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“Oh, yes.”
He went to the potbellied stove. Using a dish towel, he lifted a metal pot from the burner and poured steaming liquid into a mug that looked like vintage Fiestaware. A quaint touch, she thought. These mountain huts had been built in the 1940s and the crockery matched that era. So did the furniture. The Formica table with aluminum legs and matching chairs looked almost new thanks to the retro craze.
When he handed her the mug, there was no spark of electricity. No special thrill. They were strangers again. So that’s the way it’s going to be. Well, fine.
With a dispassionate gaze, she studied him. Still gorgeous, but there was something odd about the way he was dressed. His fatigues were the old-fashioned army drab instead of the usual beige or green camouflage. The fabric seemed stiff and heavy. “You mentioned that you were in the army.”
“Stationed at Camp Hale. Or Camp Hell, as we like to call it.”
“From the 10th Mountain Division.”
He pointed to the crossed sword insignia on the sleeve of his white parka, which hung from a peg near the door. “We climb to conquer.”
Shana took a sip of the bitter coffee, which was nothing like the thick, rich espresso she’d grown to adore while in Kuwait. “Tell me about Camp Hale.”
“Construction started in 1942 under Charles Minnie Dole who started the 10th to train for cold weather warfare. At the high point, there were ten thousand men stationed here. Now, most everybody has shipped out.”
She was no World War II buff, but Shana was certain that Camp Hale no longer existed. In the hotel where she was staying in Leadville, there were several black-and-white photos of the historic Camp Hale site and the famous troops who had fought bravely in Europe at the end of the war. A long time ago. “What are you doing here?”
“Me and a skeleton crew pulled guard duty for a government project.” He checked his wristwatch. “I need to report back real soon.”
“You’re leaving me here?”
“The rest will do you good,” he said. “I’ll come back this afternoon and help you get into town.”
She tasted disappointment with her coffee. Last night, he’d been clear about making no promises that they’d be together. But she expected more from him. Something. Anything.
She glanced toward the cabin door. Her short metallic skis were propped against the wall beside his long wood skis. Hickory skis with old-fashioned cable bindings? The laminated wood shafts of his ski poles were equally antiquated with a twisted bamboo basket.
A rifle also stood near the door. “What kind of gun is that?”
“A .30 caliber Garand with an eight round clip. Standard issue.”
“Not really.” In the Middle East, she’d become familiar with the weaponry used by U.S. troops. “What about the M16? Or the M4 Carbine? The .50 caliber sniper rifle?”
“A .50 caliber?” He scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”
“Every soldier in Iraq carries at least one of those weapons.”
“Iraq?” His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah, I remember now. You were in Kuwait. The Middle East.”
“I know a little bit about military equipment.”
“So you’re an expert.”
“I didn’t say that.” Why was he so cranky? “I was just noticing that you have some old-fashioned equipment. Like those wood skis.”
He fired a glare in her direction but said nothing. If she’d been smart, Shana would have followed his example and kept her mouth shut, but she continued, “I didn’t even know they made bindings like that anymore.”
“Now you’re an expert on ski equipment.” He looked down at her from his towering height. “I should have guessed from your skill on the slopes when you slid halfway down the mountain on your butt.”
“That wasn’t my fault. How could I know a blizzard was coming?”
“A sky full of snow clouds should have been a clue.”
“I get your point.” She adjusted the blankets around her. “I wasn’t being careful. Maybe because of the altitude sickness.”
“Maybe,” he conceded.
“I’m usually a rational, logical person.” At her new assignment in Rifle, she’d be the project manager. “I’m very responsible.”
When she stared directly into his intense blue eyes, she saw a brief spark. A flicker of memory from last night?
“I guess,” he drawled, “I’ll have to take your word about being responsible.”
While she groped in her mind for a snappy comeback, he pulled his snow pants over his fatigues and sat on the chair to lace up his boots, which were also old-fashioned in design. She tried to imagine why Luke—who was obviously an experienced skier—would be using such antiquated equipment.
“I know,” she said. “You’re doing some kind of historical reenactment. Something about the early days of the 10th Mountain Division. Am I right?”
“I don’t have time to play games, and the 10th isn’t history.” He frowned. “Are you feeling okay? You sound a little Looney Tunes this morning.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “As soon as possible, I’m out of here.”
“Whatever you say.”
