Jonah …

I close my eyes against the terror that floods back to the forefront, dulled by a moment’s distraction.

Silence hangs in the cold, damp front porch, until Muriel barrels out with two hot teas, setting them onto the small outdoor side tables I ordered, along with a bowl of sugar and glass of milk. “That’s your goat milk, Roy,” she says before heading back inside, not waiting for a thank-you. It’s shocking that she never put the pieces together to Roy’s family history in Trapper’s Crossing, being the busybody she is. Then again, she was young, the Donovan family’s stint here was brief and secluded, and many decades have passed. Why would anyone suspect that the little boy who lost so much to this place would come back years later?

“What are the chances she’s put arsenic in mine?” he studies it warily. “Lord knows I’d deserve it.”

“Why?” I find myself asking. “What’d you do, Roy?” It’s a loaded question—did he do something bad to Muriel? Did he do something bad to someone else?—and I ask it freely, not caring about repercussions.

The clang of metal against china sounds as Roy fills his tea with three heaping teaspoons of sugar and stirs. “I wasn’t always this pleasant.”

I snort at his twisted attempt at humor.

He brings his tea to his lips, and takes a long, slow sip. “I’ve had trouble with vices in the past. Booze … pills … that sort of thing. And I could get real nasty when somethin’ set me off. Truth is, it didn’t take much to set me off. My wife and I went out on the town one night. Hadn’t been out in ages, since Delyla was born. Now, Nicole? She was a real looker. Turned heads wherever she went. I hated it and loved it at the same time.” He hesitates. “That night we ran into an old flame of hers. He was the one who got away, and he was back in town for good. I knew, from the second they laid eyes on each other, that I was in trouble. At least that’s what the whiskey told me.

“One thing led to another and fists started flying. I hit him … I don’t know how many times.” He cradles the hot mug in his hand, staring intently at it. “He wasn’t the only one I hit that night.”

I try to digest what Roy is admitting to, and I’m suddenly thankful that I’m already numb.

“So you ran to Alaska?”

“When I sobered up and saw what I’d done to Nicole’s face …” His head shake is almost indecipherable. “It’s how I remembered my mother’s face, after one of their fights. Swore I’d never be like him.”

“We do that, don’t we?” I murmur absently, thinking how many times I’ve promised myself the same.

“Nicole was always too good for me. She knew it, I knew it. Her family damn well knew it. So, I packed my bags and they made sure she didn’t stop me.”

No wonder Roy doesn’t like talking about his past. Who would ever want to admit that he hit his own wife?

“Have you talked to Nicole since?”

“Just long enough to tell her where to send the divorce papers. And she did. My guess is she remarried.” He nods slowly. “Good for her.”

I don’t know what I’d feel toward Roy right now if I weren’t drowning in my own misery.

Anger?

Disgust?

Pity?

Sympathy?

All the above?

Thirty-something years ago, in a drunken rage, Roy laid fists to his wife and then took off to Alaska.

What does he deserve?

Roy has spent three decades in a form of exile, where he couldn’t hurt anyone he loved ever again, where he wouldn’t let anyone near him ever again, unwilling to take even one painkiller for fear of what he’s capable of when he loses control.

What exactly does Roy Donovan deserve?

Maybe on another day, in another headspace, I would have an opinion.

“We were going to restore the cabin so it could be used again,” I hear myself say. “They were supposed to start next week.”

To that, Roy says nothing.

The steady drizzle intensifies to heavy rain, the drops slapping the water and gravel around us, soaking the ground. Jonah would be glad to see this rain.

Jonah …

It was supposed to be an easy trip. In and out, back in a few hours, he promised.

The shrill ring of my phone makes me jump. My eyes snap to the screen and the number displayed turns my stomach. I will my shaky hand toward it but find myself frozen—stuck between needing an answer and wanting to cling to this last shred of hope.

Or delusion.

“I can’t.” The two words are almost inaudible as I struggle to breathe.

Roy hesitates for only a second before collecting my phone. He takes a deep breath and then answers.

I squeeze myself tight.

And I pray.

I pray.

I pray that Jonah will come back to me.

“Uh-huh … Uh-huh.”

Our front door creaks open. Both Muriel and Marie poke their heads out to listen. They must have heard the ring. Marie is clutching her stomach, Muriel is holding her breath.

“Yeah … Uh-huh …” Roy’s gaze darts to me and he swallows.

That isn’t good.

The news can’t be good.

I press my lips together in my struggle to control my sobs, as I fight to hold on to hope for the last possible second.

“Yeah … Okay … Thank you, sir.” Roy ends the call and sets my phone on the table. “They found his plane in a valley north of Palmer,” he confirms somberly. “He’s alive.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Two crashes in a year since I’ve met you. I’m beginning to think you’re bad luck, Barbie,” Jonah croaks from his hospital bed.

I burst into tears at the sound of his voice as relief overwhelms me.

“Hey, hey, hey …” He reaches with his good arm out, beckoning me.

“You jerk.” I slip my fingers into his and settle on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry.” He pulls my hand to his mouth. His lips are so dry. “I took a stupid risk. I didn’t think the storm would be that bad and if I stayed low in the valley, I’d be fine. I just … I wanted to get home to you so bad.”

“You almost didn’t make it back again, ever.” The downdraft Jonah got caught in slammed Veronica into the ground. The state trooper I spoke to said it was a good thing he was flying where he was, otherwise those wind gusts would likely have put him into the side of a mountain, and no one walks away from that.

As it is, Jonah has enough broken bones and cuts to keep him grounded and busy with healing.

He tries to adjust his position and winces.

“Stay put,” I scold, checking the IV drip attached to him that is administering his pain meds.

“Me and Roy are twins now.”

“Yeah. You two would have almost matched.” A concussion, a broken collarbone, a shattered left arm that required surgery and pins to put back together, several cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and scrapes and bruises all over his body.

But Jonah’s alive, I remind myself, as I’ve done a thousand times over since that phone call came in. That’s all that matters.

His jaw tenses as he stares at the ceiling tile above his bed. “They said Veronica’s totalled.”