Let It Snow

by Sherry Lewis

  When his grandpa drew even with the top step, Cameron shot one last look at his mom and bolted down the stairs. He grabbed his coat and ran out the door. The cold sucked his breath away, but he didn’t let it hold him up. He wouldn’t stay there and listen to her lies. Not tonight.

  He ran down the driveway to the dirt road, slipping on the ice several times before he turned toward the bridge. He had a plan—walk to the nearest house and ask to use their telephone to call his dad again. He knew what would happen when his dad got his messages. He’d be so glad to hear from Cameron, he’d rush right over to pick him up. That would show her. She’d realize Cameron was onto her lies, and maybe she’d stop telling them.

  Before he’d gone even thirty feet, he changed his mind. He’d be stupid to follow the road to the bridge. She could see the road from her bedroom window and he didn’t want her to know where he’d gone.

  Changing direction suddenly, he plunged through the knee-high snowdrifts and made his way into the trees. Snow fell into the tops of his boots and wet the bottoms of his pant legs. The cold, dry air burned his lungs and hurt his nose and cheeks, but Cameron kept going. If she was watching, and he hoped she was, maybe she’d actually worry about him. He hoped so. At least she’d feel something.

  RICK POSITIONED a log on the tree stump behind the main cabin, swung his ax in an arc, and split the log in two. After working in the frigid air for only twenty minutes, he’d already worked up a heavy sweat.

  Pulling a bandanna from his pocket, he mopped his face and checked his progress. Not much. Certainly not enough to last more than overnight. At this rate, he’d never find time to fix the cabins—he’d be spending every minute of every day chopping wood.

  Pushing one piece to the ground with the ax blade, he swung again. The muscles in his arms and back protested the unaccustomed exertion. Wincing, he tried to hold back a groan, but it escaped anyway. Once, he’d prided himself on staying fit. But the last two years behind a desk had left him in no better shape than the executives he’d once sneered at.

  Lifting his gaze to check the clouds again, he glimpsed smoke curling into the slate-gray sky through the trees on Henry Maddock’s side of the river. He wondered idly whether Marti Johansson had found time to settle in and whether that son of hers had stopped behaving like a spoiled brat.

  Shaking his head a little, Rick lifted the half log onto the stump and swung the ax again. But exhaustion and sore muscles marred his aim. Instead of splitting the log in two, he only succeeded in chipping off a thin piece of wood and nearly struck his leg with the blade on the downswing.

  He stepped back quickly and glared at the ax as if it were responsible. His breath puffed in thick clouds. The air bit through his jeans and reminded him he needed to finish before the temperature dropped even lower as night fell. He’d hoped—foolishly, he saw now—that he could make do with hand tools. But honesty forced him to admit that one seriously out-of-shape pencil pusher couldn’t chop enough wood this way. He’d have to put out the money for a chain saw and log-splitter.

  As he bent to pick up another log, an odd whisper of sound reached him. He sucked in his breath and listened. He’d never been nervous in these woods. In fact, when he and Jocelyn first bought the place, he’d discovered he liked the isolation and silence. But something about this particular noise made him uneasy.

  The sound came again a few seconds later, and this time he realized it came from the wooded area behind him. Turning slowly, he scanned the forest and tried to convince himself it was only a small forest creature darting into some bush. But his heart beat a little faster, and for the space of a breath, he expected Jocelyn to step out of the woods and walk toward him.

  As always, when he thought of her unexpectedly, a dull ache filled his heart. He tried to push it away. But her memory was harder to fight in these surroundings than it had been in Denver.

  Swearing under his breath, he tossed the ax to the frozen ground a few feet away and picked up an armful of split logs. He’d work. Keep his mind occupied. Force away the need to have her back—if just for five minutes—so he could tell her everything he’d kept to himself when she was alive. No matter how much he wanted another chance to make things right, he wouldn’t get one. Not now. Not ever.

