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Puerto d’Ara

A COLD winter sun glinted on the sign posted at the side of the treacherous snow-packed mountain road. Desidiero Pastrana, known to a few close friends as Des, glimpsed it just before the faded pink ball disappeared behind the majestic Pico d’Ara, which was 3,000 meters high. In the twinkling of an eye, light turned to dark. With Christmas only three days away, night fell fast over the Pyrenees.

Just after leaving the northern city of Jaca, where he’d been on business, Des had gotten that queasy sensation again. He hadn’t been feeling like himself for the past few days. It was probably something he’d eaten, or he’d come down with a cold. Either way, he was anxious to reach the year-round mountain resort village of Puerto d’Ara and call it a night.

Of all the hotels owned by the Pastrana family in the province of Aragon, he preferred the Posada d’Ara, a former 17th-century monastery that had since been converted into an inn. Only two kilometers from the border separating the Spanish and French Pyrenees, Des used it as a base to indulge his passion for climbing.

He was planning to do some winter camping and serious ice climbing over the next ten days. Then after New Year’s, he’d get back to work and sit down with Miguel Torrillas, the affable manager of the Posada d’Ara, to do the requisite end-of-year inventory. Des was the CEO of the Pastrana Corporation and known for his hands-on approach to running the company.

He was also known to his family for avoiding spending the holidays with them. He’d purposely arranged this trip so that he could skip Christmas with his family.

And, he thought, hopefully skip the reminders of last Christmas. A grimace crept over his dark Castilian features. At this time the year before, the woman he’d planned to marry had sued his corporation after he’d taken her climbing and she’d been mildly injured.

His fiancée hadn’t been a winter-sports person, but he’d wanted her to understand his passion for it. His skills could have compensated for her inexperience—but they couldn’t compensate for her utter refusal to heed his instructions while they’d been climbing.

After a few minutes on the mountain she’d suddenly told him she’d changed her mind and wanted to go back to the hotel. He’d asked her to wait for him, but in a huff she’d started off without him and slipped. He’d gotten to her as quickly as he could, managed to extricate her ankle from where she’d wedged it and rushed her to the clinic.

The doctor had said that it wasn’t a major injury and she should just stay off her leg for a few days to avoid the pain until it was gone. She’d left the clinic without speaking to Des.

A week later the corporate attorney for the Pastranas showed Des the petition from her attorney wanting restitution and compensation for his client’s injury. Des had been incredulous. His fiancée was suing him? He’d asked her for an explanation, convinced it had to be a mistake.

“It’s nothing personal against you, amado,” she’d said with a winsome smile. “The insurance will cover it.”

The calculating side of her nature shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did, killing any feelings he’d had for her. He’d broken off the engagement, and no amount of winsome smiles, tears or begging could move him to take her back. His best friend, Raoul, a mountaineer from Chamonix, France, with whom he’d shared so much over the last decade, had told him to be thankful for what had happened. It had saved Des from making the biggest mistake of his life.

Des agreed it’d been a miraculous escape, but it had shredded his trust and had changed the way he viewed women. They had been a source of pleasure for him, but no longer. Now that the Christmas season had rolled around once again, he wanted no part of females or festivities.

Raoul was the only person who knew what was going on inside him. His French friend carried his own brand of pain after losing his wife some years ago and more recently his brother. Raoul had also wanted to avoid the holidays so he’d suggested they take a climbing trip to South America.

Relieved to have a plan of escape, Des had been working all hours of the day and night, making his rounds of the family-owned hotels in preparation for the upcoming trip. But a few weeks ago Raoul, whose family owned and ran the legendary Broussard Alpine Guide Club in the French Alps, had called to tell him his father wasn’t doing well. Jules’s asthma was acting up and the family was worried about him.

Raoul couldn’t say how long it would take his father to get over this latest flare-up and in case it turned into something worse, he’d feared making definitive plans with Des only to have to cancel on him later. Though Des had been disappointed, he understood. In truth he wasn’t fit company for anyone, let alone the man who was the closest thing he had to a brother. Before he’d left his headquarters in Zaragoza yesterday, he’d been uncustomarily short with his second-in-command when the man had suggested—in the most tactful way, of course—that Des should take a month off and really enjoy himself. And just today the manager of the hotel in Jaca had asked, very politely, if Des could hold off on their meeting until after he returned from his winter holiday.

