Snowbound Heart (16 page)

“They are members of the ski patrol. They are checking for safety straps. That’s the strip of leather attaching your ski to your leg in case you come out of your bindings in a fall. If it’s not there, your ski runs off downhill by itself, a danger to other people on the slopes.”

“They are sort of police, then?”

“Not exactly, though they have a good bit of authority. Some are professionals, others are volunteers, good skiers with special training who give their time to keep other people out of trouble, and help them when they are unlucky enough to get into difficulties.”

“They sound like nice people to know.”

“Yes,” Logan answered. “Here’s the lift. Up we go.”

Above them, the top of Snowmass Mountain was lost in the low-hanging snow clouds. The thick white mist coiled around the crest, obscuring the tops of the slopes. Riding upward into it was eerie, and at the same time fascinating.

Logan was first off the lift, though Clare was close behind. He waited until he knew she was ready, then pushed off. She followed immediately in his tracks, trying to match his form and style, taking the same turns. He glanced back at her once or twice, flashing a grin beneath his ski goggles. Deep in concentration, Clare did not attempt to return it; still, she appreciated his close watch.

At the foot of the slope they came to a stop is a spray of deep snow. “Again?” Logan asked.

“Again,” Clare answered, her eyes bright and her lips, red from exercise and the cold, curving in a smile.

Their second run was a carbon copy of their first. On the third, Clare decided not to follow so closely. She would use Logan’s parallel tracks to guide her, but she would try for a few independent moves if it looked and felt right. Off the lift, she waited until Logan was several feet ahead of her, then shoved away down the run.

The surge of exhilaration she felt was indescribable. Her skis were running free and yet controlled. The wind was in her face, and snow swirled around her, wafted by the force of her passing. She was alert and agile, ready for anything. Logan was a swift-moving form before her, one it seemed she could catch with a little extra effort. She flew past a skier practicing the twisting, natural stop to one side of the slope. She knew other skiers were coming down behind her in a plunge for the bottom of the hill, but she had no time to think of them. All that mattered was her own speeding progress.

From the top of the slope there came a shout ringing with anger. Seconds later, Clare heard the rush of a fast-moving skier, someone hurtling down the slope like a racer. She held her pace with care.

Suddenly there came a flash of orange in front of her as the skier cut directly across her path. Clare could not prevent herself from flinching, throwing herself off balance, and then, as she fought to recover, she felt her ski pole torn from her grasp, caught by the pole of the other skier.

Clare went down in a spinning, tumbling fall. Pain wrenched at one ankle as she heard the bindings of her skis snap open, and then she was sliding facedown in the cold drifts of snow.

What happened then was confusing as Clare tried to regain the breath that had been forced from her lungs by the fall, and yet the voices of the people gathering around her, talking excitedly, were clear.

“I saw it, man! That crazy idiot in the orange suit nearly knocked me down getting off the lift, then went barreling down here and ran right over the girl.”

“You mean on purpose?”

“Sure I mean on purpose. What do you think, somebody is going to hit two different people and still be standing up, flying away, if they didn’t mean to do it?”

“Where did they go?”

“Right on down the hill, just like nothing happened — or like they didn’t mean to get caught at the scene.”

“You got a good look at him?”

“Ski mask, orange coveralls, not very big. Either a teenager or a woman. Hard to tell in this kind of weather.”

“Somebody ought to go for the ski patrol.”

“Bright idea, except somebody already took care of that chore five minutes ago.”

“Where are those guys, then?”

“They’ll get here. Have to bring the toboggan, you know, to take her down. Won’t move her without it.”

“Is she hurt bad?”

“I don’t know. Afraid to turn her over to see.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to let her breathe,” came the sharp-edged rejoiner.

Clare felt gentle hands turning her head and shoulders.

“If she has a broken neck, I never touched her!”

“That’s great, just great.”

“Say, that’s the girl with Logan Longcross. What do you want to bet heads roll over this — starting now. Here he comes.”

The voices receded. Clare felt her shoulders lilted, heard Logan speak her name. His warm fingers closed around her gloved hand.

