3

THE WRECKAGE OF THE TOWN of Duck Lake, Minnesota, made Brette want to turn and run. Her stomach rolled, and she had to press her hand against it, take a few deep breaths.

She’d seen plenty of destruction this summer—mostly in fields, a few barns, livestock, and yes, an occasional farmhouse—but nothing prepared her for the damage a twister could do when it ripped through a neighborhood.

She’d actually called Ella last night, bemoaning the fact that she’d missed capturing the twister on film. Brette gritted her teeth, wondering for a moment at the person she’d become. But Jonas’s enthusiasm for tornadoes was infectious, and she’d focused on the power and mystery that created the cyclone and how she could capture it.

Now, a question burrowed into Brette as they drove through the remains of the tiny town at the break of dawn.

How did anyone put their life back together after such complete devastation?

According to the Doppler radar and some videos and online reports, the F-4 touched down just north of Duck Lake, tore through the north side of town, across Highway 7, through the festival fairgrounds, past the county high school, and finally died just outside the next town of Chester, some ten miles away, where Jonas and Nixon lived.

Brette had listened as Jonas and Nixon called their families last night. The Swans lived in Chester, and they’d been untouched. The Marshall family farm, located between the two small hamlets, also survived. Still, Jonas had taken the wheel at the border and driven tight-lipped for the past hour. The sun was just rising, and the sound of cicadas already buzzed in the summer heat, tempered just slightly by last night’s soaking.

They’d slowed as they motored along Main Street, which was littered with ravaged vegetation, shingles, splintered wood, insulation, and glass. The air reeked of upturned dirt and sheared foliage, not unlike freshly mowed grass. The only stoplight in town blinked yellow. Water flooded the gutters, dragging leaves and sticks into the grates. Glass from a coffee shop window littered the sidewalk. A man up early had begun to shovel up the debris, having already pulled the destructive branches onto the street.

A few community trash cans rolled on their sides, and posters and other papers pancaked onto the asphalt. Surface destruction, but as they passed through town, closer to the tornado’s wrathful edge, the ruin became more dire.

A bungalow’s front porch lay ripped from its moorings. The windows of the house were shattered, and an American flag was in strips, soggy and lilting in the scant breeze. Shingles cluttered the yard. An oak tree, broken and half-rended from the ground, spread its branches across the road.

A dog ran alongside them, barking as if in warning.

Farther down the street, an entire garage had collapsed onto the cars inside.

Brette snapped pictures, feeling like a voyeur. They finally stopped just outside town and got out.

“Was that a bowling alley?”

Geena’s question barely registered as Brette turned and got a wide-angle view of the mess.

“Yes, that’s the Dine and Bowl,” Jonas said. “Or it was.”

Brette zoomed in on a set of vinyl chairs lined up for bowlers and orange and pink marbled bowling balls parked on top of a grimy mattress. The machinery was entangled with two-foot-long pieces of wood, insulation, broken furniture, countertops, dishware, glass, wire—a tumble of nondescript chaos that snarled her brain.

She finally let her camera fall around her neck.

Jonas came up behind her, reading his phone. “According to reports, there’s only about twenty people injured, no casualties. The sirens went off early enough.”

Nixon had his camera out, was taping the destruction as Geena tiptoed through the mess.

“I forget about this side of it,” Brette said. “How people’s lives are ruined.”

“I was ten years old when a tornado hit St. Peter, a nearby town,” Jonas said. “My dad packed up the entire family for two days and we went to help with cleanup. I was already enamored with storms, but for the first time I realized that I could help.” He glanced at her. “I don’t just chase tornadoes for the thrill of capturing it on camera and maybe selling footage to local media outlets. I’m a weather geek, sure, but I’m also the guy out there calling in the data to the weather stations, helping warn of the danger. And the more data we can get on how a tornado behaves, the more time we’ll have to get out of its way.”

Geena came back, shaking her head. “According to the latest update, the twister hit the school.”

“Oh no,” Nixon said.

“It’s summer, so hopefully no one was there,” Jonas said. “Still . . .”

They piled back into the SUV and drove in silence. Brette took more shots as they followed the tornado’s route. When they came up to the county school—a U-shaped connected high school, middle school, and elementary—they stopped.

The roof of the high school had blown off and landed on the elementary wing on the other side, pancaking the structure. The damage to the middle section seemed mostly cosmetic.

