Footprints in the Snow

by Cassie Miles

  This was just typical of her luck. She finally let down her guard and allowed herself to experience the fantasy of the moment, and the guy was certifiably insane.

  She pushed aside the K rations. That was another 1945 term—K ration instead of MRE. Did he really believe it was over sixty years ago?

  Did it matter if he did? His message was pretty darn clear. He was done with her. Well, fine. She was done with him, too. No way was she going to wait around in this dinky little cabin for him to come back. Shana could find her own way back to the ski trails and the parking lot where she’d left her rental car.

  When she crawled out of the bed, it felt as if every muscle in her body had been strained. A gigantic purple bruise decorated her thigh. She stretched and took a couple of cleansing breaths, hoping to move beyond the pain.

  While she dressed, she forced down another cup of coffee, more water and another few bites of the disgusting K ration food substitute. What a lousy way to start her time in Colorado!

  Even though Luke had been utterly obnoxious, she probably ought to leave him a note, explaining that she’d decided not to stick around. As she poked around on the table looking for a paper and pencil, she found a black-and-white photograph of a young kid with curly hair. Luke’s son? On the back of the picture was a note written in fountain pen. “Roberto. Christmas, 1944.”

  The edges of the photo were frayed, indicating that it had been handled a lot. Carefully, Shana returned the picture to the table.

  In her pack, she found a confirmation for her hotel room and scribbled a note on the back.

  Thanks for saving my life. Going to town.

  Goodbye forever, Shana.

  Before leaving, she glanced around the cabin. So much for windswept fantasies. It was time to get back to the real world. She grabbed her skis and trudged out the door.

  As if to compensate for her dark mood, the weather was spectacular. Brilliant sunlight illuminated clear blue skies and sparkled like diamonds on the new-fallen snow that decorated the pine trees surrounding the forest. Yesterday’s blizzard was already beginning to melt.

  She shoved her boots into the bindings and fastened the tethers. Her first gliding step was agony. When she got back to the hotel in Leadville, Shana intended to spend the rest of the day soaking in the tub, healing her physical wounds.

  She followed the tracks of Luke’s skis through the forest. The more she moved, the more her muscles loosened up. Except for the bruise on her hip and the remnant of a headache, she was okay. Slowly, she made her way through the forest to an open slope that seemed familiar. Was this where she’d fallen yesterday?

  Though she wasn’t sure which direction led back to the marked cross-country ski trails, she figured that if she kept heading downhill, she’d eventually find her way. She’d barely eased the tip of her ski onto the slope when she heard a gunshot.

  Startled, she pulled back and hid in the trees. Why would anybody be shooting up here? It wasn’t hunting season. She thought of Luke and his rifle. He’d claimed to be doing guard duty on a government project. War games? Glancing back over her shoulder, she thought of returning to the cabin and barring the door. Then she saw them.

  About twenty yards downhill, two men dressed in black skied across the slope, moving fast and ducking down. One of them turned and fired wildly with a handgun.

  Shana ducked. This was crazy. His bullet could have gone anywhere.

  Luke appeared. Clad in his all-white parka and ski pants, he was camouflaged against the glittering white snow, but nothing could hide his skill and dexterity on his long, wood skis. He moved fast, bursting out of the forest and onto the open slope. Halfway across, he swooshed to a halt, sending up a spray of powder snow. He dropped to one knee. With one smooth move, he flipped his Garand rifle from a sheath on his back into his gloved hands. Sighting down the barrel, he fired. Once. Then again.

  One of the men Luke had been pursuing gave a pained shout. He was hit, but he didn’t go down. He and his partner disappeared into the trees on the opposite side of the slope.

  Luke set off in single-minded pursuit.

  Shana couldn’t believe what she was seeing, but she was dead certain that she wanted no part of this violence. What she needed was to get the hell away from here.

  Desperately, she edged uphill, away from the fight. As she crested the slope, she found herself looking down into a wide valley. There were over a hundred rectangular barracks arranged in neat rows—housing for ten thousand men.

