He gave her his best charming smile. “Of course.”

  “Are you working on a story here?” she asked. “I’m a journalism major myself, at Western Washington U.”

  “I’m staying at the Bellwether.” He named the priciest waterfront hotel in Bellingham. “I’ll be here for a few days, doing a special report on the avalanches up near Baker.” After signing, he handed her the paper and pen, still grinning. “Spread the word.”

  Chapter 34

  Sam spent the next morning battling phone calls from Adam, her insurance company, and the editor at Out There. Hannah had arrived the evening before on the Amtrak train from Seattle, and it seemed like Sam’s phone dinged every few seconds with endless photos from Blake, who was now out thrift-store shopping with his daughter for items to replace their possessions that had been trashed during the rampage.

  Sam’s RAV4 was still out at Chase’s house, so she was forced to call Lyft again for a ride to the hospital.

  She couldn’t wait to peer into Chase’s brown eyes again. Peat-bog brown, tea-brown eyes, she called them, not hazel but a clear brown, not the dense chocolate of most brown eyes. On this afternoon visit, she carried a potted orchid. The frilled flowers were pale yellow with vivid purple dots. In Chase’s normal life, the plant would probably die of thirst when he was on the road doing some top-secret FBI investigation, but his current condition would give him some time to enjoy the blossoms. If he recovered quickly, that would be even better, and she’d gladly take the orchid back to her house. Her pocket held a bar of Chase’s favorite dark bittersweet chocolate. She couldn’t wait to share it with him.

  As she rounded the doorway to his room, she nearly collided with Dr. Ishimoto, who stood with his back to her, conversing with a nurse who was checking Chase’s IV. Sam was disappointed to see that Chase’s eyes were still closed. Above the oxygen cannula wrapped around his face, his cheeks were flushed. Apparently, the chocolate sharing would have to wait until he woke up.

  “Ah,” Dr. Ishimoto murmured in a quiet voice. “We were just about to call you.”

  An alarm bell clanged in Sam’s head. She tried to head off the doctor. “Last night, I heard Chase was better. The nurse told me he might be awake today.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Perez has developed an infection.”

  She was afraid to ask, but she did, anyway. “Is it bad?”

  The doctor nodded. After glancing at her frightened face, he added, “It’s not COVID. No problems breathing, which is a positive thing. But the lacerations to his liver and intestines and spleen released toxins into his abdomen. We hoped that we’d handled that risk with antibiotics.”

  She waited, her jaw tight, braced for bad news, her eyes focused on the orchid in her hands.

  “We’ll try different medications, but Mr. Perez is currently a very sick man.”

  Sam wanted to grab the doctor by the arms and shake him. She glanced toward the nurse. “But you said he was fine yesterday."

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest. “I said he was improving.”

  Dr. Ishimoto regarded Chase’s still form in the bed, his expression somber. “Yes, he seemed better yesterday. Good thing we didn’t move him from intensive care. The nurses will monitor him constantly, and within twelve hours at the most, we’ll know if these new antibiotics are working.”

  Twelve hours. An eternity. A chill made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “And if they’re not?”

  “Then we’ll switch to another type.” Ishimoto gently touched her forearm with an index finger. “We’ll take the best possible care of him. I promise.”

  Sam felt like she might shatter into a hundred pieces at any moment. She knew the hospital staff at St. Joe’s, like hospital personnel everywhere these days, were overworked and stressed out. She questioned if it was even possible for them to take the “best possible care” of any patient right now. “Thanks,” she said, for lack of anything more intelligent. “Do you know when he’ll wake up?”

  “He’s pretty heavily sedated at the moment. So most likely, that won’t happen until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “After he does wake up, what’s the prognosis?”

  “Reevaluation of his situation.”

  She must have looked dissatisfied with that answer, because the doctor sighed and added, “I’m not going to sugarcoat the truth here. Internal injuries are difficult to assess. Mr. Perez could end up gravely disabled, or he could eventually regain his full health. We won’t know until he’s fully conscious and able to cooperate with our tests.”

