Chapter 2
TILLIE
Twelve weeks of keeping this beautiful secret, and Christmas morning was going to be perfect.
Well, maybe.
Tillie pressed her palm against her still-flat stomach, watching Shep’s truck disappear into the thickening snow.
The storm growled, building with lethal intensity—fat flakes swirling past her second story bedroom window like nature’s own snow globe gone wild.
Through the gray-white curtain, she could barely make out the dark silhouette of the mountains.
The wind howled around the timber house, rattling the windows and sending snow spiraling in violent gusts.
But if Winter Starr’s plane had gone down…yeah, she got it. And Moose knew how to fly his chopper in the darkest storm.
Please, God, bring him home.
Her body cramped, a fist curling through her, squeezing and she lowered herself to the big king bed, gripping the tall bedpost.
Breathe.
But her chest tightened, her throat burning. Please, no.
Stress. Had to be stress. Just worry about him flying in conditions like this. And whatever had been eating at him this morning. He’d looked strange. Distant. Something was bothering him.
She might have only been married for a year, but she knew when something distressed her husband.
“Mom? Mom, where are you?”
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Tillie forced brightness into her voice. “In here, sweetheart.”
Hazel bounced into the bedroom, her dark curls uncombed, a mess, wild and cute.
She’d changed into purple leggings and an oversized sweater that nearly swallowed her small frame and now clutched a thick red book against her chest—the same worn copy of Clifford she’d been reading for weeks. Her brown eyes sparkled.
“Did you know that Emily Elizabeth named him Clifford because it was her favorite name for a dog? I’m making a list of good dog names for when my puppy comes.”
Right. The puppy. The last of the fist released from her body, and she stood up. “That’s wonderful, honey. What names are you thinking?”
“Well, if it’s a boy, maybe Thunder or Storm—you know, because he’s coming in winter. If it’s a girl, maybe Snowflake or...” Hazel flopped onto the bed, book falling open to a dog-eared page. “What do you think? Do you have a favorite dog name?”
Another cramp.
Stronger this time.
Tillie breathed through it, keeping her expression neutral. “I think any name you choose will be perfect.”
“Really? Even if I picked something crazy like Pickles?”
“Even Pickles.” The laugh came out real enough to fool a nine-year-old.
Hazel grinned and bounded back toward the door, energy undimmed. “I think maybe Pickles isn’t a good name for a sled dog.” She headed down the stairs.
Tillie sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling as she reached for the antique silver jewelry box, a wedding gift from Moose’s mother, sitting on the nightstand. Inside, tucked beneath her pearl earrings, lay the folded ultrasound photo.
From the first baby. The one she’d lost at exactly twelve weeks. She ran her thumb over the form. Could have been a son. Or a daughter.
But a secret from the team because they’d been so sure they had time to share the news when they were ready.
The terrible expressions Moose’s team had worn—London, and Shep, Boo and Oaken, (although he wasn’t really part of the team), Axel and his cop girlfriend Flynn.
And even Dawson, his cousin. They all looked at her as if she might be broken.
Even, flawed.
So this time…well, not even Moose knew. Not yet. Because Christmas would be twelve weeks, almost to the date and…
She pressed her hand to her womb. Please.
She had a plan. Baby booties sat in her dresser drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. Pale yellow, gender-neutral, tiny enough to fit in her palm. Three weeks ago, she’d bought them. Christmas morning, she’d place the tiny yellow booties in his stocking, watch his face light up when he realized...
The radio crackled downstairs. She heard Dawson answer. Air One communications.
Another cramp doubled her over.
And shoot, common sense said she should be in a hospital right now, not hiding upstairs trying to preserve a Christmas surprise.
But then Moose would rush home from a rescue mission, abandon Winter Starr, all because she couldn’t handle…
She was tougher than this.
“Tillie?” Dawson’s voice carried a cop-ish concern up the stairs. “You okay up there?”
“Fine.” She called back, forcing strength into her voice. “Just changing clothes.”
Lies came easier than they should.
She pulled on a loose sweater and leggings, hiding any evidence of discomfort. Deep breath. Game face on.
Downstairs, Dawson stood at the counter, wiping his hands on a towel. His dark hair was still wet from the snow, and he wore a sweater, a pair of jeans and an apron. He’d turned on the oven to preheat for the ribs, which sat doctored and in a flat sheet, waiting for a long roast.
