| |
Michael had disappeared.
Becky stood near their empty table in the lodge and swore softly. She’d told him to stay put while she took a quick trip to the ladies room downstairs. But did he listen to her? Of course not.
Around her, groups of people milled, packing up gear, drying wet garments on the coin-operated boot warmers, and making plans for the evening. Kids shouted for one last cup of hot cocoa before the employees closed down the cafeteria area.
But not Michael.
She peered through the scratchy window of what passed as the resort’s arcade room, with its ancient pinball machine and lone combination Pac-Man/Ms. Pac-Man/Tetris game.
No Michael.
Okay, don’t panic. He’s done this before.
On deep, calming inhales, she noted her brother’s gloves neatly framing his empty cocoa cup. His jacket, helmet and goggles lay on the orange Formica windowsill overlooking the outdoor deck. Which meant he hadn’t gone outside.
A lot of people mistook Michael’s disability for stupidity. But children with Down Syndrome weren’t stupid. Most of them were simply slower to develop than other children their age. In a nutshell, they had the sense to come in out of the rain—or snow, in this case. No way Michael would have wandered outside without his coat and gloves. The kid was too smart for that.
So where would he have gone? To look for Aunt Lyn? Maybe. But if he’d wanted to find their aunt, he knew how to notify her. All ski lifts had phones in the booths at the top and bottom of the hills. Chalkboards outside were used to alert skiers to possible emergencies such as lost children, lift closures, or sudden incoming storms.
Becky’s first stop, then, should be the information desk. She trudged over to the dim alcove beside the game room, her boots heavy as lead on her feet. The woman in the traditional Mount Elsie uniform of burgundy and gold shirt with burgundy pants currently helped a man wearing a—holy crap, a full-length silver fur coat!
From the snippets of overheard conversation, she concluded he wanted to change his one-day lift ticket into a multi-day.
On a deep sigh, Becky shifted her weight to one hip and rubbed the tight knot in her thigh. God, how her legs cramped! Unlike Aunt Lyn, she didn’t spend every frosty day conquering the slopes. And now she paid the price for too much time playing that stupid match game on her phone instead of getting a little more physical exercise. Evie, her track-star dorm mate would totally freak out seeing her now. Oh, sure, they got along okay on most things, but Evie was constantly hassling her to go out and take a walk, stretch her legs, get her heartrate up. For Christmas, Evie had bought her one of those watches that track her steps—Becky left it in the box, unworn.
Once she got back to the inn this afternoon, she’d head straight outside for a soak in the hot tub to ease her sore muscles. Tomorrow, she’d at least stretch before coming here. Of course, first, she had to figure out where her brother had wandered off to.
While she waited her turn in line, she studied the counter littered with colorful pamphlets for local inns, hotels, and restaurants. Corkboard walls held push-pinned photos of gorgeous tree-enclosed ski chalets available for weekly or monthly rental, advertisements for horse-drawn sleigh or dogsled rides, a giant trail map, and postcards of the nearby mountain vistas. In a corner behind the counter stood a milk crate overflowing with scarves, hats, and single gloves, marked “Lost and Found.”
Well, at least she’d come to the right place.
“What do you mean you’ll only credit me eighty percent?” The man in the fur coat clamped his fingers onto the edge of the counter and leaned forward, his bald head jutting out like a cannonball from his neck.
The woman behind the counter—Jill, according to her burgundy and gold nametag—went into her company policy script. A needle of sympathy stabbed Becky’s nerve endings. Three years of retail customer service experience gave her a pretty good inkling what Jill would have liked to say instead of the blah-blah-blah management forced her to spew. Any guy wearing a full-length fur coat certainly wouldn’t starve over the twenty-dollar difference.
“I want to see a manager,” the man insisted.
Naturally. Right on cue. Because she was in a rush.
Despite the cramps and exhaustion creeping up her legs, she stamped her foot—not hard, but apparently loud enough for the two people at the information counter to hear and swerve their attention her way.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
An icy glare from Mr. Fur Coat later, Jill picked up the intercom to page the lodge manager. Becky stifled another sigh. If she planned to find Michael before spring, she’d be better off without any help from the information booth.
Turning, she opted to ask the staff members who currently cleaned and scrubbed the lunch tables. Unfortunately, after stopping every pimple-faced mountain geek in range—and surviving the pungent odor of stale French fries they seemed to wear like expensive cologne—Becky still remained clueless.
No one remembered seeing Michael. No surprise, really. With the crowds inside this place, who would remember one insignificant kid in a navy-blue turtleneck and black ski pants?
Another quick glance at the info counter where the guy in the fur coat still fumed and shouted about his lousy twenty bucks. Shoot. Aunt Lyn would be back any minute. If she didn’t find Michael soon, she’d have to call Mr. Armstrong to put out an APB. And then Aunt Lyn would freak. The minute they got home, she’d tell Mom. And Jeff. Becky shivered.
