would be a good place for a postern gate.”

She blew out a breath, caught up to him, said, “My parents are castle buffs, so I’ve seen castles from Germany to Austria to France and every country in between. I think France has the most impressive castles, but the most beautiful one was crazy Ludwig’s in Bavaria.”

“TheChitty Chitty Bang Bangcastle?”

She frowned. “If you’re referring to Neuschwanstein, then yes.”

“I’ve only seen the movie.”

“Out of the two hundred rooms, only fourteen are finished. The rest of the castle is empty. He only lived in it for a hundred and seventy-two days before he was committed for being crazy.”

“Sounds like an amazing trip.”

“Yeah. It was just . . . just me and my parents.” She shoved her hands into her pockets. “I had them all to myself. I started calling myself Princess Delaney.”

“Your Royal Highness.”

“Cute. I’ll bet you saw a lot of the US countryside in your family’s Winnebago, right?”

They turned on the trail, up a switchback, and he looked up. “Where are we headed?”

“The trailhead ends at a waterfall on the backside of the mountain.” She shivered as wind stirred the fir trees along the trail, the clouds moving in overhead.

“Okay. The rain will probably hold off. That cloud isn’t moving quickly. And my family didn’t travel. We just parked—at one ski resort, then another.”

She turned up the collar on her jacket. “I thought you lived in a motorhome to see the world.”

“We lived in a motorhome because my parents were ski bums.”

“Right. I remember you saying that now.”

“But during the summer, my dad turned into a sort of evangelist. We parked in resort towns, and Dad was busy witnessing on street corners while Mom worked in coffee shops or at local diners. In the winter, they worked as patrollers. They’d met as ski bums, got saved along the way, and decided that God had called them to a vagabond, John the Baptist kind of life.”

Oh.She went silent.

“Maybe that came out negative . . .” He looked at her. “I love my parents. They’re free spirits, and they encouraged us to be the same. Maybe too much.” He gave a wry smile. “Sometimes I feel a little forgotten by them. And honestly, growing up, their lifestyle wasn’t . . . wasn’t exactly stable. Dad was always fixing the stupid RV, and sometimes we’d spend weeks at a hookup in some grassy roadside waystation while my dad worked on people’s cars, just for gas money. If we got lucky, there’d be a pool or something nearby. When I got old enough, my parents started to send Jacey and me to summer camp in Glacier Park—mostly because it was paid for by Gage’s parents. But I loved it. Same place for six weeks.”

“I remember,” she said. “That’s where you learned to climb.”

“Yeah. And obviously the skiing was a part of my life.”

“Some people would be envious.”

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