  That sounded grim. Sam bit her lip.

  “Try to stay positive. The nurses will keep you posted on his condition.” After a quick glance at his watch, the doctor walked out of the room.

  Sam collapsed into the visitor chair, clutching the orchid in her lap. “Oh, Chase,” she sighed, staring at her lover’s horizontal form through a blur of tears.

  The nurse tapped a few keystrokes into a tablet she carried, and then focused pointedly on Sam. “You can put that plant on his bedside table.”

  Sam placed the orchid there, pushing it close to the wall where it wouldn’t be accidentally knocked off. It seemed too small and delicate to survive in this sterile environment.

  The nurse straightened the sheet over Chase’s chest. It seemed an intimate movement, but then, so many nursing procedures seemed overly intimate to Sam. Taking temperatures, dealing with IVs and catheters. She couldn’t imagine performing any of them herself.

  “I’ll only stay a few moments,” Sam promised from her chair, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.

  “That would be good.” Picking up her tablet and a tray laden with a syringe and antiseptic wipes, the nurse walked around the bed toward the door. “Chase is a strong man, but he needs rest right now.”

  Sam stared at her lover, her emotions tangled into a painful knot. How much more rest could Chase get than being unconscious?

  Before leaving, the nurse softened her tone. “I’m sorry he’s had a setback.”

  Sam wanted to close the door after the nurse had gone, but she guessed that might set off some sort of alarm bells. Leaning forward, she placed her hand over Chase’s and gently stroked the skin of his wrist. “Chase, I’m here.” She wet her lips, trying to think of anything that might be comforting. “I’m so sorry you’re still sick, but I know you’re going to get better fast.”

  Please God, make it true.

  He’d always had a fast-growing beard, and now black whiskers darkened his lower chin and neck. He was religious about shaving each day, and she’d never seen him with more than a two-day growth of beard. If he were conscious, the first thing he’d ask for would be a razor. She ran a gentle finger along his jawline to feel the uncommon rasp of his skin there.

  “Chase, you need to shave soon, but I sort of like this look, too. You’re rocking it. You know that Nicole is going to be fine, and she’ll be so angry if you’re not. Are you hearing me?” No response. “Hey, you survived an avalanche and a building collapse, for heaven’s sake. You have survived being shot.”

  Sam suddenly realized that she didn’t know if Chase had been shot more than once in his FBI career. She paused for a moment, wondering what other life-threatening experiences Chase might have endured before they’d met. There were still so many things she needed to learn about this man she loved. Would there be time? “So, as you’ve often said yourself, you can’t die now. That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?”

  There was no reaction from the body in the bed. No movement, not even a sigh or an eyebrow twitch. A tear ran down her cheek and dropped onto the bedsheet. She jiggled his arm. “Chase, fight this. We’ve got so many more adventures to have together. I need you.”

  Did his lips move? Maybe. Or maybe that was just her imagination. She stood up. Leaning over him, she slid down her mask and gently pressed her lips to his forehead. His skin was hot. She straightened, blinking away tears. “I’m going to leave now, but I’ll be back tomorrow, and you’d better be on your way to recovery then. I love you, Chase.”

  * * * * *

  At noon, the Seattle news featured a short report by freelance reporter Adam Steele about the avalanches near Mount Baker, mentioning the nine dead at the main avalanche area, with aerial footage of crews working to find more victims and dig out buried cars. Then the video switched to show Sam, Ortiz, and the rangers above the ski area as they stood over the young man’s corpse, one black body bag zipped shut and off to the side; another one open and awaiting contents.

  “If you have any information that might help to identify these two young people,” Adam said earnestly to the camera, “Please contact the Whatcom County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Sam could tell that last bit had been filmed at the Bellingham airport, the wind a whistling background in the microphone clamped onto Adam’s jacket collar as he stood in front of a helicopter. Behind him, Mount Baker poked its triangular head up in the distance, beyond the Chuckanut Mountains.