The great winds had stacked two busses together on one side of the parking lot along with a handful of cars twisted and piled up along the elementary wing.

Jonas idled in the parking lot. “Wow.”

He pulled out and headed down the road toward Chester, following evidence of the tornado’s dying strength—fences ripped up, a half-scalped tree, more crop havoc—but by the time Jonas pointed out the highway that led to his farmhouse, the twister had run its course.

The sun cleared the horizon, turning the day bright and bold as they pulled into Chester, a matchbox town only five streets wide, with seven churches, two banks, one grocery store, and a sleepy suburban neighborhood at the outskirts. The main street hosted a country bar, an ancient courthouse, and a library circa the early 1900s.

Jonas dropped off Nixon and Geena at Nixon’s parents’ place, a small ranch house across the street from his father’s church, Grace Chapel. Nixon’s father came out in his bathrobe and grabbed him up in a hold that had Brette looking away, tears in her eyes.

Brette climbed into the front seat that Geena had vacated and waved as they pulled away.

“I was the one that talked Nixon into chasing storms, way back in high school. Scared his poor parents to death,” Jonas said quietly. “I think they blame me for his fascination with storms, but really, he’s a film major, so all this footage only helps build his future.”

They stopped at a light, and Jonas waved to a passing driver.

“You know a lot of people in this town?”

“There are only 1,700 people, so yeah. Everybody.” He turned at the light.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay at a hotel or something? Your parents just lived through a terrible—”

“There are no hotels in Chester, and the nearest B & B is on Duck Lake. It’s probably in rubble.”

Oh.

“Besides, my mother would murder me if I didn’t bring you home.” He looked over at her and flashed her a smile that had her stomach tightening. Oh, Jonas was cute, no doubt. Possessed a charm about him that could cajole a girl’s heart from her, make her doodle his name in her spare time. But she had no room for anyone else in the tragedy of her life.

“Thanks,” she said and looked away.

Besides, she’d already broken one man’s heart, according to Ella, who’d spent too much breath trying to convince her to call Ty this spring. She shuddered to think of what he might say or what he might think of her if he saw her now. Probably wouldn’t even recognize her.

And she wasn’t unaware of the fact that every time she called Ella, her boyfriend’s best friend might be within earshot. Like last night—Brette could have sworn she heard his voice in the background. Or maybe she simply wished it.

She probably should remember that she’d been the one to walk away. No, rather she’d run, full tilt.

And kept running.

Besides, their forty-eight-hour friendship could hardly be called a relationship, even if they had shared a kiss. Ty had probably long forgotten her.

The Marshall family farm sat four miles out of town on a swath of rolling countryside attached to the Crow River. She noticed the signage as Jonas turned into the driveway.

“Your family runs a vineyard? In Minnesota?”

“Yeah. We raise cold-climate grapes—Marquette and Frontenac as well as La Crescent white grapes. They make fantastic wines. We also have cranberry and strawberry fields for our fruit wines.”

“When you said farm I thought . . . well, pigs. Or cows.”

“My great-grandfather used to run a dairy herd, and we still have horses, a few chickens, and I’m sure there’s a goat around here somewhere. Mom likes her cheese.”

She had no words for the world that opened before her. A classic red barn with a giant wooden sign with the words Marshall Family Winery sat to the left of the open circle drive, a gravel surface edged by hostas. A cobblestone walk led up to a porch that wrapped around a massive two-story colonial-style home, with black shutters and a red double door. Another structure jutted out from the end, a two-story traditional square farmhouse that must have been the original house, now updated. A rooster weather vane circled at the apex of the roof.

Geraniums overflowed from containers at the entrance of the walk, and white rocking chairs invited family to sit down for a while and chat.

She’d never seen a more Rockwellian picture of a homestead in her life. And couldn’t deny the conflicting urge to both run for the hills and hold on to one of the pillars along the porch with everything inside her.

“Brace yourself. It’s bound to be loud in there. I don’t see my brother Creed’s car, but I see Ned’s, and it looks like we have company. My sister, Iris, is still overseas, and Fraser—well, who knows where he is—but Mom always manages to fill up the house anyway. She loves to feed people.”

He pulled up behind a Suburban. “We’ll stay a couple days, just long enough to decide what we want to do next and if we have the footage we need for Nixon’s master’s project—he’s hoping to put together a sort of documentary of the tornado season.”

