Chapter 13 #2
“To love. To faith. To the possibility that God’s plan might be better than you can imagine.”
Orlando’s head lifted, ears swiveling toward the stairs. Footsteps creaked overhead. Kennedy heard it. “My husband, looking for me, probably. He’s struggling too, even if he doesn’t show it.” She got up.
Harley too. She followed Kennedy to the kitchen, put her mug in the sink. “Kennedy? Thank you. For . . .”
“Being awake at stupid o’clock?” Kennedy’s laugh held warmth. “Yeah. That’s what family does. At least, the Bowie family.”
Family. The word echoed as Harley climbed the stairs, Orlando padding beside her.
She stood at the bedroom window, however. Aurora borealis rippled across the sky in streams of green and blue light that pulsed and shifted, a ribbon that shimmered against the vault of night.
Magical.
Home.
Maybe better than she could imagine.
She pushed her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt, sighed. Okay God, help me trust you. Help me trust Jericho.
Felt awkward.
But she slipped under the quilts, Orlando resuming his post at her feet.
And she finally slept.
“THIS IS THE MOST beautiful boiler I’ve ever seen.” Jericho ran his hand along the sleek stainless steel surface, feeling the quiet thrum of power beneath his palm. “So what’s the problem?”
The LED lights cast sharp shadows in the room, glinting off the color coded pipes that ran in precise geometric patterns overhead. The space smelled of fresh paint and new metal, with just a hint of the damp stone beneath.
He and Hudson had changed into coveralls after church, then drove out to the Eagle’s Nest. Jericho had left Harley to visit Gregg and Winnie at the hospital.
She’d taken Orlando the Traitor with her.
When she climbed into the Silverado that morning, a coffee thermos in hand, and said, “To church we go,” it felt almost . . . well, like they really were headed somewhere permanent.
Like it was normal.
Maybe it was. Or could be.
“She’s a Viessmann Vitocrossal 300 CI3.” Pride colored Hudson’s voice. “Triple-pass combustion chamber, Lambda Pro Plus combustion management. Should be pushing ninety-eight percent efficiency.”
Yeah, Jericho hadn’t a clue what that meant, so he didn’t suppose he could work any magic here.
“What happened to the old boiler?”
“That monster?” Hudson gestured to the corner where the old unit had squatted.
“Nineteenth-century coal-burner someone converted to wood in the eighties. Thing was basically a metal box with an appetite for timber. Dad used to joke it could eat through a cord of wood in three days during a cold snap.” He shook his head.
“Last winter, middle of February, the heat exchanger cracked. Temp dropped to forty below that night. Pipes froze in half the guest rooms.”
“No wonder you remodeled.” Jericho traced a finger along one of the new copper pipes.
“Yeah, well, our boutique mountain lodge had icicles growing in the bathrooms.” Hudson’s mouth quirked.
“That’s when I knew we either had to replace the whole system or give up on Dad’s dream.
This beauty?” He patted the new boiler. “She’s the final piece in making this place what he always saw it could be. ”
“And now she’s giving you grief.”
“Ironic, right? Trade in Old Faithful for this high-tech marvel, and I can’t keep a pilot light lit.” Hudson tapped the glowing blue control panel.
Jericho circled the unit, checking pressure gauges and connection points. “What’s your inlet gas pressure reading?”
“Seven inches water column.”
“Manifold pressure?”
“Three and a half inches. All the specs are perfect.” Hudson tapped the control panel. “But again, the pilot light keeps going out.”
Jericho nodded absently, his mind drifting to church that morning. To Harley, who hadn’t fidgeted or checked her phone once during the sermon. Just sat there, listening to the pastor talk on some passage in Psalms. All he could remember was something about high places or rocks or—
“Jericho?” Hudson’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Sorry, what?”
He sighed. “Thinking about your little chat with Barry?”
No. But yes, he’d tracked down Barry, asked him about the report. “He said pretty much what you told me. He thinks he’s onto something about Dad’s crash. Barrow Fuel was handling all the fuel shipments back then.”
“You think Pete Barrow tainted the fuel?”
“I don’t know.” He stared at the boiler. “Harley and I are going to talk to him later.”
The pilot light wavered, drawing Jericho’s attention.
The flame flickered violently.
“Hudson.” Jericho straightened. “When’s the last time you checked the gas line for contamination?”
“Fuel line’s clean,” Hudson said. “First thing we checked.”
The flame danced again, and this time Jericho tracked its movement. Not random—there was a pattern to it, like something was pulling . . . He followed the direction of the disturbance, past the neat rows of pipes, to the corner, where a heavy black door stood.