  Smoke rose from some of the chimneys, and she saw a soldier leading a mule across the hard-packed snow. An old army jeep chugged on a snow-covered roadway in front of a large two-story house with two separate wings. There was a mess hall. Other administrative buildings. A barn.

  This was Camp Hale. From 1945.

  Chapter Three

  This huge army base hadn’t been here yesterday. It hadn’t been here for the past fifty years. It didn’t exist anymore.

  Shana blinked furiously, hoping to erase the visual evidence. When she stared down the slope, nothing had changed. Camp Hale spread out before her like a black-and-white photograph come to life. Apparently, Luke wasn’t crazy. She was.

  Her mind searched for a logical explanation.

  Possibly, the site had been recreated as a historical place. With all those barracks? Housing for ten thousand troops? The cost of running the base would be too high.

  If someone had rebuilt Camp Hale, they had to have a lot of cash. A movie? That made more sense. Hollywood people might be extravagant enough to reconstruct the base to make a movie about the legendary 10th Mountain Division.

  But when she peered down toward the camp, she saw nothing resembling the lights and cameras needed by a movie crew. Instead of a movie crew led by Steven Spielberg, there were soldiers in fatigues. The only vehicles were vintage army jeeps. And mules.

  More gunfire echoed behind her, and she startled. The obvious escape led straight down the hill into the camp, but she didn’t want to go there. Once she entered that 1945 world, she might never be able to return to her own time, her own millennium. She didn’t want to be swallowed up by the past.

  This vision had to be an illusion, an aftereffect of altitude sickness. Luke had told her it was 1945. His suggestion must have triggered this fantasy from the photographs she’d seen in Leadville.

  A fantasy? That wasn’t the way her mind worked. Shana was a scientist. Her life was based on rock-solid facts and rational analysis. She didn’t believe in fairy tales and had very little need for imagination. Last night with Luke was the closest she’d ever come to a fantasy.

  Did their kiss even happen? Or was that a part of this winter mirage? Think, Shana. Somehow this had to make sense. Maybe she’d died on the slopes and Camp Hale was limbo. She wasn’t someone who…traveled backward through time.

  This wasn’t happening; she refused to accept Camp Hale no matter how real it looked. The impor tant thing was to find her way back to reality. Forcing her legs to move, she turned away from the encampment. Ignore it. Pretend that you never saw Camp Hale. Ski back to the rental car, back to Leadville.

  “Halt,” came a shout from down the hill.

  Two men—dressed like Luke in all-white snow gear—charged up the slope toward her. Their movements seemed labored; neither of them were as proficient on skis as Luke. While one man continued to approach, the other dropped to one knee and leveled a rifle at her chest.

  “Raise your hands above your head.”

  Shana did as she was told. Even in an imaginary world, she had no desire to be shot.

  “You’re a girl,” said the guy who reached her first. He turned and waved to his partner. “Lower your weapon.”

  He did as ordered and came toward them.

  The first man asked, “What the hell are you doing up here, girlie?”

  Though her mouth was dry, Shana forced words past her lips. “I’m with Luke. Luke Rawlins.”

  “No kidding?” He turned back to his partne
r again. “She says she’s with Sergeant Rawlins.”

  The second man joined them. When he pushed back the fur-lined hood of his parka, she was surprised to see how young he looked. This tall, lanky kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He frowned at her. “I don’t believe it. The sergeant isn’t a womanizer, and he knows better than to bring a girl up here.”

  “She could be a spy. Take a look at her skis. I’ve never seen anything like those before. They’re made out of plastic.”

  “Fiberglass,” Shana said. She’d spent enough time on drilling sites to know how to deal with men who didn’t trust her opinions and skills. It was important to immediately establish that she wasn’t a brainless twit. She kept her voice calm. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything, gentlemen. May I lower my hands?”

