Snowfall
By Carolina Valdez
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2018 Carolina Valdez
ISBN 9781634865562
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
To romantic sports-lovers everywhere.
* * * *
Snowfall
By Carolina Valdez
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 1
What a glorious day! Riley filled her lungs with the icy air. The seat of the chairlift slid under her and she settled onto it, gripping the arm with her right hand, holding her poles with her left. The seat was as cold as the air, but her insulated pants and jacket protected her from a chilly invasion of her firm derriere and muscular thighs. Looking out as the lift pulled her upward, she saw the night’s storm had floated fresh powder not only over High Mountain, but as far as she could see.
Riley smiled with excitement. Fantastic. We’ll be busy today, and if the weather holds, we’ll have a white New Year’s Eve. Had to use the snow machines at Christmas, but this week all the snow will be nature-made.
Everyone—staff and guests alike—would love that.
Angels Ski Resort was on the California side of the Sierra Nevada range, and as an instructor, she worked at the base of the lift and runs. Today her task as a ski patroller was to do a trail safety sweep. Arriving early, she’d keyed open the drive terminal, stepped inside to set the chairlift in motion, and went out again to relock it.
Then, she’d unlocked the nearby building that held the instruction rooms and patrol offices. Still wearing her Yukon cap—ear flaps snapped in the up position—she’d entered and removed her heavy gloves, but worked in her insulated jacket and turned up the heat so the chill would be off the rooms by the time her team arrived.
She frowned as she lifted the lid on the large, staff coffeepot. The rule was it had to be clean by closing time each night. I’ll have to remember to check the schedule to see who messed up. One of her least favorite jobs in this position was coming down on someone for this sort of thing. It seemed so small, but if the resort suddenly closed due to a blizzard and didn’t reopen for weeks, the pot could end up moldy. That might even ruin the entire pot, which the crew, not the resort, had chipped in to buy.
Since it involved crew property and wasn’t a firing offense, she would tell Paul about it, but it was hers to handle. Paul dealt with the bigger problems.
Riley dumped yesterday’s filter with the old grounds into a waste basket that hadn’t been emptied either, adding another mark to the lazy crew member’s tally. She rinsed the holder and pot before filling it with deliciously unadulterated mountain spring water. Working the grinder, she inhaled the wonderful smell of beans being ground—Moroccan French roast, the scent even more intense. Somewhere she’d read the smell of freshly ground beans contained a “feel good” chemical separate from that of the caffeine when you drank it. As her spirits lifted, she confirmed the truth of the story.
Riley opened her backpack and schooled herself against claiming this early in the day one of the bear claws she’d bought in the resort bakery. Her mouth watered in anticipation of the savory taste of cinnamon combined with the sweetness of the tracks of white icing dribbled across the bread, but she laid all of them out on the table intact.
Those chores completed, she’d strapped on her skis, bundled up, and headed for the lift.
Now, a flash of color drew her gaze upward. A man in red ski clothes and helmet trimmed in dark blue stood at the top of the closed, double-black diamond run named Satan’s Domain. He stood poised as if waiting for a starter to yell “Go!”
“Hey, you! Stop!” she yelled, waving one of her poles as anger and concern flared. “The runs are—”
Before she’d finished her warning, he mimicked breaking through a gate, pushed hard with his poles, and set a blistering competitor’s pace down the fall line of an extremely dangerous piste, or run.
Whoever you are, you’re an idiot. You have no right to be on one of our trails before we’ve officially opened them to skiers. And now, dammit, I have to go after you! Lord, help me. I hope you don’t get a concussion, break a leg…or tear an ACL. And I hope I don’t either.
She figured he must’ve hopped on the lift while she was inside doing heat and coffee. He was trespassing, but that wouldn’t matter, because in court, the resort would be ruled liable if he was injured. Even if the All Runs Closed sign was in place…which she could testify to because she’d checked.
The skier seemed to know what he was doing, but Satan’s Domain hadn’t been checked for safety yet. In fact, none of the trails had been. That was why she’d arrived early. Oh, shit. Now it was her responsibility to be sure he hadn’t flown off the trail and crashed. Or failed to manage a mogul—a treacherous hump of ice—correctly and had broken something, like his head, despite his helmet.
She clicked on her radio and called down to security to be sure the trespasser had arrived at the bottom in one piece. No one answered. Miles Lawton, their security guard, was late.
Irritation set her nerves jangling. Anger made her gut clench. Paul always checked this run because she hated it. Since her accident, Satan’s Domain or any murderous trail terrified her. She could barely make herself look at it much less traverse it for pleasure. Since taking the job here, she had refused to ski it. That was Paul’s job…after all, he was patrol leader.
Exiting the lift at the top, Riley crouched to study the tracks cut in the soft snow by the intruder’s skis. Fear caused her heart rate to spike, but she had no choice. She had to be sure he wasn’t injured and needed help. Gritting her teeth, hoping her stomach wouldn’t deposit her breakfast all over her clothes, she bent her knees, pushed with her poles, and leaned in to the sway and curve of the course. Soon, feeling only a twinge in her damaged knee, she fought to pick up on the balance and rhythm required to manage the moguls hidden by last night’s heavy powder fall.