“I’ll upload the photos and update the blog.”

“Jonas!”

The voice made them look up. A man with dark hair emerged from the front door. He looked a year or two younger than Jonas.

“That’s Ned.” Jonas reached for the door handle.

More Marshalls emptied from the house. A woman with dark blonde hair tied back in a handkerchief—Brette pegged her as his mother. And right behind her, his father, an older version of Jonas with dark hair, salty around the edges, and a piercing focus on his son as he came down the walk.

Jonas met his brother in a hug.

Brette walked around the front of the truck, watching the greeting.

“Man, are we glad to see you,” Ned said. He wore a grizzle of dark whiskers, and he appeared a little rattled.

“I got here as fast I could,” Jonas said.

“Jonas.” His father embraced him. “So glad you’re safe.”

“You too.” Jonas then went to his mother. She wrapped her arms around her son’s shoulders, hung on. Closed her eyes.

Brette should have insisted on a hotel room, even if she had to bunk in Minneapolis.

As if reading her mind, Jonas looked at her. “Brette—these are my parents, Garrett and Jenny Marshall.”

Jenny Marshall made a move to hug her, but Brette stuck out her hand.

“Thank you for letting me stay with you, Mrs. Marshall.”

“Jenny. And, of course.” She enclosed Brette’s hand with hers, as if just restraining herself from yanking her into a hug. “We have lots of room, but we have a bit of a full house. There were quite a few festival-goers who lost their RVs and tents. Thankfully, the festival didn’t suffer a direct hit, but the gusts dismantled most of the flimsy housing.”

She seemed tired, and Brette had the distinct feeling that something wasn’t quite right here.

Maybe Jonas felt it too, because he said, “Is everybody okay?” He frowned at Ned. “You seem upset.”

Ned’s mouth made a tight line. “Creed’s missing.”

Jonas’s sharp intake of breath stabbed at her.

“He texted Mom from the Duck Lake trail, where he’d gone for a run with the cross-country team. He said he’d finished practice and was going to spend the night with Andy, one of his cross-country buddies. But when he didn’t come home this morning, we started to get worried. The phone lines are down, but Dad and I just got back from Andy’s house.” Ned shook his head. “He’s not there. Andy didn’t even go to practice.”

Jonas stared at his brother, as if not comprehending. “What do you mean, practice? School is out.”

“His team was having informal practice. No formal coaching, although the coach sometimes shows up to just work out. Creed is one of the captains, and he’s been running with his team every day at the Duck Lake trail outside town,” Ned said.

“I tried calling him, but the lines were down. I should have double-checked he was at Andy’s instead of just assuming he got there safely . . .” Jenny said softly. “Now, no one knows where he is.”

Oh. Brette pressed her hand to her gut. Took a breath as Jonas just stared at Ned, then his mother.

“Please tell me he didn’t go to the school,” Jonas said.

“You’re scaring me, Jonas,” Jenny said.

“Sorry, Mom. I just . . .” He looked at his father, at Ned, then back to his mother. “We drove by the school. It was hit, and . . . well, there’s not much left.”

“We know, son,” Garrett said. “We helped pull out a janitor and a first-grade teacher working on her classroom, but otherwise, the school was empty.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t there?”

“We didn’t see his car at the school,” Garrett said. “He may have driven it to practice.”

“But there's a lot of destruction, so it's hard to know. When the coach is there, they often drive the coach’s van,” Jenny said.

“He texted us ten minutes before the warning siren sounded, and our guess is that he couldn’t have made it back to the school by then,” Ned said. “We thought he went right to Andy’s. He lives out of town, close to the lake.”

Brette looked at Jenny and read the unspoken question.

Then where is he?

“And you haven’t heard anything?” Jonas looked over to the porch, where more people had assembled. A blonde came out onto the porch, folded her arms, and watched from a distance. She wore a T-shirt with a face on the front. Behind her, another man had emerged and was talking on his phone, pacing away from them to the edge of the porch. He was wearing a baseball hat and his left arm was bandaged.

“No,” Garrett said. “We keep trying to call him, but . . .”

Jenny pressed a hand to her mouth, and Brette ached for her.

Sweet Jonas pulled his mom into his arms. “Shh, Mom. Creed is smart. I’ll bet he found a place to hunker down. We just can’t get in touch with him, what with all the cell towers in town down. We’ll find him, I promise.”