  “Not yet,” said the young guy. He came close and patted her down in a clumsy frisk. “Take off that knapsack and hand it to me.”

  She obeyed his order and watched as the two of them pawed through the contents of her pack. The younger man flipped open her wallet. “International Driver’s License,” he said accusingly. “Your name is Shana Parisi?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Private First Class Henry Harrison.”

  She turned to the other man. “And you?”

  “I don’t have to tell you my name.”

  He pushed back his hood, revealing black hair in a bowl cut like one of the Three Stooges. She decided to think of him as Moe. He took the wallet from Henry and studied her license. “Parisi, huh? Are you Italian?”

  “My grandparents were from Italy. Naples.”

  “The land of Mussolini.”

  Moe and Henry exchanged a meaningful glance and nodded. The land of Mussolini? Oh, please. Anger surged through her veins. “I’m not a spy.”

  “Then what are you?” Moe demanded. “You’re not one of those Mafiosos, are you? A girlfriend of Al Capone?”

  Could he possibly be more stereotypical and insulting? Obviously, “political correctness” had not been part of the vocabulary in 1945. “Not all Italians are part of the Mafia.”

  Young Henry thrust her cell phone toward her. “What’s this thing?”

  “A telephone. It’s not working right now.”

  “That’s a load of malarkey.” He gave a snort. “A telephone without wires. Like a walkie-talkie. This looks like spy equipment to me.”

  Moe snapped her wallet closed. “This license is a bad forgery. They got your birthday wrong. Says here that you were born in 1974. That’s almost thirty years from now.”

  Because it’s 1945. That idea was beginning to sink into her consciousness. These two men—Henry and Moe—were clearly from a bygone era.

  “You got one more chance,” Moe said, “And you better be telling me God’s own truth. Why are you here in this restricted area?”

  “If you talk to Luke,” she said, “he can explain.”

  Moe scowled as he shoved her belongings into her backpack and tossed it toward her. “We’ll take her to Luke,” he said as if it was his very own idea. “Come on, Henry. Let’s escort Miss Parisi into camp.”

  FRUSTRATION BOILED in Luke’s blood. The men he’d been chasing had gotten away clean. He’d failed in his pursuit.

  When he’d spotted them, they were peering down at Camp Hale with binoculars. They fled when he approached, then opened fire with their handguns. Luke was sure he’d winged one of them before they skied out of range and hopped into a waiting vehicle. He should have had them, should have aimed more carefully, should have skied faster.

  Though Captain Hughes hadn’t reprimanded him, Luke knew he’d screwed up a simple mission of protecting the perimeters at Camp Hale. After his years of training in mountain combat, he should have been more effective.

  And now, he had Shana to deal with.

  He stormed into the vacant office where she was being held. Closing the door behind him, he said, “I told you to wait for me at the cabin.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Maybe you should. You’re in serious trouble, lady.”

  As she stood and faced him, he realized that this was the first time he’d seen her fully dressed and in control. She was impressive, very composed. Her confidence was high, and her bearing reminded him of the lady officers in the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps.

  With her thick black hair tamed in a knot at the nape of her neck and her maroon turtleneck tucked neatly into her black ski pants, she looked nothing like the passionate woman from last night…until she smiled with those full, ripe, kissable lips.

  Calmly, she said, “I might have stayed in the cabin if you’d told me there were gunmen wandering the slopes. Or that I might be in danger.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “You should have explained.”

  She was right. He should have taken the time this morning to tell her that Camp Hale was heavily guarded while the scientists from Project Y were on the premises. Instead, he’d allowed his emotions to overrule his common sense.

  When he woke up this morning and realized that he’d rescued such a beautiful woman, something inside him shifted. Their kiss reminded him that he was still alive, still capable of passion. Still a man.

  He hadn’t felt that way since his tour of duty in Italy when he saw the devastation of battle firsthand. Small villages shattered under the boot heel of war. Families torn asunder. The suffering. The pain.

