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Once inside the ski lodge, Lyn headed toward the employees’ lounge on the lower level when Becky’s strident shout ripped through her.
“Post his picture all around the resort so he can’t try to kidnap someone else.”
Fear slammed her chest like a concrete wall. Michael. Dear God, had someone tried to kidnap Michael?
In her heavy ski boots, running was impossible. Thanks to years of practiced experience, she flipped the buckles on both boots from calf to the top of her foot in one rapid motion. She pulled the shell apart and yanked her feet out one at a time. Abandoning the empty boots, Lyn raced in her stocking feet to the ski shop. Her thermal socks were soaked with muddy, melted snow by the time she hit the rear doorway. She didn’t care. At top speed, she zigzagged past the racks of rental skis and came to a dead stop at a cluster of slack-jawed employees.
“Michael!” she gasped. “Where’s Michael?”
“Right here, Aunt Lyn.” He stepped into her line of vision, clearly confused by all the chaos. He blinked several times—his eyes wide and teeth chewing his lower lip.
Lyn’s gaze veered from her nephew to her niece. In contrast to Michael’s puzzlement, Becky sported bright pink cheeks and a fighter’s stance. Her eyes, however, sat shielded behind heavy lids. She stood in the shop’s main entrance, hands fisted at her sides, chest heaving as if she’d just raced the giant slalom.
Beyond Becky, Ace Riordan loitered in the hall, the insipid grin he wore after every first-place finish splitting his cheeks. “Hey, Lyn,” he greeted her with a quick nod. “How’s it going? These two characters with you?”
“Ace.” Lyn slowly took in the scene, but she couldn’t figure out exactly what she’d walked into. “They’re my niece and nephew. What’s going on?”
“I’m clueless,” he drawled.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Becky exclaimed. “He was stalking my brother.”
Ace shot up his hands. “Whoa. No stalking. Honest. I found him outside the men’s room, and he looked totally lost. If you really cared so much, maybe you should have kept a closer watch on him instead of letting him wander around all alone.”
Becky, tears glistening in her eyes, turned to Lyn. “He was supposed to stay upstairs. I just went to the ladies room, Aunt Lyn. Honest. I came back, and he was gone.”
“You took too long,” Michael added. “And I had to go, too.”
“There was a long line,” Becky snapped. “You should’ve waited like I told you!”
With Becky’s attention placed squarely between Lyn and Michael, Ace stepped inside the ski shop. “I tried to help the kid, but he said he’s not allowed to go anywhere with strangers.” He bobbed his head in Michael’s direction. “He decided on his own to head to the ski shop. Said they’d page his aunt and his sister. Smart boy.”
Becky planted her hands on her hips. “So then, why were you following him?”
“To make sure no one else hassled him!”
“No one else,” Becky stressed. “Meaning you’d already hassled him.”
Lyn allowed her gaze to scour the room. All the employees in the ski shop seemed glued to the scene enfolding before them rather than returning to their work.
“Hold up,” she said to the three young people. “Let’s take this somewhere quieter, okay? Follow me.”
“But—” Becky began.
Lyn cut her off with a quick air karate chop.
In heavy silence, she led them back past the rental skis, through the rear door, and into the dim hallway where her boots still sat. Pausing only long enough to scoop them up, she strode along the cracked linoleum floor. The thump-thump of snowboard boots echoed from those who trailed behind her. She reached the entrance to the employee lounge and pushed the door open with a hint of caution.
Dark and empty.
Flipping on the lights, she ushered the rest of the players inside with a sweep of her hand. “Everybody take a seat.” She gestured to a long gray table surrounded by blue plastic chairs.
On the screech of metal on tile, the trio did as she asked. Lyn remained standing, establishing the position of power.
“Ace,” she said. “What are you doing in Vermont? Don’t you have a Canadian competition coming up?”
He stole a heated glance toward Becky, but his intensity dimmed as he looked up at Lyn. “I put the games on hold. I’ve got a friend in Ski-Hab.”