“He’s not the only one who’s missing.”

The voice came from the man on the phone, who now came off the porch. “I can’t find my father either.”

It took a second for the recognition to click into place, almost like a hand closing around Brette’s throat.

Benjamin King. Country music star and friend of Ty Remington. He worked on the same search and rescue team that Ty did back in Montana. What was he doing—

“This is Ben,” Ned said, neatly omitting his last name, like they might be old friends. “And his friend Shae Johnson.” He indicated the woman on the porch. “They’re the reason I’m alive. I was at the festival and—”

“We hid out in a storage building,” Shae said, coming down the stairs. “But Ned is the reason Ben didn’t bleed out. He cut his arm pretty good, and Ned helped stop the bleeding.”

She looked at Ned then, and something akin to admiration flickered in her eyes.

It brought Brette right back to last winter, when Ty Remington had nursed her through an inflamed appendix. She might have even called him her hero.

Oh boy.

And then, just as she began to put the puzzle pieces together, Ben said, “I just got off the phone with my fiancée. She and the PEAK team just landed in the Chester ball field. Any chance I could catch a ride from someone?”

And with those words, Brette’s entire body went cold.

Oh no.

The PEAK team. Ty Remington’s team.

Which meant . . . Ty was here.

“I told them they could stay with us,” Jenny said quietly, glancing at Jonas.

“Let’s go,” Garrett said and headed off the porch to a Suburban lined up in the drive.

“I have some hot pancakes and homemade syrup inside,” Jenny said. “Then, maybe—”

“Yeah, we’ll head out and see if we can trace the route Creed might have taken,” Jonas said. He and Ned fetched their gear and carried it inside.

Brette just stood there, not sure what to do, where to go, still frozen. Until Jenny took her hand. “You look hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

No, she always looked hungry these days. But she had no appetite.

And, as Jenny led her into the house, apparently nowhere else to run.

Kacey was here to do a job, not break anyone’s heart. She drew in a breath as she hung up with Ben, his voice like honey to her raw and fatigued body.

Lethal honey because she had a terrible, heartbreaking suspicion she knew exactly why he’d wanted her to fly out to Minnesota, although why he’d asked Audrey to join them seemed a little odd. Still, Ben loved Audrey with everything inside of him and probably wanted to assure her of that when they finally admitted the truth.

They just couldn’t make this crazy idea of marriage work.

It wasn’t just postponing the wedding two times. Or the time away. It was time to admit that their romance couldn’t survive Ben’s superstar career. Truth was, Kacey wasn’t cut out to be the glittery wife of a country music icon.

Some things weren’t meant to be, no matter how much you wanted them.

Ben had suggested that they needed to have a serious conversation about their future in their last phone call, that things needed to change. He wanted her to be with him on the road, or at awards events, and frankly, he wasn’t happy. Neither was she, and since then the words had sunk in, and she had shored herself up for this weekend of honesty.

She would be strong. And with Ben traveling so much, of course he wanted to look Audrey in the eyes and tell her he loved her. Kacey would stand beside him and help her daughter see that her daddy still—would always—be her daddy. Even if their happily ever after might be in pieces.

“Is Dad okay?” Audrey stood in the outfield of the Chester sports complex. Now sixteen she looked every inch the daughter of handsome Benjamin King, with her beautiful blue eyes and dark hair the color of rich mahogany. She wore a Mountain Song Records T-shirt and cutoff shorts, her eyes bright as if she’d actually slept over the past twelve hours as they’d hopped their way from Montana to Minnesota in their tired but champion chopper. Sam had allowed them to requisition the chopper from the county, and Ty had stepped in with the funds to get them in the air. With five refueling stops, Kacey dodged the weather fronts and landed just as the sun tipped the dewy grass.

If she let herself, Kacey could curl up in a ball right here in the soft grass, sleep for a week. Except for the fact that Ben had sounded so tightly strung, so weary on the phone. He needed her, and even if they might never be husband and wife, they would always be friends.

“He’s worried about Grandpa,” Kacey said as she walked back to the chopper. She hadn’t been sure where to put the bird down, but Ben suggested the athletic field after consulting with one of the locals, so . . .

Ty pulled out his duffel bag, looking a little less worn than last night. He’d grabbed a quick shower before they took off while Ian had swapped the seats back in, securing the two stretchers in the cargo area and turning the rescue chopper into a transport for all of them—Ian, Ty, Gage, Audrey, and Kacey.

