by Gina Ardito
Regardless of her warning, Doug picked up speed once out of Brooklyn's sight, then struggled to maintain his balance on the slippery slopes. Refrozen slush created rough terrain, and the waning light only increased a skier's difficulty in reaching the base safely.
No more than thirty seconds into his run, his skis skidded on a bald patch, and he flailed. While his brain struggled to keep calm, his heart pumped panic juice harder. After several sec onds where his one arm and ski pole whirled like the Tasmanian Devil in his childhood cartoons, he managed to find his center of balance, plant his pole into the ground, and stop his stumbling forward momentum.
He stood stock-still and blew out the breath he hadn't realized he held. Every muscle trembled violently. If he chanced pressing on before regaining control, he'd wind up in a worse position than Brooklyn.
Moron, he chastised himself. Slow down. On the slopes, and in pursuit of this story.
This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he'd dared Brooklyn to a downhill race. It was supposed to be a test. A test to see what she'd choose, given an escape route. He'd purposely offered her the chance to wriggle out from their dinner date. Knowing who she was, he also knew there was no way he could ever out-ski her. He'd hoped, though, despite his demands to the contrary, that she'd let him win at the last minute. That she'd decide she wanted to have dinner with him.
Yeah, so it took an ego bigger than Wyoming to think that way. But hey, he considered as he pushed off again, stranger things had happened. Especially today.
Around him, twilight faded. The goggles obscured more than protected at this stage. Again he stopped. With an angry jerk, he yanked them above his helmet.
Without the yellowish outlook that made everything seem jaundiced around the edges, he studied the shadowy ski lifts and tried to gain his bearings. Up ahead, the run forked. A weathered sign tacked to a skinny birch tree offered him the option of taking Snow Problem on the left or Snow Me the Money on the right. Both were posted as blue square trails.
He hated these cutesy "snow" names. Snow Problem. Did that mean there were lots of problems on that particular run? Or no problems?
Left or right? Which would get him to help faster?
In contrast to the rapidly plummeting temperature, a bead of sweat trickled from his hairline into his eye, stinging like a wasp. He blinked several times to ease the burn, but that only blurred his vision somewhat.
Useless. He was completely useless right now. With no trail map, no familiarity with this mountain, the wrong decision could screw him up entirely.
How far away was the first-aid station? For that matter, how far away was the base lodge? He stood like the perfect fool, in search of some kind of sign. Instead, only cold and darkness blew in.
He'd only been here a week, for God's sake. Thirty minutes ago he'd been a beginner. Now he had to ski better and faster than he ever had in his life. Better than Brooklyn Raine. Because she needed him to get her help.
The skis kept sliding forward, edging to the right. Okay. Instinct, right? Go the way the skis told him to go. Toward Snow Me the Money. With renewed determination, he pushed off for more speed.
The tips clipped the side of a bump. He wobbled, but gritted his teeth and forced himself back into an upright position. Just in time to crest the top of the next hill and stare down. A pattern of bumps gleamed on the dusky trail. Moguls.
He'd taken the wrong turn and now had to meander his way down a mogul run. In the dark. With one arm and a bunny-slope education. Terrific. Why not make it really interesting and throw in some sniper fire from the dense line of trees?
He inhaled sharply. No time for whining, wussy-boy. You've been through rougher situations than this. Think about crawling on your belly in hot sand while bullets whizzed overhead and fiery wind pelted your face. A mogul run was a playground, compared to that day.
Pushing his edges deep into the snow, he slowed his speed to a near crawl. With the ever-darkening night, being able to see the bumps before he hit them became more crucial than zipping through blind. He tightened his jaw and slid forward, allowing his left ski to crest the side of one mini-hill. He barely finished the turn before his right ski rode the natural incline of another bump. Then another on the left. Right. Left. Right. Left.
Beneath his helmet, his hair, soaked with sweat, plastered to his scalp. His calf muscles burned. A powerful thirst dried his throat. The bumps grew steeper now, with little room in between to ski around them. His knees absorbed the sledgehammer-like blows again and again and again. As the punishment continued, he toyed with the idea of removing his skis and walking the rest of the way. Yet, he realized that would only slow him down even more. So he pushed on.