“Oh, right,” Lyn replied without thinking. “Mr. Sawyer.”
He arched a brow. “You met him?”
Funny. Ace sounded panicked at the idea.
“Why?” She cocked her head, studied him. “Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” His posture relaxed, and he stared at his fingernails. “How’s Doug doing?”
“Struggling.” Her mind flashed on the image of Mr. Sawyer flopping in the snow, followed by the anger in his eyes when he rose a second time. “But he’ll get the hang of it eventually, I’m sure. How do you know him?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
She quirked a brow. “I was assisting with his rehabilitation, not serving tea and chit-chat.”
Ace grinned, his teeth practically nuclear with their white glow. “Oh, well, he and I go way back. He helped me out with that little legal issue at the airport.”
“Yeah?” Becky’s sarcastic edge sliced into the conversation. “You harass kids in airports, too?”
Lyn’s focus shifted from Becky to Ace and back again. Sparks flew between these two brighter than fourth of July fireworks. Best to break this up before someone got hurt. Knowing each of the combatants as well as she did, Lyn considered them well-matched, but far too young to handle the heat they’d engender.
“Becs, I’ll deal with you a minute. You might want to save your arguments for our discussion.” She noted the beet-red color in Becky’s cheeks with satisfaction before she turned back to Ace. “As for you, your friend will be just fine without you staying here to monitor him. You’ve worked the program. You know we get results.”
“Yeah, okay.” Much to her relief, Ace glanced at his watch. “In fact, lessons should be just about over. I think I’ll go meet Doug in the training center. Have a little chat with my pal.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Lyn said evenly.
♥
INSIDE HIS SLOPESIDE condominium unit, Doug collapsed into a leather recliner with an icy beer and the television remote control. He clicked the on button and scanned through the available channels, finally settling on a local news program.
While the bland, blond meteorologist forecasted another perfect ski day for tomorrow, Ace, phone to his ear, called out from the kitchen area. “Mushroom and pepperoni okay with you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
After placing the order with the local pizzeria, Ace dropped the receiver on the table and bounced onto the couch next to Doug’s chair, propping his stocking feet on the coffee table. “It’ll be about an hour for delivery. Giorgio’s must be cranking tonight.”
“Whatever.” Exhaustion had a bigger claim on Doug than hunger.
He took a swig of the beer, let the cool liquid sluice down his parched throat. God, he ached everywhere. Even his missing arm felt battered and bruised from the exertion of the day. He’d strapped on his prosthesis when he’d reached the condo. Oh, sure. His nerves sent twinges from his shoulder to work his fake arm. Still, the pain he felt had nothing to do with impulses. Phantom pain, the medical team called the phenomenon. But there was nothing phantom about it. No doubt doctors came up with the term to discourage amputees from mourning their loss.
“So.” Ace pointed his amber bottle toward Doug. “How was your first actual day on the slopes? Anything interesting happen?”
“I got bruises on my butt.” Doug set his beer on the table beside him and leaned forward, his hand moving to the waistband of his pants. “Wanna see?”
Eyes wide with mock panic, Ace slid away to the farthest corner of the couch. “Dude. No. You are totally delusional. I’m talking about your rendezvous with your long-time sweetheart.”
With an easy grin, Doug picked up his beer. “What long-time sweetheart?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn Raine?” Doug laughed. “Oh, right. I’m delusional.” He tilted the bottle toward his mouth.
“No, seriously. I ran into her in the lodge. She said she worked with you today.”
The beer collided with a gasp of surprise in his throat, and Doug choked. “Brooklyn Raine?” he repeated on a rasp.
“Yeah. You met her, didn’t you? She said you were...” Ace pitched his voice higher. “...‘struggling, but he’ll eventually get the hang of it.’”
Doug’s mind scrambled to catch up with the conversation. When had Brooklyn Raine worked with him? He must have misunderstood. Either that, or the single beer had already gone to his head. “Let me get this straight. You ran into Brooklyn Raine. Here.”
