Jonas (Minnesota Marshalls #2)(7)
Author: Susan May Warren

 

It would help if he hadn’t landed in her world like some kind of superhero. Made her feel, at least for a space of time, safe. As if she had a few more tomorrows ahead of her.

 

She could still see him running out as if to save her life—not in the storm but the next morning as she stood on the hillside, the air a glorious, unhindered blue, her sail on the hillside above her—

 

“What are you doing?”

 

He’d stood above her, and if she thought he was handsome in the dead of night, soaking wet, it had nothing on his brown hair tousled in the wind, a thicker layer of golden-brown whiskers, his blue eyes lighting with concern.

 

Maybe that’s why she’d sort of lost her brains. Again. “Would you like to go flying?”

 

For a second—a long, glorious second—she’d thought he might say yes. Because he took a step toward her.

 

Then, “What?” His gaze went to the cliff, the drop just thirty feet ahead of her, where she’d launch and…

 

Right. So maybe she’d misjudged the guy. Not the kind to dive off a cliff. Still, her mouth seemed not to have caught up— “Ina’s in good hands, and they’re arranging transport for her down the mountain. I’m going to the base to get help. But—I have an extra harness if you want to fly with me.”

 

“I…”

 

And she couldn’t help it. “C’mon. I promise, I won’t let you get hurt.”

 

Please. And for a second, she thought—

 

“Sorry. I—I think I prefer my feet on the ground.”

 

Of course he did. She was the crazy one here, clearly. “Thanks for getting my friend off the mountain! I’ll see you at the bottom.”

 

She hadn’t seen him at the bottom. Which was for the best, probably. She wasn’t a fool. She’d trained herself to live in a one-meter view of the world. She didn’t have the luxury of anything more.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

Sibba turned. Young Milovik came into the kitchen. “Yes, soldier?”

 

“Should I call the military for removal?”

 

“Yes. It’s safe to move.”

 

On the table beside him, where she’d set her kit, her phone buzzed. She picked it up and opened a text. Ina.

 

Ina

 

 

 

Not to worry you, but have you checked on your grandfather? According to mine, the derecho went right through Poče.

 

 

 

 

 

She’d called him two days ago but hadn’t gotten through, and then had been picked up by Milovik to attend to ordnances near Lake Bled.

 

So… She pocketed the phone and turned to Milovik. “I need to go. I need transport back to Cerkno.”

 

“I need to stay until the disposal team arrives.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ll take you, Sibba.” Director Vlasic.

 

She gathered her kit—left the Kevlar suit for the military to disinfect—put the gear into the boot of his car, then left them to dig up the past.

 

The drive back to Cerkno wasn’t far, but another unanswered call to her grandfather had her heart pumping.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

She liked Vlasic. Mid-sixties, he had a couple grandchildren and was liked, voted in for years in her town of two thousand.

 

“My grandfather lives in Poče.”

 

A beat. “They got hit. Electricity went down. Might still be down.”

 

Right. Could be why her call didn’t go through.

 

“I know your grandfather. He’s quiet. Keeps to himself.”

 

She said nothing.

 

“Good man, though. Wasn’t he mayor?”

 

“Four times.”

 

He gave a chuckle. “Did he ever take you back to the States?”

 

She shook her head, looked out the window. The effects of the storm still littered the ditches along the highway, branches down, water running across low patches in the road.

 

“Why not?”

 

“He had his reasons.”

 

Vlasic nodded. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s a survivor.”

 

A survivor. Yes. He’d had to be.

 

But one didn’t live through war, especially one like Vietnam, without scars. She hadn’t seen his PTSD rise to the surface in years, but after the storm last weekend…

 

And he never knew when the past might show up, either, and destroy everything.

 

She drew in a breath as the town of Cerkno came into view. Nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains, it was this storybook view of red-roofed homes, a white spire of a central church, and one quaint main street that drew tourists from nearby Ljubljana. That and, ten kilometers to the north, just out the driver’s window to the east, the glorious slopes of the Cerkno Ski Centre.

 

The last thing the tourist industry needed was the rumor of unexploded bombs littering these pine-soaked mountains.

 

Hence why, after everything, Sibba had found herself back here, forty kilometers from her hometown.

 

Safe.

 

Settled.

 

Living large, one day at a time.

 

Vlasic dropped her off at her townhome, near the center.

 

“Thanks.” She headed upstairs, dropped her kit, then grabbed the keys to her Citroen Berlingo, a jacket and her backpack, and headed out.

 

She called her grandfather again on the way up, but again, voice mail.

 

Really, she shouldn’t worry. He managed just fine alone on his farmland, rented it out to a neighbor mostly and lived on his bee money. But he missed her grandmother. And the storm…

 

She knew every curve, turned right at the V in the road and noticed the effects of the storm on the hay mounds as she drove past farmland.

 

Twenty minutes later, she spotted Poče. Just a village, a blink on the map, but she knew every storefront, every cobblestone drive, every face.

 

Her grandfather lived on a farm just outside the village, on a hill overlooking his kingdom. Or at least that’s sort of how she’d felt, being his granddaughter.

 

She cut right again, into his long drive. Ahead, his wooden barn still stood, and across the drive, the whitewashed stone home that had been built by her great-grandfather.