Now, Ty placed a ball cap on his head, donned a pair of aviator sunglasses, and nodded at her.

He’d agreed to ride copilot for the entire trip and had taken over as navigator even if he hadn’t exactly offered to relieve her. But she’d flown longer sorties than this trip, with less sleep, and under the fatigue, her body buzzed with a layer of adrenaline. Especially since they hadn’t yet located Chet.

Please, God, let him be alive. Stay with him.

“Should we bring the medical gear?” This from Gage, who stood next to the belly of the chopper, indicating the large duffel of supplies. She hadn’t known what to expect, and since they were in the business of rescue . . .

“Leave it for now.”

Gage nodded and shut the door. Ian had come around from the other side, shouldering a backpack. Kacey grabbed her own rucksack and tossed it over her shoulder just as a Suburban pulled up in the parking lot.

Audrey took off in a run toward Ben, who got out of the Suburban, rounded the gate, and ran toward her.

He caught his daughter up in a hold that thickened Kacey’s throat. The man did love his daughter—that much would never change.

She swallowed back a burr of pain. Clearly now wasn’t the time for her and Ben to confront the truth about their relationship.

Ben set Audrey down and walked over to Kacey. He’d replaced his cowboy hat with a gimme cap, one that had the Mountain Song Records logo on the crown, and his blue eyes bore into hers with a hunger that reached in and grabbed her heart. He hadn’t shaved, and he needed a haircut. He wore a pair of faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a faded light blue T-shirt that read “Kick Off Your Spurs.” That was when she noticed the bandage on his left arm.

Before she could examine it, however, he caught her in a hold, pulling her to his chest, his entire body shaking.

“Babe.” Ben King had never been the guy to let his emotions too far off his leash, but now she sensed he might be close to unraveling. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

She wrapped her arms around his lean torso, and with everything inside her, she longed to hang on, to bury her nose into his tanned skin, smell the soap on him, the hard work. Just being around him made her want to sing along to his song.

She missed him already, and the thought of their imminent breakup burned her eyes, made her push away from him before she began to weep.

“What happened?” She backed away and went right for the arm, neatly deflecting the kiss he aimed at her. No need to make it harder.

His kiss landed on her cheek, but he made no comment. See, he was trying to make it easier too.

“I had to break into a building to get away from the storm. I cut my arm on the glass.”

“Did you get stitches?”

“Yep. Fifteen. I'll be fine.”

Ian, Gage, and Ty had joined them now, and Ben gave them bro hugs, gratefulness in his eyes. Audrey wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into him. He hung his arm around her and continued. “The twister hit the far edge of the festival, but it still did enough damage to the grounds and trailers to leave ten thousand people without a place to stay. Quite a few were able to get on busses back to Minneapolis—some went to a high school about thirty minutes from here. My trailer is a wreck, but we might be able to salvage it. In the meantime, we’re staying with the Marshall family.”

He turned and glanced at a bigger man, maybe midfifties, standing in the parking lot. “That's Garrett Marshall. His son, Ned, worked as a smokejumper in Montana last summer. He apparently knows Pete.”

Pete Brooks, their former EMT and mountaineering specialist.

“Small world,” Gage said.

“Even smaller. Shae Johnson was at the festival. She told one of the security guards that she knew me, and when I found out, I let her backstage before the show.” Ben looked at Ian. “She’s okay. She followed me into the storage area.”

“Thank you for rescuing her, Ben,” Ian said.

“Oh, she kept up, and she helped me get the bleeding under control. She’s a real trouper. I can see how she survived on her own so many years.”

Ian’s mouth tightened, but he nodded.

“It wasn’t until about an hour later, when I heard that the tornado had touched down in Duck Lake, that I called my dad. He didn’t pick up—his phone went right to voicemail.”

They started walking toward the Suburban, Ben holding Audrey’s hand. He reached out for Kacey’s, but she tried to pretend she didn’t see it and held on to her rucksack.

Don’t, Ben. Please.

“We drove out to the . . . um . . .” He looked at Audrey then, and made a face, and Kacey caught it out of the corner of her eye. “I was hoping to take a few days off, and I rented a B & B near Duck Lake for us.”

Oh. Yes. Well, a private time away from prying eyes for them to explain things to Audrey. To remind her that they could still be a family, even if they lived separate lives.