One more hairpin turn and Puerto d’Ara came into view, with its ski lifts and hotels. Approximately 1,800 people lived here year-round, making their living off tourists. He took the perimeter road to avoid the resort center’s shops and bars. Just past the clinic with its large red cross on the roof was the small monastery facing the Pico d’Ara. It was a quirky masterpiece of stone and beams with different levels, nooks and crannies, perfect for its conversion to a family-friendly inn.

He kept his own apartment on the ground floor, its only entrance an exterior one around the side. No doubt at one time it had served as a cell for a priest who’d wanted complete isolation. Since Des had been living the life of a monk this past year, the monastic atmosphere suited his foul mood very well.

The parking lot outside the inn was full. Des wasn’t surprised; business was always good here. He pulled to a stop in the staff parking and shut off the motor, relieved to have reached his destination. Still having no appetite and feeling a bit off, he decided to go straight to bed. Though his manager was expecting him, tomorrow would be soon enough to unload all his gear and let Miguel know he’d arrived.

“All-ee,” a young voice cried out before knocking on the door again.

Allison Bonner loved the way the eight-year-old daughter of the Torrillas family pronounced her name.

She finished putting her light brown hair in a ponytail and hurried across the hotel room to open the door. “Good morning, Maricela.”

“Good morning.” They gave each other a big hug. “Mama says to come and eat before it’s all gone.”

Breakfast in the cozy inn was served from seven to ten. Ally checked her watch. It was close to ten now.

“I’m almost ready.”

“You look pretty.”

“Well, thank you.” Ally’s navy-blue cable-knit sweater and jeans were nothing to write home about. Maybe it was the mango-colored lipstick she’d put on after her shower to add some color. “So do you. I especially like that top.”

The girl was wearing a colorful pullover of geometric designs in blues and reds, over red pants.

Maricela beamed. “Thanks.”

Inez, Maricela’s mother, had urged her twins to speak English with Ally. It was good practice for them and easier for Ally, who knew very little Spanish except for a few words and phrases.

“You’re welcome,” Ally said.

The girl’s mother had put Maricela’s dark hair in braids, Ally saw, and she looked adorable in the new cowboy hat and boots Ally had brought her from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Maricela and her twin brother, Nuncio, were smart, wonderful children with shiny deep brown eyes and beautiful features like their mother’s.

More than a year ago Miguel and Inez had brought their family to the Teton Range in Wyoming for a vacation. They’d stayed at her family’s famous dude ranch outside Afton.

The Bonners were a large family. Ally and her siblings helped her parents and grandparents run the ranch and also acted as guides for their guests.

From the first moment Ally had met the charming, attractive Torrillas family, the twins had helped fill part of the empty space in Ally’s aching heart. At the time, she’d still been recovering from her fiancé’s death in a tragic rafting accident on the Snake River and trying not to think about the wedding that had been planned for the next month.

During the two weeks of the family’s stay in September, Ally had spent most of her time showing the children around. They rode horses and fished. Hiked. Because the Torrillas family lived year-round in the Spanish Pyrenees and were no strangers to mountains, Ally, who was a trained mountaineer, took the family partway up the Grand Teton, which knifed almost 14,000 feet in the rarified air.

Those experiences had cemented their relationship. When the family had had to return to Spain, they’d begged Ally to come for a vacation anytime she wanted and be their guest. She’d thanked them for the gracious offer and had actually planned to come this past summer, only certain unexpected detours in life had prevented her from traveling until now.

Her family wasn’t happy about Ally being gone over the holidays, but she’d planned it this way on purpose. Christmas was the last thing on her mind. Though her cancer was in remission, there was always the possibility it would come back. From now on she intended to live life to the fullest and defy the odds.

After tugging on her own well-worn cowboy boots, which added a little more height to her five-foot-six frame, Ally left the room with Maricela at her side. They followed the stone passageway that led around to the timbered dining room with its vaulted ceilings. The children had told her when she arrived that it had once been a refectory for the Benedictine monks. The children knew all of the inn’s fascinating history.

A tall, brightly decorated Christmas tree stood near the enormous fireplace in the dining room. It threw out heat while a few guests dressed for skiing were still lingering at the long tables with their food before hitting the slopes. She spotted Nuncio in his cowboy hat sitting at the far end of one of the tables talking to his father and a male guest. Ally was glad the Western gear had been such a hit with the children.

Maricela headed straight for her father, but Ally didn’t want to intrude and instead went over to the cafeteria-style service bar where the guests could help themselves to a wonderful array of dishes. She fixed herself a plate of fruit and eggs and ham rollups.

“Ally? Come over here and join us,” Miguel called to her. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”