Wrong! He was supposed to tell her that he’d enjoyed their kiss last night. At the very least, he should offer a couple of light compliments. “I know you enjoyed it. Last night was every man’s fantasy. Being trapped in a cabin with a naked woman.”
“Depends on the woman,” he said.
“Are you telling me I’m not your type?” If she hadn’t still been nearly naked, she would have leaped from the bed and smacked him. “I suppose you prefer brainless blondes.”
“Not really. I wouldn’t kick Betty Grable out of the sack, but Rita Hayworth is my pinup. You’d look a little bit like her if you’d—”
“Stop it,” she snapped. “Rita Hayworth. Camp Hale. Wood skis. Exactly what year do you think it is?”
He slipped on his parka, grabbed his skis and opened the cabin door. “It’s 1945.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“I’ll be back this afternoon. Rest easy, Shana.”
The door closed firmly behind him.
This was just typical of her luck. She finally let down her guard and allowed herself to experience the fantasy of the moment, and the guy was certifiably insane.
She pushed aside the K rations. That was another 1945 term—K ration instead of MRE. Did he really believe it was over sixty years ago?
Did it matter if he did? His message was pretty darn clear. He was done with her. Well, fine. She was done with him, too. No way was she going to wait around in this dinky little cabin for him to come back. Shana could find her own way back to the ski trails and the parking lot where she’d left her rental car.
When she crawled out of the bed, it felt as if every muscle in her body had been strained. A gigantic purple bruise decorated her thigh. She stretched and took a couple of cleansing breaths, hoping to move beyond the pain.
While she dressed, she forced down another cup of coffee, more water and another few bites of the disgusting K ration food substitute. What a lousy way to start her time in Colorado!
Even though Luke had been utterly obnoxious, she probably ought to leave him a note, explaining that she’d decided not to stick around. As she poked around on the table looking for a paper and pencil, she found a black-and-white photograph of a young kid with curly hair. Luke’s son? On the back of the picture was a note written in fountain pen. “Roberto. Christmas, 1944.”
The edges of the photo were frayed, indicating that it had been handled a lot. Carefully, Shana returned the picture to the table.
In her pack, she found a confirmation for her hotel room and scribbled a note on the back.
Thanks for saving my life. Going to town.
Goodbye forever, Shana.
Before leaving, she glanced around the cabin. So much for windswept fantasies. It was time to get back to the real world. She grabbed her skis and trudged out the door.
As if to compensate for her dark mood, the weather was spectacular. Brilliant sunlight illuminated clear blue skies and sparkled like diamonds on the new-fallen snow that decorated the pine trees surrounding the forest. Yesterday’s blizzard was already beginning to melt.
She shoved her boots into the bindings and fastened the tethers. Her first gliding step was agony. When she got back to the hotel in Leadville, Shana intended to spend the rest of the day soaking in the tub, healing her physical wounds.
She followed the tracks of Luke’s skis through the forest. The more she moved, the more her muscles loosened up. Except for the bruise on her hip and the remnant of a headache, she was okay. Slowly, she made her way through the forest to an open slope that seemed familiar. Was this where she’d fallen yesterday?
Though she wasn’t sure which direction led back to the marked cross-country ski trails, she figured that if she kept heading downhill, she’d eventually find her way. She’d barely eased the tip of her ski onto the slope when she heard a gunshot.
Startled, she pulled back and hid in the trees. Why would anybody be shooting up here? It wasn’t hunting season. She thought of Luke and his rifle. He’d claimed to be doing guard duty on a government project. War games? Glancing back over her shoulder, she thought of returning to the cabin and barring the door. Then she saw them.
About twenty yards downhill, two men dressed in black skied across the slope, moving fast and ducking down. One of them turned and fired wildly with a handgun.
Shana ducked. This was crazy. His bullet could have gone anywhere.
Luke appeared. Clad in his all-white parka and ski pants, he was camouflaged against the glittering white snow, but nothing could hide his skill and dexterity on his long, wood skis. He moved fast, bursting out of the forest and onto the open slope. Halfway across, he swooshed to a halt, sending up a spray of powder snow. He dropped to one knee. With one smooth move, he flipped his Garand rifle from a sheath on his back into his gloved hands. Sighting down the barrel, he fired. Once. Then again.
One of the men Luke had been pursuing gave a pained shout. He was hit, but he didn’t go down. He and his partner disappeared into the trees on the opposite side of the slope.
Luke set off in single-minded pursuit.
