Chapter 5
“I BELIEVE YOU”?
Sheesh, maybe Keely should write him a song, declare her undying love. And since when had she turned into such a flirt? Maybe she was drugged.
She hadn’t behaved that stupidly since the last time she was on Fallon and Zac Efron sat down next to her and introduced himself.
And then she went and told the whole world that she loved High School Musical and had a poster of him on her wall growing up—and could she be any more embarrassing?
She sank down on the lower bunk bed of her room in the lodge and wanted to bury her face into the pillow.
Hero? She’d called him her hero.
Maybe she could stay right here, under the blanket for the entire storm.
She didn’t hate the room, or the lodge, or the borscht, and especially not the fresh bread. And River had doctored her ankle—Keely could even walk on it—so that made her feel a little like a wimp. Hello, she could do two full sets on five-inch spikes. Not a wimp.
Truth was, she’d simply been a little overcome by his concern for her, the fact that he’d stayed with her, even helped support her, despite his clear pain. And his soft, low words had only seeded a sort of grateful affection for him. “I will get you home, Keely.”
So yeah, a hero. But not enough to earn the soft, almost desperate “I believe you.”
Good grief. She pulled the pillow out and put it over her face. But that only conjured up the man sitting by the fire, his broad shoulders under that flannel shirt—she didn’t even like flannel. And his dark, nearly black hair, the brush of whiskers . . . he even smelled like smoldering flames.
Whatever. She threw the pillow away. It landed on the braided rug. Maybe she’d just been around too many guys more interested in their personal branding than . . .
Well, than rescuing a lost woman, despite a bum knee.
There was a story there, but clearly he didn’t want to tell it.
And maybe she didn’t want to know it—it was probably something heroic and sacrificial and . . . aw, she needed to escape Alaska at the first glimmer of light.
Maybe book an appointment with her therapist.
A knock sounded on her door. “It’s open.”
River stuck her head into the room. “Hey. I wanted to check on your ankle before you went to bed. Need any more snow?”
“It’s feeling better. What was it that you used?”
“Witch hazel for the swelling and ginger tea.” She came into the room and picked up the pillow, set it on the bed. “Is the room okay?”
“It’s perfect.”
“I know it’s small, but we don’t have a lot of guests. Sometimes kids sleep in here.” She sat on a chair made with skinned logs and a thick cushion, more of the same homemade type. “That’s a patchwork quilt. My mother made it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s made from scraps, but we never throw anything away here.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“I grew up here.” She folded her hands on her lap, took a breath. “But I did leave for a while, while I got my midwifery training.”
“You’re a midwife?”
“And an herbalist. My mom is too, so . . .” She looked out the window and suddenly . . . oh, wow . . . Keely got it.
“You recognize me.”
River suddenly wore a conspiratorial look, her eyes lighting up. “You’re Bliss.”
Keely sat up, barely missing the top bunk. “Yes. But . . . I was hoping that no one would recognize me. I . . .” She made a face. “I sort of snuck out of New York City.”
“Why are you in Alaska? I mean—like I know you took time off for your voice surgery, but that was six months ago . . .”
“Well, as you can hear, I’m still working on my voice.” She hated the weakness, the occasional raspy tenor when she got tired. And how she still had to strain to hit the high notes.
She’d started to wonder if it would ever come back fully.
River leaned back, held up her hand. “I’m sure it’ll come back. I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but . . . wow. It has to come back. I love your music. It’s . . .”
“Fun?”
“Yes. And romantic. And hopeful.” Her eyes were bright. “I got your first album—Heartstrings and High Notes—when I was fifteen. It was perfect. I was in love with one of the Benson brothers, and he’d just broken my heart, and you sang all the perfect words. Everything I was feeling.”
She was sweet. The kind of fan who she’d sung for, once upon a time. “I loved that album. I wrote every song.”
“It was perfect. Especially the one about him taking your heart—”
“‘Stolen Beats.’ ‘You took my heart with a smile—’”
“‘Oh, the game you played.’” River picked up the song. “‘Left me in the shadow, cold and gray.’ Oh, I played it over and over and cried and cried and cried.”
Keely drew in a breath. Oh, River had no idea. She’d done exactly the same thing. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“Oh no. It was a good cry. You put to words exactly what I was feeling. And, of course, he wasn’t my true love.”
“You’re married to that hunk who saved us out on the ice.”
River grinned, held up her hand. A small diamond, a simple gold band. “Griffin is amazing and perfect and . . . well, you wrote a song about that too.”