Surely he would have recognized her. But the only people he’d worked with today were Kerri-Sue...
And the Coyote.
His stomach pitched as realization swirled his insides.
“Yes, Brooklyn Raine. Yes, here.” Ace cocked his head, peered at him through narrowed eyes. “Are you okay?”
Doug swallowed hard. “You mean the coyote Kerri-Sue claimed was a nice, friendly innkeeper named Lyn was Brooklyn Raine?”
Of course she was. Crazy as it might sound, the idea actually made sense when he considered the big picture.
“Coyote?” Ace sat up and slid his feet to the floor. “What coyote? What happened on the slopes today?”
Briefly, Doug explained about his run-in with the mystery skier named Lyn, leaving out, of course, that she’d shoved him back to the ground. His ego couldn’t take another blow today.
Ace grinned. “Yep. That definitely would have been Brooklyn. She’s the driving force behind the whole Ski-Hab program, though only the insiders know it.”
“Which explains why Kerri-Sue took direction from her,” Doug concluded. “But what I don’t understand is why Kerri-Sue denied knowing who Brooklyn was in the first place.”
Ace’s face blanked. “Huh?”
“Remember? This morning? When you went into your diatribe about snowboarders getting no respect?”
“Oh, right.” Ace took a long sip of beer, swallowed. “They’re all like that around here. The town makes sure no one knows who Lyn is... or, technically, I guess, was. You ask anybody in this whole state, they’ve never heard of Brooklyn Raine. Lyn Hill, on the other hand, is the sweet little lady who runs Snowed Inn, a quaint bed and breakfast on the outskirts of town. Which reminds me. I probably should have warned you. Lyn has no clue about how you came to be injured or what you used to do before...” He gestured to Doug’s right shoulder. “...you know.”
“Before I lost my arm.” Doug stared out the window at the lavender twilight sky and the dark mountains carved with silver slopes. Up behind a copse of trees, the headlights of a Sno-Cat gleamed, the machine packing down powder for tomorrow’s skiers.
Brooklyn Raine was Lyn Hill. Inn proprietor and driving force behind Ski-Hab. The Spidey-sense that had tingled all day intensified to an electric jolt.
“Tell me about Brooklyn Raine or Lyn Hill, or whatever she calls herself these days. Why does everyone protect her? And how did she get involved in Ski-Hab?”
“The reason everyone around here protects her is because Lyn wants to permanently put her celebrity behind her. She hasn’t been in the spotlight in years. She despises the press and won’t talk to any reporters.”
The thought erupted from Doug’s lips before his brain fully considered it. “I bet she’d talk to me.”
Ace leaned forward, slamming his empty beer bottle on the coffee table. “Dude. Are you listening to me? If Lyn finds out you’re a reporter, she’ll not only refuse to talk to you, but she’ll also bounce you out of Ski-Hab so fast, your butt will look like raw burger meat.”
He brushed off the threat easily. The man who’d finagled interviews with imprisoned boxers, ‘roid-raging wrestlers, and quarterbacks who’d just lost the Super Bowl would never be intimidated by an innkeeper. Even an innkeeper who’d dared to knock him to the ground.
“Okay.” Doug kept his tone deceptively banal. “But if Brooklyn doesn’t know about my trip to Afghanistan, how does she think I was injured?”
Ace shook his head. “I don’t think she has any idea. Rich Armstrong, the acting director, said he would keep the deets as simple as possible. You’re a civilian. You were wounded in an accident, and you were referred here by me.”
He digested this information carefully, allowed his brain to play with different scenarios. Oh, yeah. He could definitely parlay this situation into a public-interest piece. “Who knows the truth about how I came to be here?”
“You, me, and Rich Armstrong.”
“That’s it?” Doug pressed. “No one else?”
Ace’s brow furrowed. “Like who?”
“Like Kerri-Sue?”