  After a respectful beat, Adam added, “More coverage of this disaster will follow as news develops in the coming days. This is reporter Adam Steele, coming to you from the rugged North Cascades.”

  Following the news, she received a text message. Did you see me on the midday news? We need to schedule the filming of your crawl-through, and then I will do a face-to-face interview with the Avalanche Angel. Getting bids in on both; working out details. Call you tomorrow.

  Crawl-through? Avalanche Angel? Bids? She’d been thinking Zoom or maybe the phone; he hadn’t said anything about a face-to-face. Adam Steele strikes again, Sam thought grimly. And he didn’t even mention the wolverine.

  Chapter 35

  In the afternoon, Blake drove her to Chase’s cabin. During the half-hour drive, they were both quiet. Blake had told her about Claude’s wife, and beyond the sympathy she’d originally expressed in the form of multiple swear words, she couldn’t think of anything to add. She knew her housemate had been hoping for a future with Claude. She had no idea how to comfort him.

  When she checked in with the sheriff’s office, she discovered that nobody had called with any clues to the identities of the two wolverine kidnappers. How could nobody have noticed them missing? Or maybe their families didn’t watch the TV news? She had to admit that she rarely did. Bellingham didn’t have its own station, so the reports were mostly about Seattle or the endless COVID stats or the ongoing political battles in the national news. She didn’t need any more depressing issues taking up space in her brain.

  She couldn’t stop fretting about her own future. Would Chase recover? She couldn’t face the prospect of his death. No, he couldn’t die. He wouldn’t die. But how long would it take for him to get back to normal? Would he ever again be the man she’d fallen in love with? Could she still love him if he wasn’t the same strong, virile, sharp-witted man?

  In no way could she picture Chase as an invalid. And in no way could she picture herself taking care of an invalid. She still had nightmares from growing up during her mother’s decline from ALS. Every year, as she grew taller and older, her mother shrank, until Susan Westin finally died when Summer was nine.

  Her thoughts naturally shifted to her father, Reverend Mark Westin, and how devoted he’d been to her mother after the poor woman had been diagnosed, how tenderly he’d cared for his wife during nearly a decade of Sam’s young life. Now, from the wiser viewpoint of more than twenty years after her mother’s death, Sam realized that her perception of her parents’ relationship was derived only from her experience as their young daughter. The external actions did not necessarily reflect the internal reality of the participants. Who knows what struggles her poor father had gone through but never shared with his wild little girl? As a minister, he was accustomed to listening to the tribulations of members of his congregation. But who did he have to confide in? He’d never admit to resentments, to feeling oppressed or burdened, at least not to her. Who had counseled him?

  Maybe his best friend, Martin Heath, another minister. She hoped her father had been able to talk to Martin, had his support through the years. And maybe Zola, the current Mrs. Westin. She’d been part of the community as long as Sam could remember.

  Her housemate drove between tall firs into the gravel driveway of Chase’s cabin. Three mule deer watched from the other side of the clearing as he parked near the house. The does were fat, probably close to giving birth. Would Chase be here to see the new fawns? Sam, lost in her thoughts, blurted, “I don’t think I could do it, Blake.”

  Thankfully, he didn’t need to ask what she was referring to. Blake said simply, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” After putting the gearshift in park, he reached over, squeezed her shoulder, and then changed the subject. “Do you think Zeke talks to himself all day long?”

  “Probably. I now understand why Gina spends so much time outdoors with wildlife.”

  “I hope she gets better soon and can take him back.”

  “Amen to that.” She slid out of Blake’s car.

  Her old RAV4 was coated with sticky, olive-green pollen from the surrounding cedar trees. To her relief, the engine started as soon as she twisted the key in the ignition. She left it running for a minute to talk to Blake.

  “Follow me home?” he asked through the open window.

  “I’m going to stay for a little bit,” she told him. “Make sure everything’s okay out here.”

  “Need help? Those deer might be ferocious. Are you sure it’s safe? Want me to defend you against the raccoons?”

