Holiday Homecoming

AS HOLLY SAT BACK in her chair behind her desk, which was heavy with paperwork, the silence of the empty classroom weighed heavily on her. She wasn’t able to concentrate, not with her thoughts on the one person she didn’t even want to think about—Cain Stone. First the shock of seeing the man in person, then Annie’s reaction to her reaction to Cain Stone.

“That’s just plain irrational,” Annie had said while Sierra destroyed more gingerbread men. “You’ve never even talked to him.”

She had talked to him. Once. When she was seven or maybe eight. He’d been up on the mountain, ready to ski the hard run without permission. It was their land, not some teenagers’, who had seemed to her to take great delight in taunting her father. Her father had yelled at them, and she could remember she’d yelled, too.

The boys, four of them altogether, had waited until she and her father had gotten close; then, one by one, they had taken off down the run. They’d skied out of sight and never looked back. She still remembered their laughter echoing in the cold air. Then one year they didn’t come to ski. She didn’t think they ever were there again.

“He ran away,” Annie had said to her. “He took off when he was sixteen and no one knew for years where he went. Then he showed up in Las Vegas, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Her history, she thought bitterly. She’d heard the name Cain Stone a year ago, and it had changed her whole life. She gave up working at her desk, got up, gathered her things and left the school. She didn’t have far to drive to get to the house she’d rented for herself and Sierra. But by the time she was inside, she was freezing.

Quickly, she lit the fire she’d laid in the fireplace of the old bungalow, then went into her room. The place had been rented furnished, with nondescript pieces. A brown couch, two matching chairs, knotty pine end tables and a braided rug in the living room. Her bedroom had a double-sized, metal bedstead, with a single dresser and another braided rug. Sierra’s room had a single bed, a chest of drawers and about the only thing, besides their clothes, she’d brought with them from Las Vegas—her crib.

Without looking around, Holly stripped, stepped into a hot shower and stood there for a very long time. When she finally got out, the room was fogged with steam. She could hear the phone in the bedroom ringing. She grabbed her robe to put around her, then hurried into the bedroom and picked up the phone by her bed. “Hello?” she said a bit breathlessly.

“Holly, it’s Jack Prescott.”

She sank onto the bed and closed her eyes. After the failed meeting, and the aborted phone call, she’d decided that she’d write him a letter, refusing his offer, and leave it at that. “Yes?”

“Sorry to miss the meeting. I got my times mixed up. And phone service up here is pretty awful. I called you earlier to find out when it would be convenient to meet again.”

“I don’t think we need to.”

“You can come here or we can meet wherever you want to,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“There’s no reason to meet. The land isn’t for sale.”

He was silent for a moment, then named a figure that made her blink. “How about that?” he asked.

“I really don’t—”

He cut her off. “Think about it, and I’ll call you tomorrow. We can talk then,” he said, and disconnected.

She’d barely hung up, when the phone rang again. She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, babe.”

The voice of her ex-husband on the other end made her cringe. “What do you want, Travis?”

“Is that any way to answer the phone?”

Travis never called unless he wanted something, and she just didn’t have any more to give him, in any sense of the word. “What do you want?” she repeated.

“I called to find out how you and the kid are doing. Can’t I do that?”

He could, but he hadn’t. “You’re going to see Sierra on Christmas, aren’t you?”

Travis spoke quickly. “Yeah, sure, of course.” But she knew he wasn’t, and she’d have to explain to her daughter why her daddy wasn’t there. “The thing is, I’m strapped. I want to get the kid something really nice, and if you could send me some money, maybe three hundred, just a loan?”

She fought the urge to slam the phone down. Instead, she bit her lip, then said, “I don’t have it.”

“Oh, come on. Borrow it from your sister or something. She’s got that hotel, and she’s not hurting for money.”

“Travis, I’m not asking Annie for money for you.”

“Hell, she’s crazy about the kid. Tell her it’s for the Christmas present.”

She wouldn’t lie like that, not when the money would go into the nearest blackjack or poker game. “No, I won’t,” she said, hating the slight unsteadiness in her voice. “The locket was the last thing you’ll get from me.”

