by Roz Marshall
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Description
The Snow Patrol
An extract from Winter Arrives
Other Secrets in the Snow books
A note from the author
Copyright © 2014 Roz Marshall
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. You must not circulate this book in any format.
The characters, places and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
Printed in the United Kingdom
First published: 2014
Second edition: 2016
Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at www.rozmarshall.co.uk
Keep in touch — sign up for my newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cfkZbf
About this story
'Just one more run' at the end of a day's skiing almost has deadly consequences for White Cairns' ski instructor, Debbie McNeill.
It's only a fortunate encounter with the snowy equivalent of a knight in shining armour that averts disaster, and, when he shares a secret with her, she wonders if this knight might become more than just her rescuer…
DEBBIE SPLUTTERED FOR breath and struggled into a sitting position. What on earth just happened? Ripping off her goggles, she shook the snow out of her hair, damp curls whipping against chilled cheeks.
Once she'd dug her skis out of the snow, her dilemma became clear. The rear part of one of the bindings had slipped out of place and it was now far too wide for her boot. She sighed. That's what I get for buying skis off eBay.
Squeezing the clips, she tried to force it back into place, but it wouldn't budge.
Just my luck. She grimaced. Why, oh why, had she decided on 'just one more run'? She should've gone off to the pub with the others, and not been so obsessed about practising for her instructor exam.
Mist was touching the hilltop now and everything was deathly quiet; the background hum and clink of the ski lift on the main run over the ridge had stopped, and this itinerant off-piste loop was devoid of other skiers.
A tendril of dread wound its way around her heart. Scotland's vast wildernesses could be beautiful in winter, but she knew that they could also be treacherous for the unwary.
Or the unlucky.
"Help!" she tried to call out, but her throat constricted and the blanket of snow swallowed the sound of her voice. Stumbling to her feet, she cupped gloved hands around her mouth and shouted again, "Heeeeeelllp!"
No answer. Shit.
No signal on her mobile phone. Shit, shit!
There's no way I can get down on one ski, it's too steep. Her stomach churned. I'll have to walk out. Hands trembling, she fashioned an impromptu walking stick by clipping her skis together, and set off.
Ski boots, however, were not designed for walking in deep snow and her progress was slow. After about fifty meters that felt like a mile, she stopped for a breather and her heart sunk. Visibility had worsened, and the top of the hill was now bathed in cloud, its miasma creeping inexorably down the slope. I'm so stupid. Why did I go off-piste on my own? Nobody knows I'm here. Coire Tannasg might be just a short way from the main runs, but right now it felt as remote as Mount Everest — and just as deadly.
Yomping off again, fear drove her feet faster and faster, until, inevitably, she nose-dived and ended up in an undignified heap covered in snow.
"Need some help?" said a husky voice nearby.
Blinking the snow from her eyes, she saw a lean, dark-haired skier wearing the black uniform of Ski Patrol, and almost wept with relief. "How did you guess?" she replied, rhetorically, brushing snow from her shoulders and trying to make herself look more presentable. "The binding's broken on one of my skis and I was trying to walk out."
"Let's see," he held out a hand for her ski.
When he saw the state of the binding, he frowned, then dug in his backpack for a screwdriver. "How about a trade? I'll fix your ski if you'll show me the way back," he looked up at her from under his eyebrows, "and not tell the guys that I was lost."
A ski patroller. Lost? That was ironic! "But—" she couldn't resist teasing him, "shouldn't you be showing me the way off the hill?"
He lifted a shoulder. "We were on a rescue and I got separated from the others." He indicated the eerie fog that had closed in around them, making the landscape featureless and deadening any ambient noise. "And my radio's goosed and I must've lost my phone in a snowdrift somewhere."
Flakes of frost speckled high cheekbones and long eyelashes as he looked sideways at her. "I'll probably get sacked for being a dunderheid."
I hope not! "I'm sure you won't. You can say you were helping me?" She smiled at him. "And it's not far to the main run — we're on the Tannasg."
"Oh! Great!" He handed back her ski. "I'm Struan, by the way. Struan Robertson."
-::-
In the fading light, they made their way to the main run and skied down to the Ski Patrol office in the almost-deserted car park. All of the instructors' cars had gone, but across the road Debbie spotted a half-empty bus. She checked her watch. It was the last bus to town so she needed to catch it.
"Thanks so much for fixing my ski, Struan. I'd never have managed without you — I thought I was going to be stuck up there all night!"
"All part of the service." He winked at her. "And thanks for helping me find my way back." He nodded at her skis. "Get those looked at, though."
"Yeah," she said, noting, not for the first time, how hypnotic his dark eyes were. "Can I buy you a drink later, to say thanks?" I hope he won't think I'm being too forward. "We'll be in The Rowan."
"In White Cairns?"
"Yeah." The driver started the engine and the bus lights flashed on. "I need to go," she said, "see you later?"
He nodded, and raised an arm in farewell.