At last the trail opened up to merge with another from the opposite end of the tree line. The two trails widened into one, which ran the length of the triple chairlift. Smooth as polished glass.
Hallelujah! He'd made it.
And not too far below, the base lodge loomed.
Gratitude renewed his sagging spirits, and he schussed the rest of the way down with ease. As he neared the base, he spotted several dark figures scurrying around the snowmobiles and sleds.
"Hey!" he shouted, waving his arm frantically. "Help! Please!"
One of the figures turned and faced Doug.
"Brook-" He cut himself short. "Help, please," he repeated. "It's Ms. Hill. Lyn? She fell on Snow Business. She needs a sled."
Immediately, the three men went into action. One yanked the chain from around the skis of the first snowmobile in the line.
"How far up is she?" another asked as he jammed a helmet on his head.
Meanwhile, the third hustled off toward the door below the Red Cross insignia.
How far? Doug considered for a long moment. Did he remember any landmarks in the area? Of course not. "Around the fifth crest, I think. Before the fork for Snow Me the Money and Snow Problem." That much, he knew without a doubt.
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure. She was ahead of me so I didn't see her fall. I came upon her when she was already on the ground."
"How bad? Is she conscious? Bleeding anywhere?"
"She says she's okay, but doesn't want to push her luck by skiing down the rest of the way. I'm not so sure it's as simple as she tried to make me believe. Nothing broken that I can tell and no blood, but-"
The first man straddled the snowmobile, and the engine roared to life. The second man hooked a sled to the revving vehicle. The third returned from the first-aid station with a bundle of blankets and dumped them on the sled.
"Okay," the first man shouted over the noise. "We'll find her and take it from here. Thanks."
On a spit of snow, he rode away, speeding toward where Lyn lay waiting.
"Why don't you go inside for now?" The third man clapped Doug on the shoulder. "Grab something hot to drink. Kitchen's closed, but there's stuff in the employee lounge. Tell anyone who asks you're here with Lyn."
"But-"
"Go on," he said with a dismissive wave. "We'll take care of Lyn."
And didn't that idea burn him? Suddenly, he was the additional, unneeded appendage.
One thing he'd learned in the last few months: there was no such thing as an unneeded appendage.
Lyn snuggled deeper into the soft folds of her plush pink bathrobe and forced her eyes to focus on the words in the novel she'd picked up from the inn's library. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't concentrate on the murder mystery. Even with a roaring fire in the parlor's hearth, the ice wrap around her hip sent chills through her body. Luckily, the horse pills prescribed by Dr. Ryder in the emergency room dulled the pain to a throbbing ache. They also wreaked havoc with her eyesight, so she'd pulled out a pair of store-bought reading glasses a former guest had left behind. Still, the words on the page continued to elude her, in favor of revisiting what had occurred on the ski trail.
She couldn't help running her tumble over and over again in her head. Daddy always said reviewing mist
akes on the slopes would prevent her from repeating them. Marc, naturally, disagreed. Marc thought a skier was better off putting the mistakes in the darkest corners of his mind to focus on the next run, the next day, the next race. Such divergent opinions always left Lyn to weigh the logic of each and decide for herself which option to choose. Today, Daddy's advice held more weight than a crowd of elephants.
Of all the stupid things to do ...
As if insulted by her thoughts, her hip sent a sharp, stinging pain through her bones. She sucked in a breath until it eased.
Technically, her injury could have been a lot worse. X-rays showed no fractures or bone chips. Still, a pulled hamstring was serious enough to sideline her for a minimum of two weeks. Two prime ski weeks.
She squirmed in the high-backed wing chair and tossed the matching throw pillow on the floor. God, could her timing have been any worse? Why couldn't she have fallen in the spring or summer? When icing her hip would have been an excellent way to cool off. And when she didn't care about missing days on the mountain.
"You sure you don't want me to stick around till your sister gets back?"
Lyn looked up from the pillow's perch against the andirons to find Mrs. Bascomb near the foyer closet door, shrugging into her red plaid coat. The black lines crisscrossing the rotund scarlet figure seemed to move at a high rate of speed, making Lyn dizzy. Only several deep breaths restored some semblance of her equilibrium.