Shana couldn’t believe what she was seeing, but she was dead certain that she wanted no part of this violence. What she needed was to get the hell away from here.
Desperately, she edged uphill, away from the fight. As she crested the slope, she found herself looking down into a wide valley. There were over a hundred rectangular barracks arranged in neat rows—housing for ten thousand men.
Smoke rose from some of the chimneys, and she saw a soldier leading a mule across the hard-packed snow. An old army jeep chugged on a snow-covered roadway in front of a large two-story house with two separate wings. There was a mess hall. Other administrative buildings. A barn.
This was Camp Hale. From 1945.
Chapter Three
This huge army base hadn’t been here yesterday. It hadn’t been here for the past fifty years. It didn’t exist anymore.
Shana blinked furiously, hoping to erase the visual evidence. When she stared down the slope, nothing had changed. Camp Hale spread out before her like a black-and-white photograph come to life. Apparently, Luke wasn’t crazy. She was.
Her mind searched for a logical explanation.
Possibly, the site had been recreated as a historical place. With all those barracks? Housing for ten thousand troops? The cost of running the base would be too high.
If someone had rebuilt Camp Hale, they had to have a lot of cash. A movie? That made more sense. Hollywood people might be extravagant enough to reconstruct the base to make a movie about the legendary 10th Mountain Division.
But when she peered down toward the camp, she saw nothing resembling the lights and cameras needed by a movie crew. Instead of a movie crew led by Steven Spielberg, there were soldiers in fatigues. The only vehicles were vintage army jeeps. And mules.
More gunfire echoed behind her, and she startled. The obvious escape led straight down the hill into the camp, but she didn’t want to go there. Once she entered that 1945 world, she might never be able to return to her own time, her own millennium. She didn’t want to be swallowed up by the past.
This vision had to be an illusion, an aftereffect of altitude sickness. Luke had told her it was 1945. His suggestion must have triggered this fantasy from the photographs she’d seen in Leadville.
A fantasy? That wasn’t the way her mind worked. Shana was a scientist. Her life was based on rock-solid facts and rational analysis. She didn’t believe in fairy tales and had very little need for imagination. Last night with Luke was the closest she’d ever come to a fantasy.
Did their kiss even happen? Or was that a part of this winter mirage? Think, Shana. Somehow this had to make sense. Maybe she’d died on the slopes and Camp Hale was limbo. She wasn’t someone who…traveled backward through time.
This wasn’t happening; she refused to accept Camp Hale no matter how real it looked. The important thing was to find her way back to reality. Forcing her legs to move, she turned away from the encampment. Ignore it. Pretend that you never saw Camp Hale. Ski back to the rental car, back to Leadville.
“Halt,” came a shout from down the hill.
Two men—dressed like Luke in all-white snow gear—charged up the slope toward her. Their movements seemed labored; neither of them were as proficient on skis as Luke. While one man continued to approach, the other dropped to one knee and leveled a rifle at her chest.
“Raise your hands above your head.”
Shana did as she was told. Even in an imaginary world, she had no desire to be shot.
“You’re a girl,” said the guy who reached her first. He turned and waved to his partner. “Lower your weapon.”
He did as ordered and came toward them.
The first man asked, “What the hell are you doing up here, girlie?”
Though her mouth was dry, Shana forced words past her lips. “I’m with Luke. Luke Rawlins.”
“No kidding?” He turned back to his partner again. “She says she’s with Sergeant Rawlins.”
The second man joined them. When he pushed back the fur-lined hood of his parka, she was surprised to see how young he looked. This tall, lanky kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He frowned at her. “I don’t believe it. The sergeant isn’t a womanizer, and he knows better than to bring a girl up here.”
“She could be a spy. Take a look at her skis. I’ve never seen anything like those before. They’re made out of plastic.”
“Fiberglass,” Shana said. She’d spent enough time on drilling sites to know how to deal with men who didn’t trust her opinions and skills. It was important to immediately establish that she wasn’t a brainless twit. She kept her voice calm. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything, gentlemen. May I lower my hands?”
“Not yet,” said the young guy. He came close and patted her down in a clumsy frisk. “Take off that knapsack and hand it to me.”
She obeyed his order and watched as the two of them pawed through the contents of her pack. The younger man flipped open her wallet. “International Driver’s License,” he said accusingly. “Your name is Shana Parisi?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“Private First Class Henry Harrison.”