“Nope.” Ace paused, rubbed the scruff on his chin, and then shook his head again, this time with more force. “No way. You think she would have walked away from your run-in with Lyn today if she knew? I’ll bet Kerri-Sue did a little secret freak when Lyn cornered you. You have to understand. Lyn stays in the background, like a shadow. She doesn’t usually get involved for fear of recognition.”
“So, why’d she interfere with me today?”
“Beats me.” As if to emphasize his confusion, Ace shrugged half-heartedly.
“All the more reason why I need to talk to her again,” Doug replied. “All day long, I’ve been thinking there’s a great story here. And you just helped me find it.”
“Whoa.” Ace held up a hand. “You said you weren’t interested in doing a story here because it had already been done.”
“The story of Ski-Hab was already done.”
For the first time in months, Doug felt excitement tingle through his veins. No way would he give up this euphoria. Right arm or no right arm. He was a reporter. And in Brooklyn Raine, he sensed the story that could reignite his career.
“There hasn’t been any information about Brooklyn Raine in nearly ten years,” he said aloud while his brain continued to play with the whys and wherefores. “Where she’s been, what she’s done, and her involvement in the Ski-Hab program. People would love to know this stuff. Throw in the stories of the soldiers she’s helped, and it’s a goldmine of human interest.”
His comeback article. He might even include his own journey—a little behind-the-scenes with an actual participant of Ski-Hab. His editor would salivate when he found out.
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Ace said solemnly. “You’re retired.”
“Maybe I am.” He drummed his fingers against his empty beer bottle. “Then again, maybe I’m not.”
“I told you, man. If Lyn finds out you’re a reporter—”
“Yeah, I know. But she has no idea how I was injured, right? I could be anyone: a farmer injured in a combine accident, the victim of a shark attack, or maybe I’m suffering from some bizarre flesh-eating disease.”
Ace frowned. “In other words, you’re gonna lie to her.”
“You lied to her.”
“A., no I didn’t,” Ace retorted. “What Rich chose to tell her about you is between the two of them. In the lodge this afternoon, she asked how I knew you. I told her you helped me out of that jam at JFK. That was it. She didn’t ask for anything more, and I didn’t elaborate.”
Doug snorted. “Semantics. You didn’t lie, per se. You just omitted most of the truth.”
“And B.,” Ace continued, pointedly ignoring Doug’s comment, “I don’t have a reputation as a journalist with pristine ethics, like someone else in this room.”
“Come off it, Ace. Because of my ‘pristine ethics,’ I’m not gonna do a hatchet job on the poor woman. I promise. She’ll be extremely happy with the publicity she gets. I’ll write her up as the patron saint of the ski world. I won’t even mention how she shoved me to the ground to prove a point.”
“Wow.” Sarcasm dripped like acid from the single word. “You really don’t get it. To Lyn, no publicity is good publicity. She’s got a real phobia about being recognized.”
“Gimme a break. She practically grew up in the spotlight. She and Cheviot got engaged at Disney World, for God’s sake, complete with a starring role in the Electric Parade. Now all of a sudden, she wants anonymity?”
“It’s not ‘all of a sudden.’ She’s been hiding from the world ever since her husband died.”
“Too bad. The price of fame and fortune is to have to live in the spotlight, whether you want to or not.”
Ace shook his head. “Leave me out of this, dude. You wanna sell your soul for a story—”
“No.” Sell his soul? Hardly. He was trying to regain his passion. Why couldn’t Ace see that? “You don’t get it.”
“You got that right. And what’s more, I don’t want it. I don’t want any part of this.”
“Ace...” Doug inhaled deeply. “I need this story. For the first time in months, I’m jonesing to write. I’m even willing to use this.” He hefted his prosthetic arm. “If I have to. Or I’ll check out that voice-activated software Dr. Spencer’s been touting. This story could completely renew my life!”
“Yeah,” Ace said blandly as he rose from the couch. “And destroy someone else’s life in the process. Sorry, Doug. But I’m outta here.”
Seconds later, the door to Doug’s condo opened, then closed again on Ace’s exit.