Читать книгу Holiday Homecoming - Mary Anne Wilson - Страница 11

When Cain stepped into one of the most exclusive cabins at the Inn, one that was usually kept available for some of Jack’s high-profile celebrities who used the Inn to “disappear” from their hectic lives for a while, he was already wondering when he could go back to Las Vegas. The multilevel cabin, nestled in the rugged land near the ski slopes, had more than a thousand square feet but only three rooms. The bedroom took up the whole top level, with views of the ski runs and, in the distance, the resort and the town. The living area was a rambling space, with two fireplaces, three levels and supple leather everywhere. The kitchen took up almost a third of the lower level.

But he barely glanced at it. Instead, he found the phone nearest the entrance, made a few quick calls to check on business, then crossed to the windows and looked out at the late afternoon. If he had to stay, skiing seemed particularly inviting. Yet it was too late. The light was still okay, but here when the sun went down, skiing it was over for the day. He didn’t want to use the main slope, which had lights on twenty-four hours a day. No, he wanted the slope he remembered as a kid, to get the rush he remembered when he’d skied the Killer years ago.

He headed for the door. He had no idea where Jack was, so he got in his SUV and headed for the gates. Once he’d driven off the grounds of the resort, he headed south to Silver Creek. The Inn was two miles north of the main part of town, with a buffer of empty land in between.

He drove away from the world of the rich and famous to the world of Silver Creek, the town he’d grown up in. He’d never been given to nostalgia, always reasoning that you had to have good memories to indulge in that sort of thing. But at the moment, he felt an odd sense of longing to see the town again. Not the main street, but the back parts, the parts he remembered from his childhood.

He drove along the snow-lined streets at a snail’s pace. The town was overrun with the influx of skiers and with businesses catering to their needs. There were upscale restaurants, convenience stores, boutiques and supply stores that held every sort of ski product you could imagine. When he’d been here years ago, skiing had been a sport you did, usually on raw runs that you cut yourself. Now skiers lined up at the lifts, bought tickets and skied where they were told to ski.

In the old-town section, he glanced at the buildings that had been refurbished and repurposed into boutiques, ski supply places, coffee shops and souvenir corners. A few held to their origins, like Rusty’s Diner on the east side of the street, a plain place with good food and still managed by Rusty himself. Rollie’s Garage, the same garage that Rollie Senior had operated years ago was still there, now run by his son. On a side street he saw the original police station, where Joshua’s father had been sheriff all those years ago.

Although he now knew where he was going, he hadn’t realized it until that moment he saw Eureka Street. He slowed to a crawl when he approached the only building to the right. The old, two-story brick structure appeared the same, pretty much how it had when he’d been a sixteen-year-old sneaking out at dawn on a day as cold and snowy as this one.

He felt drawn back into the past, and despite the painfully new sign above the double-door entry, Silver Creek Medical Clinic, he could have been a kid again. Back then the sign over the doors had read Silver Creek Children’s Shelter—a euphemism for orphanage. He pulled onto the half-circle drive that ran past the entry. Snow was piled high on either side, but a section had been cleared to make it easy for anyone to get to the doors.

He stared at the building for a long moment, at the lights spilling out the bottom windows onto the snow and the deep shadows on either side. The place looked old and dark, the way it always had, and he barely controlled a sudden shudder. He’d thought he’d go in and find Gordie, but now he decided against it. He’d didn’t want to step onto the green tiled floors or hear the empty echo that seemed to always be in the old building. He’d see Gordie at the Inn.

He meant to drive out to the street, then go back to the Inn, but he found himself stopping at the end of the drive and looking at the school directly across the street from the clinic. His gaze skimmed the old brick building, the Christmas decorations in the tall, narrow windows of the bottom floor and two huge wreaths on the double front doors at the top of recently cleared concrete steps. The only change was the fairly new six-foot-high chain-link fence that enclosed the whole area, including the parking lot. The lot’s double gates were open, and a snowplow sat idly nearby. A fraction of the lot had been cleared before whoever drove the plow had stopped for the day.

Cain went straight across the street, through the open gates and onto the asphalt parking area. He passed the still plow and slipped into one of the few cleared parking slots, one of five or six fronted by blue signs designating the user. He felt a hint of a smile when he chose the one marked “Reserved for the Principal” instead of the one marked “Reserved for the Librarian.”

Over the school’s main doors a banner rippled in the wind, proclaiming CHRISTMAS FESTIVAL, DEC. 24, 7:00 P.M. They’d had Christmas programs when he’d been there, but he’d never had anyone to come and see him. After the concert he got the candy canes the town Santa handed out. Everyone had known the Santa was Charlie Sloan’s dad, a cop at the police station. But they’d all pretended to be excited and believe he was the Santa.