  He’d failed Jocelyn because he didn’t know the right way to behave in a committed relationship. God knew, his parents hadn’t been much of an example. Their entire marriage had been like his last night with Jocelyn. Rick had watched them volley insults and injuries and keep score of hits and misses as if arguing was a game to them. As a young man, he’d vowed never to let himself fall into that trap. But when Jocelyn hurt him, he’d turned into his father and extracted revenge by hurting her in return.

  And now he’d have to live with regret for all the things he hadn’t said, all the words he couldn’t take back, all the wrongs he hadn’t righted for the rest of his life. But at least he’d learned his lesson. He wouldn’t let himself get caught in the trap again.

  Pushing aside his thoughts, he crossed the clearing, stacked the logs against the back of the cabin and retraced his steps. As he started to gather more wood, the sound reached him again—louder this time.

  Straightening, he glanced into the deepening shadows between the trees. This time, he saw something or someone duck behind a tree—someone tall and shadowy and very human. Not Jocelyn, of course, but someone else. Someone who didn’t want him to know he was being watched.

  He filled his arms and started back toward the house, keeping one eye on his visitor as he worked. The shadow didn’t move again until Rick pretended to look away. Then it darted from the tree and hid behind another a few feet closer. Just before it disappeared again, the waning light revealed a lanky body and a long sheaf of blond hair.

  Rick pushed to his feet and walked past the stump and the logs, straight toward Cameron’s hiding place. “You might as well come out and tell me what you’re doing.”

  No answer.

  Rick stopped a few feet from the tree and tried again. “Come on out, Cameron. I know you’re there. There’s no sense hiding.”

  Hands on hips in a gesture he probably thought looked tough, Cameron stepped from behind the tree and glared at Rick. “I’m not hiding.”

  “All right. You’re not hiding. What are you doing?”

  “Taking a walk.”

  “In this weather?”

  Cameron shifted his weight and glanced at the sky. “This?” He snorted a laugh. “This is nothing. It’s not even cold.”

  “It could start snowing any second.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’d hate for you to get lost out here.”

  “Lost?” Cameron’s scowl deepened. “I was raised in these woods. I don’t get lost.”

  “I see.” With a shrug, Rick started to turn away. “My mistake.”

  “I need to use a telephone,” the boy called after him. “Have you got one?”

  Rick turned back again. “Yes.”

  “Can I use it?”

  “Is it a local call?”

  The boy nodded. “I’ve gotta call my dad.”

  Rick refrained from asking why he couldn’t call from his grandfather’s house. He simply nodded toward the back door and hoped he wasn’t making a mistake by letting the boy inside alone. “There’s a phone in the kitchen.”

  Cameron walked away, but when he reached the back step, he seemed to remember something. Turning, he shouted, “Thanks.”

  Oddly pleased that the boy had some manners, Rick nodded and bent again to his task. Despite his aching muscles, he forced himself to pick up another armful of wood.

  Within minutes, the back door opened again and Cameron stepped outside. He still wore that dark scowl, but this time it looked more disappointed than sullen. He watched in silence for a few minutes, then shouted, “You’re doing that the hard way, you know.”

  Rick lifted his head to look at him. “Doing what?”

  Using his chin, Cameron pointed at the stu
mp and the logs. “Cutting that wood. You’re doing it the hard way.”

  Rick started to say he knew, but something in the boy’s expression held him back. Frowning slightly, he glanced at the wood before meeting Cameron’s gaze again. “Yeah? You mean I don’t have to kill myself to do this?”

  “If you had a chain saw,” Cameron said, taking another step closer, “you could cut all those logs in a couple of hours.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to get one.”

  Moving still closer, the kid stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Why are you opening the cabins again if you don’t even know what you’re doing?”

  For some reason Rick couldn’t explain, he didn’t tell the kid the truth. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I guess I’ll learn as I go.”

  Cameron rolled his eyes, then studied the smoke curling over the trees in the distance. “It sure looks different over here with all these cabins.”