But that was Ben. Thoughtful, not wanting his public life to interfere with his private life.

“The B & B was completely destroyed.”

Audrey gasped.

“Grandpa wasn’t there, honey. He hadn’t shown up. Or at least by the time the owners got into their storm shelter—they all survived, by the way.”

Now Kacey longed to grab his hand, give it a squeeze.

“We drove along the highway, trying to find his rental car, but it’s . . .” He swallowed, then blew out a breath. “He’s vanished. We can’t find any sign of him. And then it got dark and . . .”

Okay, that was just enough. Kacey reached out and took his hand. “We’re going to find him, Ben. I promise.”

His eyes glistened then, and he nodded.

She reached up and brushed her thumb across his cheek, wiping the wetness there. Old habits, grabbing her up, winding through her. The gesture made her ache.

He pressed his hand over hers, leaning into her touch. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course we came. That’s what PEAK does.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but he recovered fast, nodding. “Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

Then he turned and followed Audrey to the parking lot. He climbed into the backseat with Audrey, and Kacey slid in beside them, aware of Ben’s body pressed next to hers.

“That’s what PEAK does.”

She was here to do a job. She just had to remember that.

And when it was over, she’d figure out how to break up with the only man she’d ever loved.

Ty should have spelled Kacey, not let her take the helm for the entire trip. The guilt built in his gut after the third stop for gas at the Miles City municipal airport around midnight.

But the words “Chet’s missing” had surfaced every buried memory of two years ago when he’d nearly killed the man who’d taught him to fly and convinced him that life might be worth more than a bottle of whiskey.

Ty had no business flying a chopper. Not when the last time he’d taken the helm for a rescue mission, he’d dismantled all their lives.

The bigger truth was that Chet had given him a thousand second chances until it nearly cost both their lives one snowy spring night, and if the man was still out there, Ty planned on finding him.

So, even if he couldn’t—or rather, didn’t—fly a chopper anymore, he could still listen to his instincts. And those instincts told him that if anyone could survive a tornado, it was a former Vietnam chopper pilot who’d seen more destruction in his life than a man deserved.

They pulled up to the Marshall home—a sprawling two-story farmhouse already jammed with cars in the circle lot. He noticed the winery sign on the barn, along with the rows and rows of vines that stretched out as far as his eye could see into the horizon.

He squeezed out of the middle bucket seat and was opening the back end when he saw a woman run out of the house. “Uncle Ian.”

Shae Johnson, formerly Esme Shaw, with her blonde hair and mysterious eyes, had grown into a beautiful young woman despite the horrors she’d endured. Ian grabbed her up, held her tight, his eyes closed.

“You scared me. I had no idea you were at the country fest.”

She backed away, put her hands on his arms. “I’m okay. It’s because of Ben.” She glanced toward the Suburban where Ben was climbing out with Audrey and Kacey.

Ty handed Gage’s backpack to him and followed Garrett Marshall into the house.

Inside, the old farmhouse had apparently gotten an up-to-date overhaul. The dark oak floors were shiny and the ceilings beamed, and he could look right through to the backyard. In the kitchen, an island topped with black granite seated eight, and a woman with blonde hair tied back in a headband made pancakes at an enormous range. More people gathered around a long farmhouse table on the other side of the room. As Ben and Audrey came in, he heard Audrey greet them.

Oh, Ben’s band members.

To the right of the entryway, in a breakfast nook, a round kitchen table held the accoutrements of breakfast—juice, syrup, plates, sausages, and a massive pile of pancakes. He set his duffel down near the door, walked over to the long dining table, and stared at the massive map unrolled over the top.

“Hey, I’m Jonas,” said one of the guys, not a band member by the looks of his shirt with the Vortex.com emblem on the breast. Good-looking guy who looked like he could handle himself. He reached out his hand.

Ty shook it. “Ty Remington. I’m with PEAK.”

“Thanks for coming out.”

“Of course. Chet’s a good friend.”

Jonas nodded, then glanced at Ben. Back to Ty. “We’re also missing my brother, Creed. And, well, the newest update is that there are more kids and a coach missing.”

“Kids?” Gage said, dropping his backpack onto a chair.

“High school and middle school runners,” said a dark-haired version of Jonas. “Ned Marshall.” He offered his hand to Ty, then Gage and Ian, who had joined them. “I was with Ben and Shae at the festival.”