A warning sign read “Authorized Personnel Only. Danger: Unstable Structure Beyond This Point.”
“I remember this door. It leads to the old mine shaft under the mountain,” Jericho said.
“Yeah, we upgraded the door. The old one rusted out. We resealed it when we renovated.” Hudson crossed to join him. “Dad used to talk about using the old mining tunnel for wine storage someday.”
The pilot light sputtered again.
“It’s the seal,” Jericho said. “Something’s creating a wind effect.” He ran his fingers along the doorframe, feeling the faint rush of air. “We need to see what’s behind her.”
Hudson hesitated. “Lock’s industrial grade. We’d need—”
Jericho was already moving to the tool shelf. He returned with a pry bar and a hammer. “Your call, brother.”
For a moment, Hudson stood silent. “Seems like every time I turn around, I’m ripping apart something I thought I did right.”
Jericho frowned at him.
Hudson held up his hand. “Do it.”
Jericho wedged the pry bar into the lock. It gave way with a crack that echoed off the stone walls.
He eased the door open. Beyond it, darkness stretched like ink, carrying the metallic tang of earth and memory. The light from the boiler room caught the rotting support beams, the rough-hewn walls, the downward slope that disappeared into shadow.
And from it, a breath of cold air washed over them.
“I think there’s an opening somewhere in this mine.”
“Dad always said this place had secrets.” Hudson’s voice was quiet. “Guess we just found one.”
“Well,” Jericho said softly, “now we know what’s killing your pilot light.” He shut the door. “You need better sealant on this.”
“I’ll get my guys on it tomorrow.” They secured the door, however, and he nailed a board in front of it to keep anyone from opening it. Jericho checked the boiler. The flame held steady.
“My invoice will be in the mail.” Jericho grinned at his brother.
Hudson shook his head.
They headed upstairs, into the great room of the twenty-room lodge.
The space took Jericho’s breath away—not just the soaring ceiling with its network of exposed beams but the transformation, all under Hudson’s direction.
He’d stripped out the musty carpet, torn down the dark paneling, jettisoned the heavy Victorian furniture that had made the place feel like a museum.
Now, reclaimed hardwood gleamed, its honey-warm finish catching the early afternoon light that poured through towering windows that faced the Copper Mountain ski area.
“You stripped these beams yourself?” Jericho ran a hand along the nearest one, remembering how they’d been black with decades of soot and neglect. “Dad thought they had character.”
“Once upon a time. Then they just got gross and old. I found initials carved in some of them—miners from the twenties, if you can believe that.”
“I can. Dad thought this old mine was the coolest thing.”
“Kept a few visible, there.” Hudson pointed to a section where faded letters had been carefully preserved beneath clear lacquer. “Figure it’s part of the story, you know?”
“Dad would have loved that.”
“He was so sentimental. Even kept the old potbellied stove in the kitchen. It was a bear to haul out of here. Probably should have bulldozed the place, but . . . you know.”
“Yeah. Hard to tear down the memories of what Dad loved.”
The massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, its rough face now cleaned and repointed, the hearth updated with sleek granite that somehow made the old stonework look even more impressive.
Modern furniture in rich leather and soft wool grouped around it, creating an intimate seating area that looked both inviting and elegant.
“Those windows must have cost a fortune.” The new double-paned glass stretched nearly floor to ceiling, framing the Copper Mountain Range like a postcard. The clean white back bowl of the ski resort rested above them, with slopes cut into the lower half like rivers that led to the base. Majestic.
“Worth every penny. The old ones leaked so bad we were basically heating the mountainside.” Hudson’s voice held equal parts pride and worry. “The upstairs was a complete gut. Had to keep the renovations simple.”
“But this?” Jericho gestured to the great room. “This is something else, brother. You did a great job.”
Silence. More like a pregnant pause and he glanced at Hudson.
His brother wore a pensive expression, one hand hung on the back of his neck.
“What?”
Hudson sighed. “I think . . . I think we need to sell the house.”
The statement landed like a punch.
He stared at Hudson.
“I’m sorry. I’ve gotten a couple offers over the years. It’s such a great place, and real estate is on the rise again . . . We need the money.”
Right. Jericho looked away. “I get it.”
“You haven’t been back to the house once since—”
“I know.” He swallowed. “I just . . .” He watched skiers on the mountain, not far from where he’d worked with Orlando just a few days ago. “It’s like the final goodbye.”