Always aware of the perfect line of the stranger’s tracks, she followed. Thank God he wasn’t on the slope, dead or alive. If he’d gone over the edge, his tracks would have shown it. As it was, they raced steadily toward the end.
Within minutes, she flew out the bottom of the trail and snowplowed to a stop. Laughing with exhilaration, she dug her poles into the ground. She’d done it! Maybe she wasn’t qualified for the top US teams because of her injury, but her training and experience had overcome—for the tim
e being, at least—the terror that she would ruin a knee again. Of course, the run didn’t begin to match the dangerous levels of those on which she’d trained for World and the Olympics, but she would avoid ever doing this one again at all costs.
Still, she’d learned this morning that she could force herself to do it in a pinch if she absolutely had to. Like today. Anger pumped her up, preparing her to harangue the renegade skier, but to her disgust, she saw no sight of him.
The other patrollers were exiting their cars and walking to meet her. She skied over to greet them, still smiling. “You don’t need to check the double-black, Paul. I did.”
He lifted his brows in question, and she told them about the stranger. “Good for you, kid! We knew you could do it.”
“I’m not a kid, boy,” she snapped back, teasing him.
They all hand-slapped her.
In his Spanish-accented voice, Rodolfo Carrillo said, “I wonder if he’s the Olympian I overheard someone say might train here for the next World Cup.”
“What Olympian?” petite Maria Unger asked.
Rodolfo shrugged his wide shoulders. “Haven’t a clue.”
Paul McClellan added, “Me, either. You’d think someone would have told me, since I’m patrol leader.”
That brought a laugh from the team, but Riley kept the annoyance from her tone. Yes, Paul, who was older, was their leader, but she was second-in-command and should’ve been notified as well, especially if he couldn’t be reached.
Fact was, she’d often felt overlooked by the administration. Was it because she was female? Maybe because she hadn’t qualified for the Olympics again? Who knew? Perhaps someone in administration wanted her to fail so they could fire her. If so, she had no idea who it might be. Or what she might have done wrong to be considered for firing.
Insecure and paranoid to boot, that’s me…Riley O’Ryan. So stop these bad thoughts. Stop. Right. Now.
Ellie Marsh and Le Roy Adamson arrived, completing their team. They soon confirmed they hadn’t been told either.
Paul changed the subject. “Then I’ll check the single-black diamond. Gives you extra time for paperwork today.”
Riley grinned. “Thanks a lot,” meaning she didn’t thank him. Paul knew she hated paperwork. She smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, leaving to check the remaining pistes and start her classes. Afterward, she’d have time to zero in on reports.
Chapter 2
As required, that night they attended the weekly welcome party at the resort where Paul presented his team, ending with Riley as his next-in-charge. “I suggest you listen to her. She’s one smart and talented lady.”
It was her job to provide a few rules and safety tips for newcomers.
“Your safety is our number one concern. We suggest you go slow the first day or so. Angels Ski Resort is over six-thousand feet above sea level, and most of you don’t live at that level. You probably don’t want to ruin your time here suffering with altitude sickness.” She followed with early symptoms of that illness.
“Please pay attention to all the signs. They’re posted for your safety. If a run is closed, it is closed.” She emphasized the words in hopes the violator this morning would hear her.
“Stay away from marked avalanche areas. They’re dangerous, and just yesterday, our team made a harrowing rescue of a couple who ignored the postings. We had fifteen minutes to dig them out before serious frostbite or possible suffocation occurred.
“Also, punch 999 if you see someone in trouble. Our dispatcher will alert 911 and our team so we can reach the skier or skiers as fast as possible.”
Riley stepped back into the team’s ranks, then Paul took over in the subdued silence that followed. “For your initial run, we suggest you try something one step easier than you think you can ski. That way, you’ll know how well you might handle the next more difficult piste.”
Paul pointed to a building with “First Aid” painted in red letters. “You’ll find supplies such as bandages for blisters and cold packs for strains or sprains behind those doors.”
Everyone laughed, as if knowing they’d likely need some of those supplies. Most likely for blisters if their boots were new.
“You’ll also find the patrollers there. We’re all qualified emergency medical technicians, more commonly known as EMTs. Should your injuries require it, we’ll request paramedics and an ambulance.”
He fielded some questions and reminded them where to sign up for lessons—group or private. The team mingled awhile with the guests before huddling near the refreshments table while sipping mugs of hot cider and enjoying chocolate chip cookies.
They’d started laughing about something Le Roy had said when a big, firm hand clamped down on Riley’s shoulder. She turned, and a tall man startled her by bending down to brush his soft lips over hers.
“Yum. I taste apple cider mingled with ginger and strawberry lip gloss. Was that you yelling at me this morning?”