“It’s Creed’s cross-country team,” Garrett said as he walked over. “Coffee anyone?”

Ty took the proffered cup, sipped the liquid black and hot, and the heat found his bones. He still vibrated from the chopper.

“Creed’s a captain, and he called summer practice. Since our county school is combined, the high school team often practices with the middle school too. We think yesterday was one of those days.”

Jenny Marshall came over, wiping her hand on a towel. “Ten kids are missing.” Her reddened eyes betrayed a woman trying not to unravel. No wonder she was cooking enough pancakes to feed the entire defensive line for the Minnesota Vikings. “In total, there’s thirteen people reported missing.”

“I’ve mapped the path of the tornado,” Jonas said, putting his finger down at the starting point of his line. “It touched down just north of the lake to the west of town, travelled along the shoreline, then headed south toward town. It dragged itself along the north side of the town, then jumped the highway and moved south following Garden Avenue, until it died out about two miles north of here.”

“It looks like it was on the ground for about fifteen miles,” Ty said.

“Twenty-five minutes. It started as an F-3, progressed to an F-4, and finished, well, they’re still doing the math.” Jonas wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “The worst of it was north of the town. Right where Creed . . . and maybe Chet King were.” He leaned on the map, picked up the salt shaker. “They were practicing outside town on a trail around the lake, so let’s say this is Creed. He texted Mom at 5:05 when he finished practice, but he didn’t mention the tornado.”

Jonas reached for the butter dish and put it down on the northern shore of Duck Lake. “The twister hit the ground at 4:57 p.m. here and traveled about a half mile a minute. The trailhead is six miles away, so we can guess it hit their location about twelve minutes later, around 5:09. Hopefully Creed would have been gone by then, but he only had a four-minute lead.”

He picked up the pepper shaker, then cast a look at Ben. “You said your dad left for the Duck Lake B & B right before you took the stage?”

“I took the stage around 5:00, and he left before that. Maybe 4:50?”

“The festival grounds are only three miles east of town.” Jonas moved the pepper shaker along that route. “Considering he drove the speed limit, which is 40 through there, he would have been through the town of Duck Lake around 4:55, maybe already headed south around the actual lake by 5:00, although, given the traffic at that time of day, it’s more likely he was here.” He set the pepper shaker on the west side of the town limits.

“Of course, if he went south around the lake, he would have missed the funnel completely.”

Ben drew in a long breath. “So, let’s say he went north around the lake,” Jonas continued. “That would have put him ahead of the tornado, but he could have spotted it.”

“That’s an awfully tight time frame,” Ben said. “Anything—stoplights, traffic, even my dad’s propensity to fiddle with the radio could have slowed him down as he went through town.”

“Putting him right in the path of the tornado at 5:09,” Jonas said.

“And maybe even passing Creed and the van of kids going to the high school,” Ben concluded.

Ty ran the route in his head. “So, you’re saying that Chet could have driven right into this thing?”

“Maybe,” Jonas said.

Silence, a beat as the facts settled in.

“I’m sorry,” Jonas said. “I’m just trying to create scenarios based on the weather.”

“Chet is smarter than that,” Ty said. “He’s a pilot, for Pete’s sake. He flew sorties in ’Nam. He had to learn to read weather, and I guarantee that he wouldn’t have driven right into a wall of cumulonimbus clouds.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow.

“I’m a pilot too,” Ty said quietly.

Ben crossed his arms, his chest rising and falling. “He would have driven away from the twister, if he’d seen it, or driven someplace safe.”

“So let’s say you see a twister headed your direction. Where do you go?” This from Gage, who studied the map beside Ty. “Not west, into the storm, but south, then east, back through town?” He followed the path of the highway with his finger. “But the way the tornado ran, diagonally, this would have brought him right back into the path.”

“He wouldn’t have known that,” Kacey said. “He would have just followed the road to get away.”

“The sirens started going off in the town at 5:15,” Jonas said. “If he turned around, that would put him right back in the center of town around then. Would he have taken shelter somewhere? Maybe he’s still trapped in town.”

“So, he might be somewhere in the destruction of the town of Duck Lake,” Ben said quietly.

“Seems unlikely,” Garrett said. “The EMS has been scouring the town for survivors.”

“There’s still three people, besides the cross-country team, unaccounted for,” said Ned. “Chet is just one of them.”

Right.