She hadn’t meant to say that. The locket was long gone, but losing it had been the last straw, what had prompted her to walk out. Travis uttered a harsh expletive and hung up. She fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

She’d left Las Vegas because of Travis and the life they’d had there. She’d returned to Silver Creek, a place that had always been a cocoon of safety for her. But nothing had changed. Not with Travis. He’d violated her peace and so had Cain Stone.

“Damn them both,” she muttered as she turned onto her side. She balled her hand into a fist and hit the pillow over and over. Tears burned her eyes, and she fought them. She wasn’t going to cry. She was going to make a life for herself in Silver Creek, despite Travis, despite Cain Stone.

CAIN HAD ALWAYS BEEN a night person, going to bed near dawn most days. But that night at the Inn, he got into bed around midnight and slept until dawn crept into the room. He woke up instantly, sleep completely gone. He’d had the strangest dreams, snippets of ideas, all jumbled, about teachers and detention and forgotten lessons and brilliant hair around a beautiful face that—in the dreams, at least—had smiled at him.

When his body seemed to have ideas that were ridiculous, Cain rolled out of bed and headed for the elaborate bathroom. No, cave. The walls, floor and ceiling were fashioned from rock and stone, with a sunken Jacuzzi in the middle of the floor, positioned perfectly for the view out stone-arched windows that overlooked the main ski runs. He passed it by in favor of the open shower, a three-sided structure built into the rock of the mountainside. A waterfall ran out the back wall, and with a flick of a switch, the waterfall became rain falling from overhead in varying strengths, from a mere sprinkle to a deluge. Side jets massaged the body at the same time.

He flicked the switch and warm water rained down on him immediately. He tipped his head back, letting the water run over his face. Despite the soothing water, he felt edgy and tense. And the dream’s images refused to evaporate under the steamy spray. Finally, he got out and reached for a towel. As he started to dry himself, he glanced out the windows to the high slopes in the distance and remembered what he’d decided the evening before. There it was. The mountain. Killer Run.

Dawn was bathing the mountain in its glow, and he suddenly felt like a kid who was going to play hooky. This was probably because of all those crazy dreams about the teacher. He decided to do something he’d done a lot when he was a kid—take off with his skis on his shoulder, heading for the mountain.

He tossed the towel on a side shelf and reached for a house phone, set into a rock niche next to the trio of sinks under more windows. He hit the star button, and even though a glance at the nearest clock said it was only five-twenty in the morning, the call was answered on the second ring.

“Good morning, sir. This is Alfred. How may I be of assistance to you?”

“I want to go skiing,” he said.

Before he could add anything, Alfred said, “Very good. Have your requirements on file changed?”

Cain didn’t know he had any requirements on file. “What do you have?”

Alfred read off a list without hesitation, from Cain’s shirt size to his preference in ski bindings. Everything sounded right, even the fact that he liked down vests and not jackets, that he liked thermals under his clothes, that he favored bands instead of hats and liked reds. Jack had fed Alfred all the information and he’d noted everything.

“Nothing’s changed,” Cain said.

“When will you be needing your supplies?” Alfred asked.

“Within half an hour?”

“Absolutely,” Alfred replied without a second’s hesitation. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Coffee.”

“Espresso? Cappuccino? Café mocha? Latte? Cinam—”

“Just coffee,” he said, cutting off the recitation. “Just black, please.”

“Colombian? Afric—”

“Anything. Just make sure it’s hot,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Alfred said.

Good to his word, Alfred had the supplies at Cain’s cabin in twenty minutes, along with strong black coffee in a thermal carafe. He drank most of the coffee before he put on the thermals, then black ski pants and a white turtleneck pullover over them. He shrugged into the red down vest and tried the boots. They were a perfect fit. Damn, Jack was good, Cain thought with real admiration. He slipped on reflective glasses, drained the last of his coffee, then grabbed his bundled skis and poles and left.

When he was a kid, he’d walked all the way from the orphanage, but had cut across Jack’s land, which had been untouched back then. He’d climb every inch of the way to the ridge—no lifts or rides of any kind then, either. He’d leave about three in the morning to get there by sunrise, and sometimes Jack and Joshua, maybe even Gordie, would be there waiting for him. Then they took the run together.