"Go." She waved off the older woman. And take that nauseating coat with you. "I'll be fine."
Hoisting her hands to her hips, the older woman harrumphed. "You shouldn't be alone right now."
The brass knocker on the front door suddenly thundered through the room.
"Apparently someone agrees with me." Mrs. Bascomb thunked across the gleaming oaken floorboards. Between the coat and her lime green vinyl snow boots, she resembled a traffic light swaying in a windstorm. "I'm guessing Richie decided to stay with you until April comes back. Thank God. You'll be in good hands, and I can rest easy knowing someone's here to take care of you."
Mrs. Bascomb yanked open the door, but Richie Armstrong didn't step inside. Nor did April or any other member of her entourage. A man crossed the threshold. Big, brawny. With a large brown paper bag in his gloved left hand. And nothing in his right. Not even a matching glove. In fact, his right hand hung uselessly at his side, mannequin-like.
Lyn blinked once, twice. How on earth ... ? Her jaw dropped. "Mr. Sawyer?"
"Doug," he corrected as he shook the snow-flaked hood off his head.
His presence in her parlor, where he stood surrounded by dainty antiques, delicate china knickknacks, and floral fabrics, only enhanced his masculine aura. She recalled a scene from some old movie where a former he-man wrestling star played with a little girl in a dollhouse. The wrestler looked almost monstrous in a tiny pink chair with a thimble-sized teacup in his massive paws. And yet, he also looked adorable, because his love for the child resonated so beautifully through that image. The picture, once drawn into her brain, refused to leave.
Only now, Mr. Sawyer portrayed the he-man, and her inn became the dollhouse. She, on the other hand, was no child. Selfconsciousness washed her cheeks with heat, traveling down to her chest.
Despite the sudden perspiration drenching her skin, she clutched the collar of her robe and gathered the chenille fabric beneath her chin. "What are you doing here?"
"We have a date, remember?"
"A date?"
He hefted the bag into her line of sight. "Dinner. You lost the bet. I beat you to the base lodge."
Dinner? He'd come here for dinner? Here? Panic shot through her. She couldn't wrap her head around this situation. She had completely forgotten about Douglas Sawyer, what with her quick ride from sled to ambulance to emergency room gurney. He, however, apparently hadn't forgotten about her.
Her hand crept up to smooth her hair. God, could he have shown up when she looked any worse? If she dared to stand in front of a mirror right now, she'd probably see that Hallmark card character, Maxine, staring back. Complete with fuzzy pink robe and bunny slippers on her feet.
Okay, they were pink gingham booties with fur linings, but still, Lyn would have preferred a pair of strappy sandals or even some really harsh kickbutt boots. Yeah. A man who oozed machismo the way Mr. Sawyer did? He'd probably love a woman in thigh-high black leather numbers.
She shook her head at her own bizarre thoughts, and her oversize reading glasses slid down the edge of her nose. Oh, great. Maxine to the max.
But if her appearance disappointed him, he didn't show it. He simply grinned and held up the bag again. "Where should I set this up?"
A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard. "You're kidding, right?"
He slowly shook his head, that quirky smile never leaving his face. "Nope. You agreed to the race. And then you lost."
How could such a large, imposing bulk of a man appear so boyish and unassuming? And so ... appealing. He had to leave. Now. Before she agreed to let him stay.
"I didn't lose. I was injured." Which, in her opinion, nullified their so-called bet and the ensuing date.
"Just your hamstring. Not your appetite, right?"
Her brain stumbled.
Before she could form a coherent argument, Mrs. Bascomb's maple syrup tone oozed into the conversation. "Lyn, honey? Aren't you going to introduce me to your young man?"
"He's not-"
"I'm sorry." Doug ducked his head in Mrs. Bascomb's direction. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm still getting the hang of this thing." He indicated his false arm, and the fingers actually folded into the palm, as if ashamed of themselves.
Mrs. Bascomb tittered. "That's quite all right, sir."
"I'm Doug. Doug Sawyer. Ski-Hab student, current champion in a downhill race with Ms. Hill, and now, I'm her dinner date."