“And what about Creed?” Jenny asked. “Where would he have gone?”

“Back to the high school is my guess.” Jonas ran his finger along the same route to town. “It’s possible the twister intercepted them here, where it crossed the road, about a mile past the festival.”

“And a couple miles before the school,” Ned said. “That’s where we should start looking.”

“Is there a shelter they’re taking everyone to?” Ian asked from where he stood behind Shae, his hands on her shoulders. “Maybe they’re both there and just haven’t been able to contact anyone.”

“They’re taking everyone to the community center in Winthrop,” Garrett said. “Someone can take one of the winery trucks and check it out.”

Ty glanced at him, nodded. “Good idea. Ian, you head to Winthrop.”

“I’ll take the chopper up, see if I can spot a white van, and . . . what was Chet driving?” Kacey asked.

“A rental. A gray Ford Taurus.”

“Oh, that’ll be easy to find,” Gage said.

Ty shot him a frown but then put his gaze on Kacey. “I’ll go with you. You’re tired. You need a copilot.”

No one said anything, but really, she needed a pilot.

She just nodded.

Jonas leaned forward. “I’ll go to Duck Lake to talk to the police. We drove through there on our way here, and Brette got a number of pictures. Maybe she captured something we missed.”

And just like that, Ty’s world screeched to a halt, the name ringing in his ears, every muscle jerking. Brette?

His gaze followed Jonas, the casual way he walked over to the stairs. Leaned on the railing and shouted up. “Hey, Brette, you out of the shower yet? We need your camera!”

Ty’s heart stopped. A sharp, brutal jolt that also cut off his breathing as a woman came down the stairs, toweling off her hair.

Her short, very short hair. She hung the towel around her neck. “It’s in my pack, why?”

Gage’s hand landed on Ty’s shoulder, as if he was holding him back, or down, or maybe just trying to keep him from shaking as the woman he’d tried to forget walked over to her backpack and pulled out a rather nice Nikon. She turned to Jonas.

Her gaze fell on the congregation around the table. She blinked, and in that space of time, Ty’s gut roared to life with such fury he nearly gasped.

Something devastating had happened to Brette Arnold. Her bones protruded from her face, her collarbone ridged out from the T-shirt that hung on her. Even her arms appeared thinner. And her hair—oh, that golden long hair had been shorn so short it now stuck up, as if she might be a cancer patient.

Still, despite the changes, she possessed a beauty that took a hold of him, riveted his gaze to her. Her blue-green eyes seemed bigger, albeit haunted.

He managed to close his mouth, swallow.

She’d been hurt, or maybe attacked, or something terrible—and she hadn’t called him. That wounded him even more than the way her gaze bounced off him, the way she took a long breath, as if in resignation, and offered a grim smile to the group.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Brette,” Gage said from behind him. “Good to see you.”

She simply nodded, turned to Jonas. “What are you looking for?”

“A gray Taurus. Or maybe a white van. Chet’s car, and the cross-country coach’s van.”

“Okay. I’ll take a look.” She sat down at the bench near the door and flipped through her digital shots, not looking up.

Ty just stared at her. She wore a pair of baggy, faded jeans, her bare toes peeking out the cuffs.

He noticed a scar at her neck, something thick and dark red and it stirred a darkness through him. He’d find out what happened, and if anyone had hurt her . . .

“Everyone grab something to eat before you leave,” Jenny Marshall was saying, but he barely heard her. His feet moved on their own.

“Ty—”

He ignored Gage. What was she doing here, with Jonas . . .

And then the thought had him around the throat.

Was she with Jonas? Dating him?

Jonas had helped himself to a plate of pancakes and a couple sausages and headed over to the coffeepot.

Ty couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t ignore the gut-twisting sense of regret that burned through him.

It didn’t matter.

He should have searched harder for her. Should have never left well enough alone. And okay, yes, if she needed him, she would have called him—those words shouted somewhere in the back of his brain—but he couldn’t get past the fact that he’d been right.

Something was desperately, horribly wrong with Brette Arnold.

His mouth, apparently, had stopped listening to his brain, right along with his feet, because he edged up to her and fell to his knees before her. She raised her eyes to him, frowning, gathering her breath, maybe to tell him to leave.

But he couldn’t stop the words, the emotion, the shock from bubbling out of him as he reached out, so wanting to touch her. “Oh my gosh, Brette, what happened to you?”