Cain hadn’t bothered with the make-believe. He’d taken what he could, then gone back to the orphanage, to wake up on Christmas morning to a neatly wrapped present that had always held clothes some well-meaning town person had donated to the orphanage. He hadn’t expected much else. It had simply been his life. Just as his life now was his life. But now it was all up to him to get what he wanted, instead of waiting for some Good Samaritan to give the “poor orphan” something he needed.

He hadn’t had the desire to go into the clinic moments earlier, but now he found himself getting out of his car to go into the school. Snow was starting to fall softly from the gray heavens, and it brushed his face. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he went toward the entry and took the steps in a single stride.

He pushed against the heavy wood-and-glass doors, but the door was locked tight. He cupped his hands on the cold glass and leaned to peer inside. Security lights showed the expansive center hallway. Lockers lined both sides of the walls, and the same highly polished tiles were still on the floor. Christmas was everywhere, from the paper garlands looping high on the walls to the Christmas tree, done in red, green, silver and gold, just inside the door.

He could almost see the kids in the hallway, the bustle of life, back then. He could remember the smell of new books and new pencils, the shouts of friends heard above the daily announcements blaring over the loudspeakers. Then that was gone, and all he felt was an emptiness that was almost tangible to him. He pulled back from the door, ready to leave. But as he turned to go, he saw a small blue car turn into the parking area, disappear behind the large plow for a moment, then come back into view as it pulled into the slot he’d forgone, the one for the librarian.

The windows in the car were partially fogged up, but he could make out a single occupant. The motor stopped, the door opened and he found himself looking at the woman from the elevator. She stepped out into the cold, and glanced up at him, her forehead tugged into a frown under her bright yellow knit cap.

“You,” she said, her breath curling into the cold air, the single word sounding like an accusation.

He wasn’t an egotist, but most women didn’t study him as if he were an insect. At that moment, this woman was regarding him with the same contempt she’d shown earlier. At least, he thought that was the expression on her face as she hurried over to the stairs and came up quickly to stand one step below him. She was just as tiny as he remembered. Now, standing on the step above her as he was, he towered over her by at least a foot.

She tilted her face up, and he saw tendrils of her brilliant hair that had escaped her yellow knit cap clinging to her temple and her cheek. Her amber eyes were narrowed on him as if she didn’t like what she saw, and her voice was brusque when she asked, “What are you doing here?”

He found himself forcing a smile, but there was no humor in him at all. “I’m going to blow the place up,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “How about you?”

Red suddenly dotted her cheeks and her expression tightened even more. She exhaled in a rush. “You don’t belong here.”

He wouldn’t argue with that. He never had belonged here. Not here, not anywhere. “I went to this school back in the Stone Age, and I was just looking around.”

“For old times’ sake?” she muttered.

He shrugged. That was as good an explanation as any he could come up with at the moment. “Sure, old times’ sake.” He hadn’t meant to be sarcastic then, but he was. He glanced down, and saw a ring of keys in her gloved hand. “What are you doing here with keys?”

“I work here. I teach second grade, or I will be teaching second grade when school’s back in session after the holidays.”

A teacher? He never had a teacher like her when he was here. “Well, I won’t keep you,” he murmured, and went down the stairs.

He couldn’t tell if he heard her say “Goodbye” as he walked away, but he heard the door open, then close, followed by the sound of a lock being set. As he got in his car and settled behind the wheel, he realized he didn’t even know her name. He’d never asked. He glanced back at the school and was taken aback to see the woman with no name looking out the glass top of the door at him. And the woman with no name wasn’t smiling.

Cain read people well. He could size up someone at ten feet and be pretty close to being right about the person. Maybe owning a casino had something to do with having that particular skill, or maybe it was a skill he’d honed throughout his life. Strangers had come and strangers had gone, and it had always been up to him to figure out why anyone was near him, and what they wanted from him.

But this woman baffled him, this woman didn’t fit into any of the categories he used when he labeled people. She was pretty enough, in a small, delicate way. A teacher. And she hated him.

He drove out of the parking lot, even though he had the most overwhelming need to go back and confront her. He just wanted to understand. But he didn’t turn back. He drove north, and by the time he got to the Inn and his cabin, he realized he’d never confront her. He’d never see her again. He’d leave, and she’d be teaching her hellions at the start of the new year. He shrugged as he went in a side door to his cabin, into comfortable heat. What she thought of him just didn’t matter.

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.