"Well, good for you!" Mrs. Bascomb leaned toward Lyn and gave an exaggerated wink. "Good for both of you."
No, no, no. The evening had just nosedived from miserable to catastrophic. As soon as she walked out the inn's front door, Mrs. Bascomb would blab this juicy gossip all over the town. For the next six months, Lyn wouldn't be able to buy milk without someone stopping her for details about the big bad wolf of a man who'd showed up at her doorstep with a take-out dinner.
"I'm Mrs. Bascomb, by the way. But you can call me Eleanor."
Eleanor? Even after all these years, after all they'd experienced together, Lyn hadn't earned the honor of calling Mrs. Bascomb by her first name. And Doug got favored-nation status within five minutes?
Snap! The fire crackled, munching on dry wood in the hearth. Sparks lit up the air, then faded to bits of gray ash.
But ... wait. Even before she dealt with Mrs. Bascomb, she had to clear up a few pertinent details with Mr. Sawyer.
Tilting her head, she studied him from a new angle. "How did you know where I live?"
He shrugged but never lost eye contact. "Ace told me you ran a bed-and-breakfast called Snowed Inn. The cab did the rest."
"The cab?"
"Well, yeah." His gaze flickered from Lyn to the door and back again. "I don't have the whole driving-with-prosthesis thing down yet. Certainly not enough to risk slippery roads and snow squalls."
"Right." Heat rushed to her cheeks. Way to make him feel like an invalid, Lyn. "Of course."
"Lucky for me, the driver not only knew where you live, but he knew you personally."
"He did?" Oh, God. It had to be Larry, who'd harbored a not-so-secret crush on her since she and Marc first moved here. Of course, his wife of forty-five years nipped any romantic intentions Larry had in the bud. But that didn't stop him from naming himself her Happiness Fairy, in charge of making her smile again at all costs.
"He sure did. Right down to your favorite restaurant."
Yup, that would definitely be Larry.
"So he stopped at Winterberry's Cafe for me. I hope you don't mind, but I chose lobster bisque and a grilled vegetable pani
ni for you. Fancy way of saying soup and a sandwich. Hearty, but light. I figured the painkillers would knock out your appetite to some degree. They had that effect on me. Made everything taste like soap."
The pills might have curbed her appetite, but they hadn't completely erased her brain's higher functions. She shot a hand toward him. "Hold up. I'll grant you, Larry is a font of information when it comes to me, but he's not a doctor. So how'd you know about my hamstring? And the painkillers?"
Ruddy color filled his angular cheeks. "Oh, well, umm ... let's just say your local hospital's not big on confidentiality."
She bolted upright. Pain sliced across her back, but she stifled a wince in favor of moral outrage. "They disclosed my condition to you?"
His gaze fell to his feet. "No. More like they didn't secure your chart as well as they should have."
Mrs. Bascomb's chuckles erupted before Lyn could accuse him of spying on her.
"Clever as well as handsome," the old woman remarked. "Be careful, Lyn. This one could romance your heart out of you in no time."
Through the veil of her lashes, Lyn stole a glance at his chiseled features, the boyish grin, the eagerness in his incredible eyes. Her heart somersaulted in her chest.
He was so different from Marc, so polar opposite the fineboned European gentleman who'd swept her off her feet with soft words and candlelight. Mr. Sawyer was brash and bold, more likely to use a club and sling her over his shoulder.
And yet, he somehow plucked the same heartstrings she'd assumed would only ever play for Marc.
That was exactly what terrified her.
Doug knew an ally when he saw one. He might have lost Ace's approval by pursuing this story, but in Eleanor Bascomb, he'd gained a one-woman army of unwavering support. And even better, an illuminated entry into Brooklyn Raine's dark well of secrets.
"Eleanor?" He held up the bag. "Since my date's incapacitated and I only work at seventy percent efficiency these days, do you think you could give me some help in the kitchen?"
Eleanor grinned. "I'd love to. Let me just take off my coat. You go right through there." She pointed to a narrow hallway with a closed door at the end. "Ignore the `Employees Only' sign on that door and go on inside. I'll be there in a minute."