The Inn operated its lifts 24/7 even if no one used them. Convenience was everything at the Inn, and Cain took the easy way up. He rode on the lower lift, caught a ride at the halfway point on another lift, then switched to the one that went closest to Killer Run.

He got off at the top but kept going upward, managed to climb over the confinement fence that marked the edge of the Inn’s property, and headed for the trees that lined the east side of the run. He traveled parallel to them as he trudged higher, studying the sweep of the run as he went, watching for any hazards hidden under the snow. Downed trees, rocks, anything could be concealed under the whiteness, but you got to where you could read the snow itself, the shape, the way it flowed, any intrusions in the way it hugged the mountain.

His breath curled around his face as he struggled to make the top. As a kid, he’d made the top easily. Now it was work, not like taking elevators up and down at the hotel or working out on a treadmill. But worth it, he knew when he saw Killer Run.

It was beyond a series of ridges that jutted out into the air from the mountainside. If you hit the top of the run just right, you’d clear the ridges. If you didn’t, the ground below was deep with snow and hopefully you’d land safely, missing rocks and small trees. He’d always been lucky that way.

Now he climbed, ignoring old signs that said Private Property and No Skiing—Danger! Jack had mentioned that Old Man Jennings had died and he was working with his heir. So there wouldn’t be a frantic man screaming at Cain and ordering him off the mountain.

The sun was up completely, the day keenly bright with light glinting off the fresh snow, and his glasses tinted everything slightly blue. His boots sank calf-deep in the snow, and he climbed much more slowly as he went around the ridges and up the back way. He spotted the tree grouping he was looking for—a stand around a clearing at the top, right where the run started.

At last he stood on the top of the mountain, the heavens above him and the whole valley of Silver Creek below.

He took a deep breath of the thin, cold air, then jammed his skis and poles into the deep snow and just stared at the view. Beyond the grounds of the Inn, the town appeared like a Christmas-card scene, all white snow, the spread of quaint buildings, the distant ski lifts and the smoke from numerous chimneys drifting into the sky.

He studied the Inn. It was just as pleasant looking, but years and years newer from all the development. The scattering of expensive cottages, each positioned for the most privacy, gave the impression of being their own small town. Smoke curled into the air from many chimneys, and the main lodge spread out in both directions, nestling into the snowy land.

He lifted gloved hands, cupped them around his mouth and did something he’d done every time in the past. “Top of the world!” he yelled. The sound echoed clearly to him five times, then with the vaguest whisper of a sixth time, before it was gone.

“Six,” he yelled, letting the single word come back to him over and over. “Still champ!” His voice was everywhere, then faded away. He reached for skis, put them down, stepped into the bindings and bent to fasten them. Then he stood, flexed his legs and made his way to the start of the run, the one spot that was perfectly aligned with the outcropping below.

He flexed his hands on the pole grips and was ready to push off, when he heard someone yell, “Hey, there!”

His lifted one ski, pivoted and looked behind him. He thought he glimpsed something yellow, then it was gone. It appeared again off to his right, and then the teacher broke out of the trees. She was skiing her way toward him. Her yellow knit hat was pulled low over her brilliant hair, the colors a vivid contrast with her dull gray jacket and ski pants. When she was four feet from him, she tilted her head back and peered up into his face.

The sight of her stirred something so basic in him that he had to inhale a deep breath to level out his thoughts. He took in the deep amber eyes, the lift of her chin, the flame of her hair. Old goggles hung around her neck, and plain knit gloves covered her hands. She wasn’t his type—at least, he’d never thought “tiny and cute” could be sexy—but he knew better right then. He’d always been a risk taker in every sense of the word, and he had a niggling feeling that being attracted to this woman was risk taking at its best. He didn’t back down. He didn’t even care that she was staring at him as if he’d stolen the crown jewels.