  “No, thanks. We got rid of them.” After a brief hesitation, she told him, “I need to be alone for a while.”

  Blake nodded, his eyes sad. “I get it. I need to go back to let the workmen in, anyway.” The front door-frame, utility window, and new deadbolts were all on the schedule for the afternoon. “See you later.” He backed out of the driveway.

  After clearing the bits of bark and needles and old leaves from her windshield, she turned off the engine, stepped over the broken porch step that needed to be replaced, and used her key to go into Chase’s cabin. From the clawed handprints on the front porch and the muddy paw smudges on the front window, she knew the raccoons had been back. Chase had been locked in a perpetual struggle with the masked bandits ever since he purchased the cabin. The raccoons had happily lived there in the attic, probably for generations, and even after more than a year, they still regarded it as unfair that they’d been barricaded out with metal flashing under the eaves. Sam had no doubt they were working on finding a new way in.

  The interior of the cabin had the stale air of having been abandoned. The kitchen and living area were spotless, in Chase’s typical sparse, tidy style. The small autumn-colored quilt laying across the couch was the only element not neatly tucked or folded, and that was because it was hers. She’d left it like that.

  Upstairs, in the small bedroom, she stretched across the queen bed on the comforter she’d given Chase, one of the several handmade bed coverings her grandmother had quilted. Burying her face in the pillow he normally used, she inhaled. If this were a romance novel, she’d smell her lover’s unique manly scent. In this reality, she could only detect, at best, a whiff of laundry detergent, and she wasn’t even sure of that. Both she and Chase always used unscented products.

  Sitting up again, she picked up her cell phone and called her father. He’d likely be in his home office at this time in the afternoon.

  “Summer!” He sounded cheerful, as usual. “How are things going today?”

  “Not so good. One of the things I didn’t tell you yesterday was about Maya. You remember I’ve told you about Maya?”

  “Of course. Your young protégé.”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “Why not? You’ve mentored her for years.”

  “That makes it all my fault.”

  Paper rustled in the background, and then he said, “Tell me.”

  She explained how Maya had gotten mixed up with bad company, had given up on her job and education and seemingly, had given up on life in general. She concluded with the tale of Maya’s friends trashing her house and shooting her cat.

  “Good gracious! Sounds like Maya is so depressed that she’s a danger to everyone, including herself. Are you helping her with that?”

  Was he kidding? “She shot Simon, Dad! Well, she didn’t, but—” Sam cut off her tirade before it could gain too much momentum. “I told her she had to leave.”

  After a brief but weighty silence, her father said, “I hope Maya finds the help she needs. Now, how is Chase today?”

  “He’s very sick with an infection. If he’s not going to completely recover, Dad, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know how you took care of Mom all those years. I’m sorry that I never thought about how difficult that must have been.” She stared at the ceiling.

  “You were a child, Summer. You weren’t supposed to think about things like that.”

  A spiderweb was growing in the corner. She watched as the spider added a new strand.

  “Do you still love Chase?” her father asked.

  “Yes.” A gnat was struggling, snared in a dangling thread of the spider’s web.

  “Then you’ll do whatever you need to. That’s the way it works.”

  Stifling a sarcastic response, she said merely, “Thanks. Bye, Dad.” Rolling over, she slid the phone onto the bedside table. She doubted that “it” would work that way, whatever “it” was supposed to be. She wasn’t strong, and she wasn’t particularly kind. And she was not a caregiver. She’d never wanted children for that reason. Her own biggest fear was being dependent on anyone else.

  She rolled back onto the pillow again. The spider was now efficiently wrapping the gnat into a small bundle of sticky strands. Should she let the industrious arachnid take over the corner, get a broom and clear out the cobwebs now, or wait until she knew when Chase would return? If he would return. Would he be able to climb upstairs to the bedroom? Her mind flashed back to lying here with him, listening to sounds overhead in the attic, something rolling heavily from one side to the other.