Somehow, his detective instincts were already activated—she could see it in the way he watched her descend the stairs.
She forced a smile. “Those are going to be so good.”
Caspian immediately trotted over, pressing against her legs with a soft whine.
“Hey, sweet boy.” She rubbed his ears as she pushed past him.
“He likes you.”
“He likes anyone who feeds him, and he knows I keep a stash of cheddar rawhide in the pantry.” She walked to the closet and opened the pantry door, fished in the plastic bag and pulled out the treat. Caspian took it, then dropped it on the floor.
Huh.
Dawson crouched down, picked up the treat and extended his hand to Caspian.
The dog wouldn’t move, so he stepped up and scratched behind his ear. The dog leaned into his touch, but followed Tillie as she sat on a stool.
Another cramp and she tried not to wince.
“You’re worried about her too, aren’t you, boy?”
She looked up as Dawson stood, met her eyes with a grim look. “Smart dog. Knows when something’s not right.”
What? Oh, the storm. Moose. “Dogs pick up on stress.” She got up and gathered the mugs, needing something to do with her hands. The wind shrieked around the house like something alive and hungry. “I’m sure he’s figured out that I’m worried about the rescue.”
Dawson held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.
The radio crackled. Moose’s voice cut through the static, and Dawson reached for the radio.
“Air One Base, this is Rescue One. We’re airborne and en route to Winter’s location. Weather’s challenging but manageable. ETA thirty minutes.”
“Copy that, Rescue One,” Dawson said. “Keep us posted on conditions.”
“Will do. Rescue One out.”
Dawson glanced at her.
“He’ll find her. It’ll be fine,” she said, just as another cramp hit. She gripped the counter edge, breathing through it.
Dawson straightened, setting down his coffee. “You alright there?”
She nodded, but a tiny moan emerged, and her breath caught.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just...” She straightened, forcing a smile. “Just worried about him. You know how I get.”
His eyes narrowed. Cop mode activated.
“You’re pale. Have been all morning.”
Oh. “It’s the storm. Makes everything look gray.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tillie.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He stepped closer. Caspian immediately shifted, staying between them while maintaining contact with her leg. “I’ve been a detective for fifteen years. I know when someone’s hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
She forced herself to meet his eyes.
Another mistake. He could read people like books, and she was apparently an open page because her eyes filled.
From the living room came the soft sound of Hazel humming, lost in her book about the big red dog.
“Tillie, are you—?”
She closed her eyes. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
The cramping returned with a vengeance. She doubled over, gripping the counter, unable to hide the pain this time.
Caspian barked once. Sharp and urgent.
“Whoa, easy boy.” Dawson moved toward her.
She held up a hand. “I’m okay. Just...” She breathed through it, one hand on the counter, the other buried in Caspian’s fur.
“Okay, that’s it.”
She looked over at him.
Dawson was already heading for the door, reaching for his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“To shovel the driveway.” He pulled on his heavy winter boots, grabbed insulated gloves from the basket by the door. Snow swirled in when he cracked it open to check conditions. “Because after I’m done, we’re going to the hospital.”
“Dawson, no—”
“Yes.” He turned back to her, expression set in that stubborn way that reminded her he was related to Moose. Caspian whined softly, as if agreeing. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re hiding, it needs medical attention. And you’re going to get checked out.”
She glanced at Hazel, who’d looked over at her, frowning.
“Ten minutes.” He opened the door fully, letting in a blast of arctic air and swirling snow that immediately began to melt on the hardwood floor. The wind tried to rip the door from his hands. He turned to her then, and his gaze softened. “It’s going to be okay, Tillie.”
Then he headed outside.
The door slammed behind him, muffled by the howling storm.
Oh, she’d let dread keep her from being smart. Hiding from medical care didn’t mean that she’d keep the tragedy from happening.
She got up. “Hazel, honey. We need…we need to go to town.”
She bundled Hazel up in a warm coat, mittens, and hat, then grabbed her own.
Caspian went to the door, sitting in front of it. Clearly a roadblock. “Fine, you can come with us.”
Through the window, she could barely make out Dawson’s dark figure moving through the white chaos, already disappearing into the storm as he fought his way toward the truck.
Caspian looked up at her and whined softly, tail wagging.
And all she could hear, as she grabbed her coat was Dawson. It’s going to be okay.
She wished she could believe him.