Jeff already thought she was a screw-up. Not that he ever came right out and said anything. Oh, no. He was far too professional for that. But every time she did something he didn’t like, he got this look on his face, like he’d just swallowed drain cleaner.
Like earlier, when she’d asked Aunt Lyn what there was to do around here. It was supposed to be a joke. Everybody should have known she was kidding. They’d come up here every winter for the last five years. She knew what there was to do here.
But Jeff had leaped all over her with his, “Guess again,” and she wound up apologizing like a four-year-old. Over a joke!
Now, if her soon-to-be-stepfather found out Michael had wandered off on her watch, she’d be branded a loser for all time.
She drew in a deep breath. Okay. He hadn’t gone outside. And he wasn’t in the lunchroom. The only other nearby area was the bar. Yeah, right. Totally doubtful.
The locker room? With his gear still here? Nope. Not likely.
Downstairs? A good possibility. Between the ski store with its varied array of snow toys and the restrooms, there were plenty of reasons for Michael to head downstairs. Since she’d expected him to wait up here, she could have easily walked right past him on the lower level and never noticed.
Time for a quick u-turn. With silent pleas that she’d find him below, Becky gripped the wooden rail and clumsily thumped down the stairs. Three steps from the bottom, she stopped and scanned the numerous heads of the people milling around the lower floor. Snippets from a hundred different conversations echoed in the beige-bricked hall. A quick glance over the people seated on the scarred wooden benches on either side of the staircase brought no relief.
Please, Michael. Please be here somewhere.
And suddenly, there he was—not on a bench, but walking in the crowd. His pale face and red eyes glowed ghostly beneath the overhead florescent lights. Guilt pounded her conscience like a jackhammer. He looked scared to death.
Your fault, the hammer drummed. Your fault, your fault, your fault...
She raised a hand, but before she could gain his attention, Michael turned to look behind him. She tracked his gaze and spotted a guy pushing his way through the clusters of people, intent on, in Becky’s opinion, keeping Michael in his sights.
Who was that creep? Familiarity tickled her memory. She’d seen him somewhere before; she was almost positive. She narrowed her eyes and stared harder at the approaching blond man. Where had she seen his face?
Probably on one of those true crime programs Evie was obsessed with.
She veered her attention back to Michael in time to catch him ducking into the ski shop on his right.
Good boy. Stay with the ski staff. I’ll take care of your stalker.
With heavy thumps, Becky descended the last steps and plodded to the store’s entrance. She hit the door jamb a boot step before her target.
“Hold it right there, perv,” she shouted. With her arms spread so her fingers could clutch either side of the doorway, she blocked him from moving past her. “That’s my brother you’re stalking, so back off. Now.”
To her surprise, he burst out laughing. “That’s a new one.” He took a step closer.
“I mean it. Back off.” Arms still creating a barrier, Becky shouted over her shoulder, “Somebody call the cops.”
People inside and outside the shop stopped in mid-conversation to stare at Becky, the stranger, and Michael. A murmur of interest rippled through the crowd.
“Becky!” Michael exclaimed. “Stop! You’re embarrassing me.”
“You think I care?” she demanded, her iciest stare fixed on the cretin, who seemed more amused than intimidated.
His lake blue eyes twinkled with some secret, which really stiffened her spine. He was younger than she’d originally assumed. Older than her, but definitely under thirty. His scruffy jaw flexed as he tossed his shoulder-length golden hair with a graceful flick of his hand. Her heart went into overdrive. God, what a shame. He could have been a real hottie if he hadn’t turned out to be such a creep.
Belying the tingles of attraction warming her insides, she turned to the dozens of people watching the drama unfold. “Take a good look at this guy,” she announced loudly. “Post his picture all around the resort so he can’t try to kidnap someone else.”
“My picture’s already plastered all over the resort,” he replied, his voice melodious in its velvet tones.
His self-deprecating grin rekindled a spark of memory inside her brain. Was it true? Did he really have his image tacked up all over Mount Elsie? Why else would he look so familiar to her?
The guy held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m Ace Riordan. You know. The Aerial Snowball?”
Ace Riordan. Oh, my God. Fire bloomed in her face up to her hairline.
Pass the butter. I’m toast.
♥
THOUGHTS OF HOMICIDE sizzled through Doug’s brain as he stared up at the villainess intent on torturing him. He’d never hit a female, had never before been tempted. Until now. Lucky for the woman standing over him, Violet Sawyer had raised a gentleman. This Lyn character must have been raised by wolves.
“Well, Mr. Sawyer?” Her soft voice contradicted any lupine characteristics. “Shall we make a mogul out of you? Or do you think you can get up on your own?”
A mogul? The skier’s version of a speed bump?