  Rick stooped to pick up another log. “I guess it probably does.”

  “I used to play here all the time when I was a kid. Grandpa even let me build a clubhouse.”

  That must have been the ramshackle collection of boards Rick had cleared away when they’d started building the main cabin.

  Rick pretended not to notice the wistful expression on the boy’s face. “So, I take it you’re pretty handy to have around. Your grandpa must be glad to have you on the ranch.”

  Cameron shrugged. “Not really. He doesn’t do much anymore. Too old.” He looked away for a second, then asked, “So, when are you opening the cabins again?”

  “They’re too rundown to rent right now,” Rick said truthfully.

  With a smirk Cameron glanced around the clearing at the smaller cabins. “You’re right about that. So, what are you going to do, spend the rest of the winter fixing them up?”

  “No. I have to be back in Denver in a month.”

  Cameron rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Then you’d better hire somebody to help you. You’ll never get the cabins ready that soon.”

  Rick couldn’t argue with that. The harsh winters had done more damage to the unused cabins than he’d imagined, even with Bix’s warning. “You’re probably right, but I’m on a tight budget. I can’t afford to pay somebody.”

  Cameron shifted his weight and hooked his thumbs into his back pockets. “Maybe you could. I know somebody who needs a job, and he wouldn’t charge you much.”

  “You do? Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  “You?” Rick didn’t even try to hide his surprise.

  Cameron nodded. “I need to make some money so I can...” He paused, glanced uneasily at Rick, then finished in a rush. “I just need it, okay? Besides, I need something to do while my dad’s at work.”

  “I take it your dad lives around here?”

  Cameron nodded again. “Down in Gunnison. That’s where we used to live until Mom screwed everything up.” Some of the bitterness crept back into his voice.

  “How’d she screw everything up?”

  “She divorced him.” The words came out sharp and angry.

  Rick nodded slowly, remembering how angry he’d been when his parents divorced and the long months when he’d refused to speak to his father. “Divorce can be rough,” he admitted, “but at least you can still see your dad.”

  “Only when I’m here, not when I’m in California.”

  Rick started across the clearing carrying an armful of wood. “I know. I’ve been through it, myself.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  “No, my wife passed away. But my parents were divorced.” Rick stacked the logs and turned back to face Cameron.

  “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s not pleasant, but—”

  “It sucks.” Cameron’s face started to close down again.

  Rick decided not to push. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “What’s your dad’s name? Maybe I know him.”

  “Gil Johansson.”

  Rick nodded slowly. He’d met Gil once or twice when he and Jocelyn had first come to town. He hadn’t been impressed, but he certainly wouldn’t admit that to Cameron. He zipped his jacket and tried to lead the conversation to a more comfortable subject. “If I hired you, how much would you expect me to pay you?”

  Cameron thought for a second or two, then named a figure.

  Reasonable enough, Rick supposed, considering how much work he had ahead of him. Running his fingers through his hair, he studied the boy while he deliberated, but it didn’t take long. The anticipation in the kid’s eyes got the best of him. “Is this going to be all right with your mom?”

  Cameron lifted both shoulders. “She doesn’t care what I do.”

  Rick didn’t believe that, but he didn’t argue. He’d check with Marti himself. “What about your grandpa?”

  “I can talk him into it.”

  Rick picked up a small piece of wood and tossed it to Cameron. “All right. You’ve got a deal. You can help me when you’re hot with your dad. As long as you’re here now, you might as well work. I’d like to get all this firewood stacked against the main house before nightfall.”

  Cameron caught the wood easily, and grinned. Almost immediately, he wiped the smile away and tried to look as if he didn’t care. “All right, I guess. If you say so.” He turned away and picked up a few more logs.

  Rick watched him for a minute before getting back to work himself. He might be making a mistake by giving the kid a job, but he could use the help. And days filled with physical labor might help Cameron burn off some of his hostility. And that might make some of the worry in Marti Johansson’s eyes disappear.

