by Gina Ardito
At first, Kerri-Sue stood back and watched, patiently waiting for him to realize his mistake and correct his approach. But as he continued to flounder while she no doubt stiffened in her boots, she finally broke protocol and bent to wrap an arm around him.
Oh, for heaven's sake. The bigger they were, the more they acted like babies. This one was no exception. Time for her to intervene.
One strong push with her poles set her in motion, and she quickly gathered enough speed to cross the flat section that separated her trail from the bunny slope. Kerri-Sue must have heard her approach, because her head jerked up toward the crest of the hill. Seconds later, the instructor dropped her hold on the student and stood upright, hands at her sides.
Lyn came to a hard stop, spraying snow on the man's black ski pants. "Back off, Kerri-Sue," she said, planting her poles deep enough into the ground to keep them upright. "I've got this one." She turned to the man whose face was hidden behind a helmet and snow goggles. "What's your name, soldier?" she barked with the force of a drill sergeant.
"Umm ... Lyn ..." Kerri-Sue leaned toward her.
Lyn waved her off, never turning her gaze from the man on the frozen ground.
"No, Lyn, really," Kerri-Sue continued in a hurried hush. "You need to know-"
"I'm talking to the soldier now, Kerri-Sue. Go wait for us at the lift, please."
"I'm not a soldier," the man ground out through gritted teeth.
Huh? Lyn started. "You're not?" Confusion smeared across her brain like petroleum jelly, and she turned to Kerri-Sue for clarity.
Kerri-Sue's cheeks reddened with embarrassment, but her eyes blazed outrage. "Doug is our first civilian in the program. He was referred to us by Ace Riordan. Remember?" She edged the last word with frozen iron.
Oops.
Vaguely. Lyn recalled the program's director, Richie Armstrong, telling her about a prospective recruit-a civilianwho'd been injured in some kind of accident. When Richie had confided the guy was a friend of Ace's, Lyn had hesitated to agree. No one had bothered to tell her the civilian had been accepted, without her approval.
Oh, she liked Ace-most of the time. But Ace had a reckless streak. Which made him an ideal athlete. Not, however, the most reliable participant in a program like Ski-Hab. And this was a friend of Ace's. What were the chances the man would take the work involved seriously enough to succeed? She'd purposely limited Ski-Hab to members of the armed forces because they were in excellent physical condition and accustomed to following orders.
Still ...
Ace's time with Ski-Hab must have left a positive mark for him to refer their first civilian. A civilian who currently flopped on the snow like a fish pulled out of an ice hole. While she played Attila the Hun, snapping demands.
"My apologies, Mr....?"
"Sawyer," he replied through the same barely moving lips. "Doug Sawyer."
Once again, Lyn turned her attention to Kerri-Sue. "Go wait at the lift."
While Kerri-Sue pushed off toward the rest of the class, the man on the ground struggled with the length of his skis, fumbling to turn himself around.
"Have you ever skied before, Mr. Sawyer?"
She'd softened her tone, but if the glare he shot in her direction was an indication, he'd snow ski with Satan before he forgave her.
"With one arm?" he retorted. "No."
"I mean, ever. One arm or two."
"Yes."
Good. Thank God. "So you remember how to get up when you fall down, right?"
"Yeah, but I'm at a disadvantage since I have no arm on this side to use for support."
"Then you'll have to flip yourself around to the side that has an arm, won't you?"
"You could lend a hand, you know."
"I could," she agreed, and folded her arms over her chest. "But that would defeat the purpose of Ski-Hab. Now flip."
He struggled, but managed to face the other way, positioning his skis parallel and facing upward. Pole planted firmly, he pulled himself to a standing position. Thunderous applause and cheers erupted from the circle of people standing on the sidelines.
At last, the man turned to face Lyn, a relieved grin splitting his cheeks below the bridge of his goggles.
"Well done, Mr. Sawyer." She clapped her gloved hands in muted applause. "How do you feel?"
"Better," he said.
"Ready to do it again?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Good." With one quick shove against his armless shoulder, she knocked him off-balance.
He teetered for the briefest moment, and then fell right back into the same patch of snow he'd just managed to escape.
"Do it again."
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 bootwarmers, 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.
With deep, calming inhales, she noted her brother's gloves neatly framing his empty cocoa cup. His jacket, helmet, and goggles covered 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 was currently helping a man wearing a-holy cow-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, her legs were 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 bunny game on her laptop instead of getting a little more physical exercise. Evie, her track star dorm mate, would probably groove on seeing her now.
Once she got back to the inn this afternoon, she'd head straight outside for a soak in the hot tub. 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 footnot hard, but apparently loud enough for the two people at the information counter to hear; they then swerved their attention her way.
"Sorry," she murmured.
After enduring an icy glare from Mr. Fur Coat, 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 were currently cleaning and scrubbing the lunch tables. Unfortunately, after stopping every pimple-faced mountain geek in rangeand surviving the pungent odor of stale French fries they seemed to wear like expensive cologne-Becky 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 screwup. 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 every winter for the last five years. She knew what there was to do.
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 wet 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 news programs that trap kiddie predators.
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 doorjamb a boot step before her target.
"Hold it right there!" 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 midconversation 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.
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. "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? Forget wolf. This woman was pure coyote. So why didn't any of the instructors 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 it himself. But first, he wanted to get up-to 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 himself. He struggled, but managed to rise with a little more ease than he had on his first attempt.
His gaze hot enough to melt all the snow within five square miles, he faced his adversary. She was fiber-petite, a full foot or more 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, was hidden behind a black helmet and pink tinted goggles.
She grinned-blinding, sweet, joyous-and words flew around his head like birds around the Cheshire cat.
"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-schussschuss of skis on flat terrain.
Surprise left him slackjawed. 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 been distracted. "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 scattered. Why?"
She laughed. "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 sixth sense suspecting a deeper, 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 Iraq, 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 fiance had told her he didn't care if she couldn't 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 United States Marine Corps 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.