-::-
A fug of warmth and peals of laughter assailed Debbie as she pushed open the heavy oak door of the Rowan. A throng of her colleagues were crammed round a large table in the corner beside the log fire, red jackets piled behind them and glasses or overflowing packets of crisps covering every available inch on the table top. She dropped into the only empty chair.
"What happened to you?" asked her house-mate Callum, breaking off in the middle of one of his tall stories, a look of concern on his face.
She grimaced. "I went for a last run in Coire Tannasg, to practice my off-piste. But my binding broke and for a while I thought I'd have to spend the night on the hill." Pulling off her jacket, she draped it on the back of the chair. "Luckily a ski patroller found me and fixed it." Her face flushed as she remembered his grey eyes and slow smile, and she pretended to hunt for money in her purse to hide her embarrassment.
"But Tannasg's outside the ski area, they don't patrol there," said Fiona, whose husband Geoff worked for ski patrol.
Debbie nodded, hoping nobody would notice her pink cheeks. "Yeah. He got split up from the others in the mist." She glanced over at the bar, which was quiet, and stood up. Time for a drink.
But Callum waved her down and jumped to his feet. "The usual?" Ginger hair flopped over his forehead and he lifted an eyebrow. "Or do you need something stronger?"
She smiled at him. "Just an orange and lemonade. Thanks." She'd learned a hard lesson at new year when her drinks had been spiked and Callum had saved her from a potentially nasty situation. Now
she avoided alcohol — it was simpler that way.
"Who was it that helped you?" Fiona asked, as Callum headed over to the bar. "Which patroller?" She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear.
"I hadn't seen him before. Struan something. Robinson I think."
Fiona gasped, the angles of her high cheekbones emphasised by the flickering light from the fire. "Are you sure? What did he look like?"
Debbie shrugged. "A bit taller than me. Good skier. Dark hair. Nice smile. You'll see him soon — he's meeting me here…" She tailed off when she saw Fiona's expression. "What is it?"
"Struan Robertson died in an avalanche on Coire Tannasg two years ago."
Debbie felt the blood drain from her face. "But — I just saw him. I showed him…" she paused, as she recalled what he'd said. "I showed him the way back," she concluded, in a small voice.
Fiona let out a long breath and nodded slowly. "Maybe you did, Debbie," she said, chewing her lip, "maybe you did just that."
-::-
Want to read more about the White Cairns instructors? Start with the first episode:
Get Winter Arrives from Amazon
An extract from:
Winter Arrives
Secrets in the Snow, Episode 1
-::-
JUDE SHIVERED, WRAPPED the over-sized red fleece tighter around her polka-dot pyjamas and crossed the hall into the kitchen.
On the back wall, the blue glow of the pilot light mirrored the colour her fingers were turning. It's not the boiler then.
Running back upstairs, pausing to switch the kettle on as she passed, Jude changed into jeans, boots and a ski jacket then hurried out of the back door and into the garden. In the frigid air, shrubs looked like ghostly aliens and the flagstone path had a slippery sheen. Her breath clouded around her like a shroud as she peered at the dial above the oil tank. Empty. She frowned.
Back inside, a mug of coffee shared its heat with one hand as she thumbed through the Yellow Pages with the other. After enduring a tinny loop of Greensleeves for so long that she thought her ears might start to bleed, and being subjected to the interminable questions required to confirm her identity, Jude was finally able to make her request. "I'd like to arrange an oil delivery please. We've run out."
There was a pause at the other end of the line. "I'm afraid we won't be able to do that, Ms Winters."
"Why ever not?" The caffeine was starting to do its trick, and Jude was awake enough now to feel the first stirrings of annoyance.
"I'm afraid there's a hold on your account."
"A hold on our account?" Jude felt stupid for just repeating the words, but this wasn't what she'd expected to hear. "Why? How?"
"There appear to have been a couple of missed payments, and your account is in arrears. If you could make good the defecit, I could organise a delivery for you—" there was the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard, "tomorrow. Do you have a debit or credit card that we can use to take payment?"
Jude took a long breath, then scrabbled at the end of the bench for her purse. Credit card. That might be safest, though she hated being in debt. But in this weather, they needed to be warm. What on Earth's going on, though?
-::-
Mike stepped down from the colourful InterCity as it disgorged its few passengers onto the platform, and hoisted a large navy rucksack onto his back.
The sleepy Scottish station had no obvious staff — but plenty of notices, billboards, and a cast-iron sign that proclaimed in Art Deco curves that he'd arrived at 'White Cairns'.
Shrewd blue eyes briefly surveyed his surroundings, and his nostrils flared as he drank in the clear air with its hint of peat smoke and pine needles. Yeah. He gave a faint nod, then slung a battered ski bag over his shoulder and strode off in the direction of the village.
-::-
Standing in the hall, Jude flipped through the pile of un-opened envelopes until she found the one she was looking for. An elegant logo adorned its corner, and an expensive corporate address was printed on its back. She ripped it open and scanned the columns.
'DR'.
How can we be overdrawn? Allan had been working in New Zealand for months and the business account should have been paying in to the joint account regularly. She checked the deposits column. The only entry in it was the three hundred pounds she'd paid in for that quick book jacket job she'd done last month.