Chapter Three

Holly spotted the red first, the flash of color where there shouldn’t be color, then she’d heard the sound. The echoing voice that rang through the valley, bouncing off the mountains. She hesitated going closer, then couldn’t stand not going to see who was there. Few ever got up this way, except…That made her move faster. Except Jack Prescott’s people, surveying the land by hers. She dug in, partly gliding on the snow and partly sinking in spots. She awkwardly made her way to the sound. Through the trees she saw a single man by the ridge.

He yelled again, letting his voice echo at him, then he made a grab for his poles. Someone from the resort? One of Prescott’s men? They were on her land. She hurried, shouted to him, “Hey, there!”

She went forward for the widest opening in the trees, pushing hard to move faster, and broke out of the snow-laden grove directly across from the single person. He was turning, the bloodred of his vest brilliant against the clear blue sky behind him. Fancy clothes, she thought, expensive skis. Reflective glasses that bounced back at her the glint of the morning sun. She skied closer to him, ready to tell him to get off her property, then she realized the intruder was Cain Stone.

That stopped her within two ski lengths of him. She took a gulping breath, then demanded, “What are you doing here?”

He looked unruffled at her arrival, almost as if he was enjoying it. “I’m not going to be basket weaving,” he said with the hint of a smile twitching at his lips. She had no idea what was in his eyes. The glasses just reflected her own, distorted image.

She’d taken this run for years, and she had no doubt she could ski it, but she didn’t know too many others who would even try, except Cain Stone and his cohorts years ago. Back then she’d thought they had to be either stupid or arrogant. Now she realized this man had to be both. “You aren’t going to ski down, so why don’t you go back that way.” She motioned behind her. “There’s a road about a quarter mile beyond the trees. If you’re lucky, you can hitch a ride back to town.”

She expected him to get angry or annoyed, but she didn’t expect him to laugh right out loud. The sound echoed around them. “I don’t hitchhike,” he finally said.

“Do you read signs?”

“Every one of them.”

“How about the Private Property signs you had to pass on the way here?”

His laughter was gone now. “I read every one of them.”

“Then get off this land. It’s private.”

“I don’t see a badge.”

“What?”

“I assumed that you’re some sort of security, policing this area.”

She shook her head. “It’s private land.”

“Oh, and you own it?”

She stared right at him. “Damn straight I do.”

She couldn’t tell if she’d shocked him or not. His expression didn’t change—at least, she didn’t think it did. And she couldn’t see his eyes. “How?” was all he said.

“How what?”

“How could you own it?”

“All you need to know is I own it. And this isn’t a public run. It’s posted, and—”

“The kid,” he exclaimed. “You’re the kid, aren’t you?”

“What kid?”

“The hair. I remember the hair. Jennings coming after us, and you running up behind him, a tiny little thing, but with a booming voice.” He smiled suddenly, an expression that shook her. “You’d yell, ‘Get off my mountain,’while Jennings threatened to shoot us on the spot.”

Her dad had been furious at their intrusion. “I’ll skin them alive,” he’d say. “Maybe shoot them, too.” But he never caught up with them. As she and her father had come out of the trees, one by one the boys had turned and taken off. By the time she got to the edge, the boys were shooting down the run, their voices echoing into the mountains as they yelled, “Yahoo!” Then she’d go back to the cabin with her dad, and while she’d wait for her mother to pick her up, she’d keep the fire going and watch her father get drunker and drunker, all the while muttering about “those blasted teenagers.”

“You were trespassing back then, too,” she murmured, not wanting to remember that time of her life clearly.

“You’re…” He thought for a second. “Molly?”

“It’s Holly, and you’re still trespassing.”

He didn’t move. “Tell me one thing, Holly.”

“What?”

“Did he really have a gun?”

She was so shocked that she almost smiled. She didn’t intend to smile with this man, or have this conversation. “No, he didn’t, but he didn’t want you on his land, and neither do I.”

The next question rocked her. “Is that why you hate me? Because I used the run when Jennings didn’t want me to?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

He actually came closer, his skis spreading right and left to go on the outside of hers. He got within two feet of her, and he towered over her. She forced herself not to retreat. If she moved, she’d fall into him, tangle with his skis, and this whole situation would be even more embarrassing.

