Читать книгу Footprints in the Snow - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 9

Shana stumbled off balance. Her back rested against the cabin wall. The cold from outside crept through the logs and chilled her spine, contrasting the fire that burned inside her—an intense heat generated by his kiss.

“Shana,” he whispered, “are you all right?”

She wanted to say yes, but her head was spinning and her knees were weak. “I need to sit down.”

He guided her the few paces to the narrow bed and helped tuck her bare legs under the covers.

Stretched out on the bed, she looked up at him. So handsome. So gentle. This man had saved her life. He was her real-live hero, and he kissed like an expert.

She wanted more kisses, a lot more. This was crazy. Making love to a total stranger? Shana knew better. Years of working in the field, mostly with men, had taught her self-control. But she wasn’t at a job site. This cabin, tucked away in the mountains, was a different reality. Regular rules and restrictions did not apply.

When he started to rise from the bed, she sat up and caught hold of his arm. “Don’t go.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you need something?”

You. I need you. She wanted him to stay close beside her, to kiss her again.

“This doesn’t seem fair,” she said. “I’m nearly naked, and you’re wearing all those clothes.”

She raised her arm and stroked the bristly stubble on his jaw. With a fingertip, she traced a line from his mouth to his chin and down his throat. Aware that her behavior was utterly inappropriate, she began to unbutton his shirt. The effort took all her concentration. Her fingers lacked dexterity.

“Shana, I don’t think this is—”

“Don’t think.” Never before had she been so bold. She must be delirious. “I want this shirt off.”

“Let me.”

He unfastened the buttons and slipped off his shirt, then he pulled his T-shirt over his head. His arms and shoulders were lean yet muscular. A sprinkle of dark hair coated his chest. Below his collarbone, she saw a ragged scar. The suturing had been rushed, clumsy. Another scar crossed his rib cage.

She ran her thumb across the mark on his chest. “What happened?”

“The war happened.”

He’d been injured in battle. He really was a hero. That fact jolted her back toward reality, reminding her that there was a real world outside this cabin. “I’m sorry, Luke.”

“Don’t cry for me. I survived.”

He wasn’t being macho. Just stating a fact.

She held the dog tags that hung around his neck. “Name, rank and serial number,” she said. “Blood type O negative. You’re a universal donor.”

“That’s right.”

“What does the P stand for?”

“Protestant.”

“Or maybe,” she said, “the P stands for Perfect.”

“If you knew me better, you wouldn’t say that.”

“What’s your fatal flaw?”

“Right now? I’m thinking how good it would be to make love to you.”

She nodded, and her brain rattled painfully. She winced. Though she desperately wanted to stay alert, her eyelids drooped. “Making love,” she murmured. “Not a problem.”

“You need to rest. You’re already half-unconscious. I won’t take advantage of you.”

“Rest.” That sounded good. “Sleep.”

He leaned her back, laid her down on the pillow. Though she still had the urge to make love, her body was limp. So tired.

As she closed her eyes, she felt Luke lightly kiss her forehead. He was moving away from her. Yet, in her mind, she could feel his strong arms wrapped tightly around her. The heat of his body permeated her flesh.

She might be dreaming, but this was the most realistic fantasy she’d ever had. She could smell him. Her nostrils flared. A musky scent.

Their clothing melted away, and she experienced the amazing moment when their naked bodies met. The hair on his chest rubbed against her breasts, and her nipples tightened. She groaned with anticipation.

If she opened her eyes, she was certain to see his smile. His firm, stubborn jaw. The shining, intoxicating blue of his eyes.

She was ready for him. Her legs parted, welcoming him. Needing him. She never wanted to wake up. Being with Luke was the right thing. The only thing. She had to have this man. This snow-driven, crystalline fantasy was her destiny.

THE NEXT MORNING, sunlight poured through the window of the small cabin and slanted across the blankets that covered Shana on the narrow bed. Her body ached from injuries she suffered when she crashed down the slope, but she wasn’t complaining. Last night had been fantastic, even if it was only a dream. She lay very still, not really wanting to face the reality of a new day.

Slowly, she opened her eyelids and saw Luke, fully dressed and tending to the fire in the potbellied stove. Though he was the same handsome man who had rescued her, she sensed that today was far different from yesterday and last night. Also, her headache had returned.

“Aspirin,” she croaked.

At the sound of her voice, he turned toward her. His smile was polite but wary. “Aspirin and water are on the chair beside the bed.”

She wasn’t exactly sure what she expected him to say, but that wasn’t it. Vaguely irritated, she reached for the mug, downed three aspirin and lay back on the pillows. Beneath the sheets she was naked and terribly aware of her vulnerability.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Last night, she’d been starving…but not for food. She craved him. Of course, that wasn’t what he was talking about. “I could eat something.”

“My supplies are sparse.” He reached up to a high shelf and grabbed an opened cardboard box that he placed on the table. “I’ve got a couple of K rations I swiped from the quartermaster.”

“K rations?”

“Survival food to carry in combat. If the enemy doesn’t kill you, this stuff will.”

“You’re talking about an MRE, meal ready to eat. When I was in Kuwait, some of the soldiers had them.”

When he placed the box on the bed in front of her, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. The prepackaged energy food had all the appeal of eating tree bark, but she needed to build her strength if she hoped to ski back to civilization. After peeling off the wrapper, she forced herself to bite into the square chunk of tasteless calories. It crumbled in her mouth like sand.

“How about coffee?” Luke asked.

“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.