With the familiar taste of him on her mouth, and his scent in her nostrils, Riley froze. Her heart hammered triplets against her breastbone and her knees threatened to crumple. She looked into amber eyes framed by full lashes the color of smudged soot—the eyes of Jean-Claude Merseau, hope of the United States for another Olympic gold in the men’s downhill.
Jean-Claude…once her high school sweetheart.
Her throat clogged by emotion, she forced herself to speak. “Hello, Jean,” she said, softening the “J” and saying his name in the nasally French way. “Long time no see.”
Paul whistled. “You know this guy?”
Jean-Claude, smiling into her eyes, his gaze fastened on her face, said, “She does. We go way back. Met on our high school ski teams. Continued to train and compete under the same coach after graduation.”
For a while. Only for a while.
Rodolfo turned to Riley. “This guy—as Paul so casually referred to him—won an Olympic gold, and you know him? Can we touch you?” he teased.
The heat of an embarrassed flush flashed across her cheeks. Apparently Rodolfo had forgotten—
Jean’s arm slid around her shoulder and squeezed. “And this woman won an Olympic bronze in the women’s giant slalom the same year. And, yes, you may touch me.”
For a moment, but only just a moment, she let herself love him again. He had obviously seen her flush and had had her six. Once upon a time, that was how it had been with the Jean-Claude she’d known. The one who’d ceased to exist for her three, almost four, years ago.
The old pain hovered, threatening to ruin her evening. Riley’s stomach clenched and her damaged knee ached as remembrances rushed in of them together, and also why she’d never competed again as an Olympian or had seen him until this moment.
To stop the flooding memories and ease the awkward silence, she said as brightly as she could, “Everyone, let me make it formal—this is Jean-Claude Merseau, two gold medals in the men’s downhill. One at World Cup and another in the Olympics. Expected to rack up another gold in that race come this next Olympics. Jean I’d like you to meet our team.”
She turned out of his hold so he could shake hands. Grateful they peppered him with questions and freed her from further contact with him, she stepped through the door and into the crowd in the next room. Smiling at the waiter who extended a silver tray filled with stemmed glasses of wine, she accepted one.
Savoring its cherry and smoke flavor, and enjoying a view of the people in the crowded room, she heard Paul say, “Here you are, O’Ryan. Found you. As you can see, Sam interrupted our visit with Jean to introduce him to Gina.”
She turned to see Jean, his back to her now, smiling down at and listening to Samuel Roberts, the resort owner, and their boss. That spine-tingling, wonderful Merseau had always stirred a whirlpool of warm feelings, feelings at once wonderful yet so painful now that she hadn’t wanted to ever remember them again.
Standing so close only she would hear, Paul chuckled. “Gina’s already asked to see his medals. He told her
he hadn’t brought them. Poor man has no idea what he’s in for while he’s here.”
Gina was a natural platinum blonde with clear, lovely skin. She wore expensive clothes and flawless makeup. In comparison, Riley’s hair leaned toward caramel with lighter streaks created by the sun. Once she’d worn hers long, but now it just barely made ponytail length. She was lanky and her chest wasn’t as pleasingly burgeoning as Gina’s. Since she and Jean had drifted apart, Riley hadn’t much cared about her looks, except to be neat, clean, and pulled together. Suddenly, she felt too tall and scruffy beside the glamorous, pushy, and seductive Gina. Just like her dark-haired counterpart, Margot Watson.
She realized the rest of the team had joined her and Paul when Le Roy came up to whisper in his deep basso voice, “Curves, tits, and ass, but can’t carry a conversation worth a damn.”
“For starters,” Rodolfo said, “curves, tits, and ass may be enough, but it don’t last.”
Riley choked on her wine and they all smothered laughter.
“Shush,” Paul warned and changed the subject away from jokes about the boss’s daughter. “I didn’t realize you knew Jean.”
“School ski team, like he said. He qualified for World Cup. I didn’t.”
“But you’re a world-class skier!” Ellie protested.
“Politics,” Riley said, unable to mask the bitterness.
“There she goes. Right on time to snare him,” Maria said.
Riley watched the beautiful Miss Roberts, wearing diamond earrings and a form-fitting black gown too formal for this affair, link her arm with Jean’s. Her father conversed with him while she gazed starry-eyed into Jean’s face and seemed to absorb his every word.
Having had enough, Riley finished her wine. “Tomorrow will come too soon for me, and I’m tired after the rescue yesterday and this shindig tonight. Think I’ll turn in.”
They told her good night and she excused herself to quietly slip away, threading a path through the crush, then down a hall, where she entered the staff lounge. From her locker, she drew out a wool cap of many colors knitted by her mother’s mother—Grandma Lucy—and yanked it on. She zipped up her light blue parka and walked with her hands in its pockets across the still-powdery snow to the small cabin assigned to her. The other women roomed dormitory style, but since she’d won an Olympic bronze, they’d given her a separate cabin. At least the resort had remembered her medal.
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