“‘Forever Found.’”
“We used the lyrics in our wedding.”
“What?”
“I know. Wild. But they were perfect. ‘In a world full of noise, your voice was a quiet call, through the crowd, through the chaos, you saw me through it all. Like a lighthouse in the storm, you were steadfast and tall. In your eyes, I found the place where I belong.’”
“When you say it, it sounds very romantic.”
“It is . . . especially when you sing it.” River met Keely’s eyes, leaned forward, pitched her voice low. “Are you still dating Chase?”
A beat. Wait—“Chase Sterling?”
“Yes. I thought—I mean, weren’t you together? You were in that movie, and you did that duet together—”
“Oh no. No. That was publicity. And we were promoting each other’s albums, and . . . no, trust me. Chase is not . . . not my type.”
River raised an eyebrow. “So who is your type?”
Keely looked away, swallowed. Closed her eyes.
“Wait. Are you with Dawson?”
She looked at River and managed a “Who?” It came out a little squeaky.
“Oh, I thought . . . you know, that guy you came in with today. You were talking to him earlier—”
“Right. The cop.” Oh, she could lie so easily it seemed. “Yeah, no. I’ve had my share of cops in my life. No thank you.” That, however, was the truth.
“Because of your dad.”
She stared at River, her eyes wide.
“From Pop Muse magazine. You did that interview a year or so ago. Talked about your mom’s death, and your dad—”
“Okay. Yes. I didn’t realize they were going to print all of that. But . . . okay, yes. Having a cop for a dad can be . . . well, let’s just say you never want to bring anyone home.” She grinned at River and winked.
Just like she would have done for Jimmy Fallon.
River bought it. “Yeah, I see that. I’m sorry about your mom, though.”
Oh. The words sideswiped her, and she looked away. Breathe. Breathe. Fallon, think Fallon. Showbiz.
She found herself and a smile. “She was my biggest fan. I’m sure she’s still cheering for me in heaven.” Then Keely leaned back on her hands. “But no cop for me. Besides, I don’t have room in my life for romance.”
River frowned. “What? But your songs are so romantic.”
Keely lifted a shoulder. “Romance is . . . a distraction.”
“Not true love. It’s the reason. Everything else is second.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“As true love?” River was spinning her ring. “I think so.”
Outside, a light flickered on around the barn, lighting up the snow. The blizzard shone in the glow, like stars in hyperspace, the sense of it almost magical. A postcard snapshot of a winter wonderland.
What was she doing here?
“I think we make choices,” Keely said, reaching for the pillow.
“And we live with them. Sometimes it turns out, sometimes it doesn’t.
” She sighed, even as River’s mouth opened.
“I know that doesn’t sound very romantic, and don’t tell anyone else, but not everyone is meant to find ‘The One’ and live happily ever after. ” She’d finger quoted The One.
Weirdly, her words sat in her chest, burned.
River sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is about choices. But . . .” She looked up. “But I believe that love, and a happy ending, is also a choice. And I think you do too.”
Keely frowned.
“‘We stood on the edge, where the shadows meet the light, promised each other to fight the good fight. Through storms and silence, through wrong and right, we’ll hold our ground, keep our dreams in sight.’” River cocked her head, crossed her arms.
“Fine. You got me.” Keely didn’t have the heart to tell her that she didn’t write that song.
That she hadn’t wanted it on her album.
But Goldie told her it would win hearts, sell millions, and every time she got up to sing it, she put on her showbiz face. And for two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, tried to believe it.
In truth, she hadn’t written her own songs in a couple years.
Four years, two months and six days, to be exact. Maybe she didn’t have any more authentic heart songs in her.
River got up. “I’m glad you’re here. And I promise, I’ll keep our secret.
” She headed for the door. “But, if you’re interested, that hot cop that practically carried you here is sort of a big deal.
My husband recognized him from our local paper.
He brought down a drug dealer and human trafficker in Anchorage a few months ago.
Got shot in the process too. So I know you’re leaving in a few days, but not every cop is like your dad. ”
The kind that would break your heart? Yeah, no. She wasn’t taking any chances.
“Good night, River. And thanks again.”
“Stay warm. If you need anything, Griffin is on night watch.” She paused at the door. “And your cop is next door.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not my cop.”
“Mm-hmm.” River shut the door.
Keely lay on the bed, staring at the top bunk. “I will get you home, Keely.”
She rolled over and pulled the pillow over her ear, closed her eyes. Not. Her. Cop.