  The thought surprised him. Why should he care whether Marti worried or not? He didn’t even know her. But for some reason he couldn’t explain, the idea of making her pain disappear appealed to him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARTI SLIPPED into her coat and stepped outside onto the wide front porch. She’d been waiting for Cameron for nearly an hour, but he still hadn’t come home. Her father didn’t seem too worried. After telling her to relax, he’d closed himself inside his study. But he didn’t understand. He didn’t know Cameron these days.

  The evening sun had already dropped below the western mountains, the sky had turned from winter-gray to charcoal, and she couldn’t hide her concern any longer. Checking her watch for the umpteenth time, she called Cameron’s name and watched the shadows for some sign of him. No one answered.

  Something moist hit her cheek—first one flake, then another—and the panic she’d barely managed to keep at bay consumed her. Cameron was alone in the forest he hadn’t seen in three years, and she had no idea where to find him.

  Stepping off the porch, she followed his footsteps through the yard to the edge of the clearing. She could tell from the length of his stride, he’d been angry and probably walking fast. If he’d kept going in the same direction through the trees, he’d have ended up at the river. Maybe she’d find him there, sitting on a rock at the river’s edge. If not...

  She didn’t let herself finish the thought. She wanted to believe Cameron would come inside before the weather got worse. She and Gil, in a rare burst of unity, had tried to instill a healthy respect for nature into their son. But Cameron wasn’t thinking clearly and he was at that frustrating age—certain he could control the situations in which he found himself.

  She thought about searching for him on foot, but immediately changed her mind. If the storm worsened, not only might she never find him, but she could easily lose her own way. She’d be far wiser to use the car.

  Turning back, she rushed to the house, raced up the stairs and grabbed her purse from her bed. Digging her keys from its depths, she hurried downstairs again and reached the bottom step just as her father strode through the door of the study and straight into her path.

  He took in her coat, bag and frantic expression immediately. “What’s wrong?”

  “Cameron’s not ba
ck yet, and it’s starting to snow. I’m going to drive down to the bridge and see if I can find him.”

  “He’s not back yet?” Her father’s sudden frown made her feel a little better, but not much. “Where in the hell is he?”

  “He could be anywhere, Dad. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He does things like this without thinking. For all I know, he’s fallen into the river, or decided to walk into town.”

  “He wouldn’t—”

  “He might. You don’t know what he’s like these days.”

  Henry stepped around her to the closet and reached inside for his jacket. “You stay here. I’ll go.”

  “No, Dad. I need to find him. He left because he was angry with me.”

  “Maybe,” her father admitted. He glanced outside and scowled. “But a storm like this is no place for you, little girl. I know what I’m doing out there. The best thing you can do is stay here in case he comes back.”

  Frustration mixed with resentment and brought the flush of anger to her cheeks. “I’m not a little girl,” she said, tugging open the door and stepping through. “I’m Cameron’s mother.”

  “I know you are.”

  “I’m more than capable of driving through a little snow to find my son.”

  Her father sighed in exasperation. “We’re not going to have that argument now, are we?”

  “Not unless you want to,” she snapped.

  He looked past her to the storm. “You’re too stubborn by half, girl.”

  If so, she’d learned at the feet of the master.

  He sighed again. “All right. Go. I’ll look around here a bit. But if you don’t find him within half an hour, come on back. We’ll call Gil and some others to help look.”

  Marti didn’t want Gil involved, but she didn’t argue. She’d find Cameron herself. She had to. She hurried from the porch to the car and drove slowly down the driveway. She let the car creep along the winding road toward the bridge and called for Cameron every few feet through her open window.

  When she reached the bridge, still without any sign of him, she pulled to the side of the road, climbed out of the car and inched her way to the middle of the bridge. Glassy black ice covered the wooden planks and made her progress frustratingly slow. Thick snowflakes nearly obscured her vision. But she didn’t give up.