With the runs deserted, he was free to race up the side of the slope, skimming past the corduroy snow laid down by the groomers last night and early this morning. He and Lily were responsible for the cornices on the ridge above the Glades, an area where heavy snow collected, presenting a danger to the popular runs below.
Connor called up a map of the terrain in his head. But instead of ski runs, his map was marked with danger zones and safespots and the best places to launch a charge that would bring down snow most efficiently.
He parked the snowmobile out of range of any snowslide, and they clicked into their skis and made their way to their first target area.
Connor took out a charge and a detonator. “Crimping,” he said as he fixed the detonator assembly in place. “Seated.” He replaced the crimping tool in his pocket and pulled a lighter from the other pocket. “Lighting.” He struck the flame and lit the fuse. “Fire!” He reared back and threw the charge. It sailed in a high arc over the ridge and down below. “Smoke,” he confirmed as the charge landed in deep snow. “Fire in the hole.”
He and Lily turned away as the bomb exploded with a loud boom that reverberated off the mountains behind them. Then they turned to watch the slide release—a river of snow flowing down the mountain. It was a beautiful sight, as long as no one was caught in it.
They moved on to the next target area and repeated the process. Connor launched most of the cast boosters, but Lily took her turn as well. He wanted everyone on the team to be comfortable with the process, safety drilled in to them over and over. All around them the sound of other explosions echoed. Sometimes they could see the resulting avalanches, clouds of white rising up from the mountain’s surface.
The sun rose, bathing the slopes in gold and pink. All their charges released, Connor and Lily stopped to take in the spectacle. In the distance, a snowcat growled to life, the groomers set to clear avalanche debris that had spilled over onto a run.
“This is my favorite time of day,” Lily said, her voice soft. Reverent.
“Yeah, me, too.” The mountain was still peaceful, undisturbed by other people. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, but peoplecomplicated everything. They broke rules. They broke things. They got hurt. He was happy to help them. Happy that he was able to do so.
But the rule breakers and the thing breakers bothered him. Like the person who had broken into the magazine and stolen explosives. They were up to no good—out to spoil the beautiful place that had given him so much peace.
The evening ofJanuary 2, Stacy Macrae sized up the man across the bar, angling her head so that she could study him through the après-ski crowd—six feet two inches, lean but muscular. Good-looking in a nonintimidating way. Brown eyes, slightly crooked nose, a scruff of a goatee. Curly, reddish-brown hair worn a little long, reaching the collar of his ski jacket in the back.
The jacket had caught her attention right away, the white cross clearly visible against the red, beneath the words Ski Patrol. He would be worth talking to. He laughed at something one of his two companions said and showed a lot of white teeth. He had nice lips, just full enough. He looked like he’d be a good kisser.
Don’t go there, she chided herself, amused but not alarmed by the wayward thought. Nothing wrong with appreciating a good-looking man. But she had business to attend to.
She glanced around the rest of the Trail’s End Tavern. Patrons filled the mismatched wooden tables and chairs scattered around the room, and the pool tables had a line of people waiting to play. Others stood along the walls, beneath framed black-and-white photos of people in old-fashioned ski clothes or bundled beneath blankets in horse-drawn sleighs. More patrons crowded the long bar, their reflections sepia-tinted in the antique glass of the long mirror behind the shelves of liquor. Country music provided a soundtrack for the evening and a beat for the couples who filled the small dance floor. The crowd was a mix of localsin jeans and Western wear and tourists in ski jackets and fur-topped snow boots.
Stacy wore fleece-lined leggings and hiking boots, and a black turtleneck sweater and black puffer jacket. Not fresh-off-the-slopes but not from around here, either. She leaned against a pillar in the middle of the room, aware of a few men watching her, but so far none had dared approach. She knew how to make herself intimidating enough that all but the bravest—or most inebriated—wouldn’t come near.
She sipped the beer she had ordered and tried to think how to proceed. A server—brunette, pigtails, empty bar tray—stopped to talk to the redhead and his companions. The server laughed at something one of the men said, then her face clouded as a fourth man joined them.
He was frowning, waving his hands around, his words audible across the crowded bar. “I said I wanted a beer! And you’re over here jawing with your friends instead of waiting on me.”
The server shrank back and said something.
“I don’t want your excuses,” the man bellowed and clamped one hand on her shoulder.
The patroller put his hand on the man’s chest and forced him back a few inches. “You’ve had enough, buddy,” the patroller said. “Time to call it a night.”
“I’ll say when I’ve had enough.” The man took a swing at the redhead, who ducked and then caught the man as he stumbled forward.
“If you can’t even stand up, you’ve had more than enough,” the patroller said and shoved the drunk into a chair.
Several people nearby applauded, then two of the drunk’s friends appeared to haul him away. The patroller turned back to the bar and picked up his beer.
“Thanks, Connor,” the server said.
“No problem, Summer.”
Stacy smiled into her beer. Connor’s two companions said goodbye and made their way to the door. Stacy decided to take her chance, crossed the room and slid into the space vacated by his friends. “Hi,” she said. Big smile, friendly manner—though not too friendly. Casual.
He looked her over—not in a creepy way, but as if trying to place her.
“We haven’t met,” she said. “I’m Stacy Macrae.” She offered her hand. “I saw you across the room and decided to introduce myself.”
“Connor Donaldson.” His handshake was warm and firm, his skin a little rough. A strong, masculine hand. A thrill of physical awareness raced through her, and she reluctantly released her hold on him.
“I see you’re with ski patrol, Connor.” She nodded to the insignia on his jacket. “How long have you been doing that?”