Suddenly she understood the meaning of the phrase 'her heart sank'. She walked woodenly back to the kitchen, feeling like a cylindrical hole had opened up in her chest and someone had dropped a lumpen weight into it. How had this happened? And where was all their money? Is there something Allan isn’t telling me?
TURNING ONTO THE main street, Mike was met by stone houses whose dormer windows jutted out of grey slate roofs and looked like nuns' habits all in a line. In the distance, rugged hills soared purple, green and grey, framing the quiet glen under a restless, cloudy sky.
At the gate of the corner house, a man was hanging a swinging 'Vacancies' sign underneath a larger sign that said 'North Lodge Bed and Breakfast'. His portly build, rosy cheeks and almost-white beard made him look like he should perhaps have been living with the elves at the North Pole rather than at North Lodge.
Mike paused. "G'day mate, can I ask about your bed and breakfast — do the rooms have internet access?"
The owner of the guest house looked from the vacancies sign to the stranger before him and back again, as if wondering whether its mere presence had somehow conjured up a customer. "Well, I suppose you could use the network connection in the lounge. Would you be looking for a room?"
"Yeah, for at least a night or two."
"Well, young man, I suppose you'd better come in and have a look. Are you on your own?" He peered suspiciously over his tortoiseshell glasses at the prospective guest, as if he might be hiding a bus-load of relatives inside his rucksack.
"Yeah, just me. The name's Mike Cole."
"Sandy Potter.” The older man held out his hand. “We don't have any single rooms, you see, so I'd have to charge you for a double." He shrugged apologetically.
"No worries, if the internet works that will be fine."
Sandy's face brightened. "Okay, well, I suppose I could let you have Room One, it's closest to the lounge. Would you like to see it now?"
-::-
Jude was brought back to the present by a rumble like a miniature earthquake as her daughter, Lucy, clattered down the stairs and crashed into the kitchen. "Mum! Why's it so cold? The radiator's not working in my room."
"We ran out of oil." Surreptitiously, Jude wiped under her eye with a forefinger. "Wear an extra fleece if you're cold."
Lucy shot her a look, then sighed theatrically. You could almost hear her thinking: Parents! "I can't find my costume for drama. Have you seen it?"
"Have you checked the laundry?" Jude was sure her voice sounded a bit strange, but Lucy didn't seem to notice. Sometimes the self-absorption of a teenager could be a blessing.
-::-
Standing by the side of the road, Jude resisted the natural impulse to raise an arm and wave Lucy off on the school bus. She contented herself with watching until the bus was out of sight, knowing that her daughter would be mortified if her friends thought that she was seen to the bus every morning by her mother. Jude only got away with it by pretending that she was on her way to the post office or to run some other errand, a ruse that she knew wouldn't work forever.
She sighed. At thirteen, Lucy's teenage angst would be sure to start soon, and Jude would be lucky if embarrassing her daughter was the worst thing she had to worry about over the next few years.
With that thought, her mind swung back to this morning's conundrum.
She needed to check out what was going on with their account, and she should find the answer at the ski school shop.
AS JUDE WALKED distractedly back up the street, the village postman was coming the other way.
"Good morning, Judith, how are you today, lass?"
"Fine thanks, Lachie," the lie tripped easily off her tongue. "How are you?"
"Och, can't complain, can't complain." He rummaged in his bag as he spoke and handed her a few letters. "They don't look very exciting. Sorry."
She looked at the envelopes. Mostly brown. In the past, these had been Allan's department, but after this morning's fiasco, she just might have to start opening those boring letters and keeping tabs on things. Numbers usually gave her a headache — but better a headache than a freezing house.
Lachie caught her grimace and misinterpreted it. "I haven't seen any snow in the forecast yet, more's the pity."
She looked towards the hills, which were conspicuously dark, and then up at the cloudy sky, which held the wrong colour of clouds — white, rather than the heavy, dark-grey which usually preceded snowfall. "Mmm, it doesn't look like snow, unfortunately."
"Hopefully it'll come soon." He shifted the bag on his shoulder. "Right, I'll be off then. Good day to you."
-::-
Dropping his rucksack in the corner, Mike looked around the room and nodded. "This is fine, thanks."
"I see you have some skis with you," Sandy said, looking pointedly at Mike's ski bag. He put a hand on his belly and expanded his chest. "You'll be waiting a while before you can use those, I reckon. There probably won't be any snow for weeks."
Mike nodded, as if he agreed. "Okay, but — is there somewhere I can ask about getting a job as an instructor?" He propped the ski bag against the wardrobe. "For when the snow finally arrives," he added.
"Well, I suppose you could try at Winters' Ski School, up the street. But they probably won't have any jobs; they tend to employ locals, like myself."
"You teach?"
"When there's snow, yes, I try." He puffed out his chest again. “I’ve been working up the hill for over thirty years now.”
Mike wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be impressed or to feel sorry for the older man. "Well, I guess I'll give it a go then. Thanks for the advice."