Only this time we’re taking an even longer detour to get there.
And this time, we’ve got help.
Look.
I didn’t want to drag Gray and Leo and the rest of the so-called Heroes of Heart’s Edge into this—but they’ve brought their entire freaking caravan along to act as our cover.
Blake, Warren, and all their wives and kids. We make one hell of a picture in our pale-green bus with flowers painted down the sides like some kind of hippie nightmare.
All of us in thrift shop clothes that could either be recycled from the seventies or pose as part of the latest fashion craze that is, for some godforsaken reason, bringing high-waisted mom jeans back into style.
Either way, we don’t look like what we really are.
A mess of former military and corporate espionage specialists, smuggling two fugitives and former spies up north.
And that’s the whole point.
Part of this cockamamie scheme was making sure we didn’t take an obvious route or look like anything other than a grossly happy and very eccentric singing missionary group.
Alberta to Heart’s Edge is pretty roundabout, and then Heart’s Edge up through Vancouver, hugging the coast to Alaska in this old tank of a bus. We pretend we’re working our way from town to town doing charity work for room and board, making our journey even longer.
I’m going to stab someone if I have to listen to Ember and Peace with their permanent smiles singing one more time. I’m certain I would have by now, if I didn’t have Oliver here every time with a chuckle and a reassuring squeeze.
But one thing I’m glad for, I think, is that I get to see that little town one more time.
It’s got a special place in my heart—all stupid puns about Heart’s Edge aside.
I can’t even explain why.
So much tragedy happened there.
So much hell I had a hand in.
But it’s become a place for new beginnings.
All those broken boys found a fresh start there. A new life. A second chance at happiness, despite everything gone wrong in their lives—some of it my fault.
And even if my new beginning happened somewhere else, there’s a connection.
It feels like the roots of it grew in that messy, flower-strewn little town.
Gray was right, even if I hadn’t known it at the time.
We started this together.
And we’re finishing it together now.
Tonight, we’re camped a few miles outside Edmonton, living out of the bus that’s secretly retrofitted with several modern conveniences that’d be the envy of most RV nomads.
We’d spent the day doing soup kitchen work, filling our roles, playing at the missionaries even while Warren slipped away to talk to an old contact from his bounty hunting days—with a significant chunk of mine and Oliver’s disposable cash in his pocket.
As the darkness descended, we built a campfire against the cold and put the children to bed in the tiered bunks lining the walls of the bus. I can’t believe I found myself helping and liking it, but God…is forty-three really too old to conceive again?
Could Oliver and I try one more time?
Maybe when Mandolin comes to meet us, we could introduce her to her little brother or sister.
I’m still thinking about that as the entire gaggle of our bizarre extended “family” settles in folding chairs around the fire, little clusters of conversation sometimes turning into larger group chatter while beer cans pass around.
I’ve declined. I may know how to rough it, but I’m still a lady. Clearly, I’m not getting a proper wine until we’re settled again.
It’s nice out, though.
The scent of woodsmoke, the scent of snow, and Oliver’s chair a little closer to mine than the others. He settles in deep with a beer propped against his thigh, watching the sparks rise with a wonderfully content expression on his face.
But as Warren cracks a fresh beer in a snap and hiss of releasing pressure, he pulls two slim leather folders out from inside his thick coat and leans across the fire. He offers them to us, the firelight reflecting gold from blue eyes and an easy grin.
“Welcome to your new lives as Laura and Alan Wellburton,” he says. “My contact worked up an entire new background for you both. You’ve been married ten years, retired early due to some smart stock investments. Very reclusive, as most odd rich people are. You get a little eccentric and doddering with being bored and idle all the time. We imagine you’ll be adopting cats.”
“Not Baxter,” Gray interjects sharply. “Our daughter would be devastated to give her up.”
I wrinkle my nose at them both, sticking my tongue out, but accept the folders and pass one to Oliver, while I flick the other open, scanning the details.
“I hardly look like a Laura,” I say with a skeptical laugh. “You couldn’t come up with something more original?”
“Not if you want to keep low to the ground. Besides…” Warren smirks. “Awful hard to top Fuchsia.”