He leaned toward her, erasing even more space between them. “You know, that look, as if I’m two rungs below the lowest rung on the ladder of humanity.”

“You’re crazy,” she said quickly, but didn’t sound very convincing even to her ears.

“Am I?” he asked, and she was certain she felt the suggestion of heat from his breath touch her face.

She shook her head. “Yes, you are.”

“And you don’t hate me?”

She couldn’t tell a lie of that magnitude. “What difference would it make if I did?”

He was very still for a long moment. Then, without warning, he leaned even closer, cupped her chin with his gloved hand. “A hell of a lot of difference,” he whispered roughly. Then he let her go before she could think of how to react, and expertly turned without hitting her skis. With a glance back at her, he moved to the edge of the run, dug in, and in the next instant he pushed off and was away. His voice echoed to her, “Yahoo!” over and over again.

She hurried to the edge, saw the path he cut in the snow and saw him take the jump at the outcropping with ease. She’d been ready to ski the run herself, and she wasn’t going to let him change her plans. She flipped up her goggles, then pushed off herself. Never glancing away from the bright red vest, she made the jump cleanly, and landed with knees bent at almost the exact spot he’d landed.

She kept going, her eyes on him ahead of her, and she saw his mistake an instant before he made it. She screamed, “Left, left,” but there was no time for him to adjust. He didn’t go left, kept going straight ahead, no doubt figuring that the even snow beyond was safe. But it wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t. There’d been a rock slide in the summer, and there was now a crater in the mountain where it hadn’t been before. The snow that hid it was soft, and the instant he hit the softness, he sank. His skis caught, and he went flying forward, skis over head. She slowed, swept left and back, then she skied sideways to a stop near where he was sprawled awkwardly in the snow. One ski had been released from its bindings, coming to rest near his head, and the other ski was on its side, twisted with his foot. She couldn’t see his poles anywhere.

She pushed with her poles, skied sideways, approaching the hole of snow, and carefully picked her way over to where he’d ended up, no more than three feet from a huge pine. He wasn’t moving, just lying facedown in the snow. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like his kind, but that didn’t stop her heart from rising in her throat. “Are you okay?” she yelled.

She bent down, unsnapped her bindings, then trudged over to him. She stooped by him, her knees sinking in the powdery snow. She reached for him, grabbing his vest, but was afraid to move him in case she did more harm to him than good. “Cain,” she breathed. “Can you hear me?”

He stirred then, and she pulled back. He pushed one hand into the snow, then slowly turned until he was on his back. His goggles were still in place and they reflected her image and caught the sunlight behind her. She couldn’t see any blood on him, but he moved very cautiously as he lifted a hand to take off his glasses. She was looking into eyes filled with the same laughter that was twitching at his lips. “Face-plant,” he muttered as he shoved himself up and realigned his single ski. “I haven’t done that since…” He shrugged as he swiped at the snow that clung to his face and hair and grinned at her. “Too long ago to remember.”

She sank back on her heels. “It’s not funny. You could have killed yourself.”

He swiped his glasses off, then slipped them back on. “I’m not dead. Just ended up with hurt pride,” he murmured. “But it does hurt.” He glanced past her up the hill. “What happened—rocks messed up or a sinkhole?”

“Rocks,” she said. “They had a slide in the summer and it left a good-sized pocket.”

“Well, live and learn,” he said, pushing himself up to his feet. He turned to her and held out a gloved hand.

She ignored it and got to her feet herself. She brushed at her pants, then managed to make herself look up at him. She motioned to the east. “Go down that way and you’re at the fence for the resort.”

He reached for his errant ski and put it back on. Then he scanned the area. “My poles,” he said, going past her. She watched him digging into the snow, then coming up with both poles. “Lucky they stuck together,” he said.

“It doesn’t bother you that you could have broken your neck?” She motioned to the huge pine that would have been his stopping place if the soft snow hadn’t slowed him.

He came back to where she stood, meshing his skis with hers the way he had at the top. “Oh, I’m not worried about my neck,” he said. “And what’s life without taking chances.” He grinned. “It’s a rush.”

“A face-plant is a rush?” she muttered.