  Luke was a soldier; his duty was to follow orders. But the first time he’d looked into the eyes of a German soldier and pulled the trigger, the first time he saw a man die, he was changed. He’d gone numb inside. Become a hollow man.

  Roberto had given him a reason to hope, but he had to leave the boy behind. The emptiness consumed him. He’d felt nothing until last night with Shana. This morning, he should have been thanking her instead of running away in confusion.

  She cocked her head and looked up at him. “Why do your men think I’m a spy?”

  “Are you?”

  Her beautiful brown eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Of course not.”

  He shrugged. “If you were a spy, you wouldn’t tell me.”

  Henry and Martin were convinced that she was Mata Hari. They’d waved her International Driver’s License in front of his face, pointed to her weird fiberglass skis and the little mechanical device she claimed was a telephone. However, Henry and Martin were idiots. Luke didn’t put much stock in their opinion.

  He has suspicions of his own. Yesterday, she’d appeared out of nowhere. Last night, she attempted to seduce him. “You’re pretty enough to be a spy.”

  “Give me a break.” She scowled. “I work for AMVOX Oil. I’m a geologist. Remember?”

  Though he didn’t want to believe that she was spying, her profession dovetailed with the work of the government scientists he was here to protect. It would be a hell of a thing if she turned out to be the enemy. “We’ve had intruders in the vicinity. I don’t suppose you were up here with anyone else.”

  “I saw you chasing two men. Shooting at them.” She shook her head. “I have nothing to do with them.”

  Her beautiful dark eyes regarded him steadily and seriously. If she was lying, she was damn good at it. “I have to detain you, Shana. It’s procedure. You’ll have to stay here until we check out your background.”

  “That doesn’t work for me. My project in Rifle starts in five days. I need to be there.”

  “This won’t take long,” he promised. “Just give me the name of someone I can call, someone who can verify that you’re an innocent geologist on a ski trip.”

  “There isn’t anyone I can call.” Before his eyes, her composure crumbled. Her gaze dropped to the floor and stuck there. “I don’t know anybody.”

  “Your supervisor,” he suggested. “Or a family member.”

  “There’s no one.” She sank into the hard-backed chair beside the cleared desk, doubled over and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t
think.”

  The enormity of her situation weighed on her shoulders like a ten-ton boulder. How could she explain? Of course, Shana knew people, important people. Her father was a career diplomat with connections in high places. She knew the CEO for AMVOX. But none of those people were available. In 1945, her father would have been two years old.

  She looked up at Luke. He leaned his hip against the wooden desk in this plain square office that was cleared of all paperwork. His arms folded across his chest. He’d been right when he said she was in serious trouble.

  She was stranded here. Without a bank account. Neither her credit cards nor her ATM card would work. She was homeless, completely without resources.

  “I don’t have anyone I can contact.” Not here. Not in 1945. “I can’t remember…”

  “Are you telling me that you have amnesia?”

  She seized on this excuse. “That’s right. I can’t remember anything.”

  “Except that you were in the Middle East.” His tone was suspicious. “You told me that last night.”

  What else had she said? Last night, they hadn’t done much talking. Between her headache and her intense attraction to him, she hadn’t told him much. Now, his lack of information might work to her advantage.

  “I have amnesia.” She rose to her feet to emphasize her words. “I need to get to a doctor in Leadville.”

  “We have medical personnel here on base.”

  But she didn’t want to stay here, trapped in 1945. If she left Camp Hale, she might be able to find the way back to her own millennium. “I need a specialist, a psychiatrist. Or a neurologist. Please, Luke.”

  His jaw set in a firm, stubborn line that made her think he had little intention of accommodating her wishes. “Where were you staying in Leadville?”

  “A hotel.”

  “Which hotel?”

  Her lodging probably didn’t have the same name as it did in 1945. It might not have even existed. “I don’t remember the name. I left the receipt in your cabin. I wrote a goodbye note on the back.”

  “You must have driven to get up here. Where’s your car parked?”