“Come on, now. Children learn how to ski with no poles at all. When they fall, they don’t have anything else but their body strength to get back on their feet. Surely, a grown man fit as you seem to be wouldn’t want to be bested by a bunch of toddlers.”
Forget wolf. This woman was pure coyote. He glanced around the mountain. Why didn’t any of the instructors come to his aid? Maybe wave their arms wildly to chase her out of here? Set some kind of trap for her?
Well, if no one else would engage in this battle, he’d have to take care of himself. But first, he wanted to get up and face her on an even keel. Once again, he flipped to his left side, set his skis across the incline, and slammed his pole into the ground to support him. He struggled but managed to rise with a little more ease than he had on his first attempt.
Targeting her with a gaze hot enough to melt all the snow within five square miles, he faced his adversary. She was petite, a full foot or shorter than his own six-foot-three-inch frame. And he outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. Her face, from the bridge of the nose up, sat hidden behind a black helmet and pink-tinted goggles.
She grinned—blinding, sweet, joyous—and words flew from his head like birds around a cartoon cat hit by a sledgehammer.
“Congratulations, Mr. Sawyer. You’ve conquered the highest peak you’ll have to face. Mount Self-Pity. Now, go join your comrades. Good luck to you.”
Picking up her poles, she pushed off on the schuss-schuss-schuss of skis on flat terrain.
Surprise left him slack-jawed. He stood alone, watching the woman glide toward the lodge area. When she reached the outdoor deck, she stepped out of her skis, locked them on a rack, and climbed the stairs.
“Doug?” Kerri-Sue’s voice came from beside him. Somehow, she’d slipped close while he’d watched his adversary ski away. “You ready for another run?”
His focus, however, still remained glued to the place where the mystery skier had disappeared. “Who was that?”
Kerri-Sue turned toward the lodge, then back to Doug with a careless shrug. “Lyn? She’s just one of the locals. Owns a bed and breakfast in town.”
He arched a brow. “And you take direction from the local innkeeper?”
“Huh?” Her expression blanked.
“The minute she showed up and said something, you took off, leaving me to deal with her on my own. Why? Are you afraid of her? Should I be?”
She laughed, but there seemed to be no true amusement in the sound. “Of course not. Lyn wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Uh-huh. So, her shoving me to the ground after I struggled to get to my feet is normal? She gets to do that to all the Ski-Hab participants? Like some kind of tough love part of our rehabilitation?”
Her expression grew solemn. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll talk to Richie. We’ll make sure she doesn’t ever come near here again. Come on.” With a wave of her ski pole, she indicated the lift where a dozen people milled about. “The rest of the team is waiting.”
After fifteen years as a reporter, Doug knew a brush-off when he heard one. Once again, a tingle rippled through him, his Spidey sense suspecting a deeper, much more interesting story. And once again, he squelched the instinct to press for details. Those adrenaline-crazed days of chasing down leads—racing from airport to airport, standing in feverish crowds where the frenzy grew contagious—were long gone. Armless reporters need not apply.
He shook off the self-pity. In that respect, The Coyote was absolutely right. If he had any intention of regaining a shadow of the man he’d been before Afghanistan, he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself. His gaze studied the group near the lift.
Among the students sharing Doug’s class was a female lance corporal who’d lost both hands thanks to third degree burns from an IED. Her fiancé had told her he didn’t care if she could carry a bouquet at their wedding. He planned to marry her, not her hands. But that wasn’t good enough for a woman who’d climbed so high in the USMC before the age of twenty-three. With eight months until her Big Day, she’d enrolled in Ski-Hab to master every skill that came naturally to any two-handed woman, from holding a bouquet to cooking a five-course-meal, to cradling an infant.
A nineteen-year-old lost his right arm to a lucky shot that penetrated his body armor. Nineteen. Cripes. When Doug was nineteen, the biggest tragedy facing him had been whether he’d pass his English Lit class. After Ski-Hab, this kid planned to attend law school. His dream was to become an attorney specializing in special needs cases.
If his classmates, despite their youth and the horrors they’d seen, could overcome their adversities, Doug refused to surrender to any weakness of his own.
“I’m ready,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go.”
One quick push sent him gliding towards the Marines and their instructors.
“Hey, who was that?” PFC Logan Randall—future lawyer—pointed in the direction The Coyote had skied.
“I have no idea,” Doug grumbled.
“Yeah?” Lance Corporal Chrissy Scott—future bride—replied. “If that’s how a total stranger treats you, I’d hate to spend Christmas at your house.”
“Well, then I’ll scratch your name off the guest list.” He scanned the curious stares facing him, and discomfort itched beneath his collar. “Are we gonna ski or what?”
“We’re gonna ski!” Sergeant Ramon Henriquez announced.
On boisterous cheers, the Marines lined up, Doug somewhere in the middle, and prepared to conquer Snow Wonder and its J-bar ski lift one more time.