She opened her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said. “Just … just…”

“Don’t try to talk, darling.”

“No, really,” she protested, trying to turn.

“Lie still and be quiet,” he said, his hold tightening.

Clare, mulling with slow wonder the harsh, ragged sound of his voice and the lack of color underneath the deep tan of his face, obeyed.

She was all right, however. When the ski patrol delivered her to the first-aid station and she was examined, the attending doctor found no more than a sprained ankle, mild shock, and facial abrasions. Bed rest for the remainder of the day and an early night were recommended, along with a sedative and a wrapping for the ankle. Starting the next day, she could do as she pleased, go anywhere she could manage to hobble with crutches — or anywhere she could persuade some man to carry her. The doctor, a jovial gentleman with graying hair and beard, seemed to think, as he cast a look at Logan sitting anxiously beside her, that the last would be no problem.

The doctor was a fair prophet. Logan, refusing the offer of an ambulance to deliver Clare back to the lodge, carried her in his arms to his car that he had ordered brought to the aid station. With no sign of effort, he transferred her from the car all the way to her room. He left her alone while she made ready for bed, returning a short time later with a glass of ice-cold water with which to take the prescribed sedative.

Clare expected him to go away then. Instead, he settled into one of the armchairs and sat staring out the window.

Clare lay watching his shadowed profile for long moments. At last she said quietly, “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.”

“There is no need at all.”

He did not answer, nor did he show any sign of moving.

“It … it wasn’t your fault, you know. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

“Wasn’t there?” An unaccustomed note of bitterness sounded in his voice.

“No, there wasn’t. I … I am sorry if this interferes with the signing of the contract.”

“It isn’t going to. Don’t think about things like that. Don’t think about anything at all. You are supposed to be resting.”

“How can I, when this changes everything? I’m no more use to you now. I may as well go home.”

“And give up?” he queried softly, showing no impatience for the fretful tone of her voice.

“It’s not that,” Clare answered, trying to banish her disappointment, to think only of what was best for Logan. “I just don’t want to be in the way.”

“You won’t be. You can leave, if that’s what you want, and I wouldn’t blame you for getting out when you can, but I hope you will stay. I need you, Clare, you and no one else.”

There was something more than satisfactory in that speech. Clare wanted to pursue it, but she was growing sleepy. In spite of her efforts, her brain refused the task. She closed her eyes, contenting herself by murmuring, “If you are sure.”

“I am,” he replied, his voice reaching her as from a great distance.

She started to smile, then stopped as she felt a twinge of soreness in her face. The skin of her cheek was sticky with the thick layer of ointment the doctor had applied. She wanted to ask for a tissue to remove a portion of it, but the words would not come. Her eyelids lifted a fraction. Logan still sat near the window, his face somber as he stared at nothing. Clare frowned a little; then her lashes fluttered down and were still.

“Your flowers are absolutely gorgeous,” Beverly said as she leaned over Clare, carefully applying an antibiotic ointment to the scraped place on her cheek.

“The roses are from Logan. The cinerarias came from Janine and Marvin just a little while ago.”

“I might have guessed,” Beverly replied, casting a wry look in the direction of the flower stand in one corner of the room. Though pretty in themselves, the pot of vivid purple cinerarias clashed painfully with the full bouquet of red roses.

Clare smiled, though there was a shadow in the depths of her gray eyes.

Observing it, Beverly changed the subject. “The doctor didn’t mention the possibility of scarring, did he?”

“On my face, you mean? No, it’s just a snow burn, nice and clean. He said it should clear up in a few days.”

“I thought as much; I just wanted to make sure you weren’t worried about it.”

“Heavens, no,” Clare said, laughing up at her friend. “I know very well that my beauty will return and I shall walk again someday. The only problem is, how I am going to keep myself occupied until then?”

“Bored already, after only one day?”

“Three-quarters of a day.”

“Well, it serves you right,” Beverly said, getting to her feet and returning the cap to the tube of ointment. “You should not have been out on the slopes without your expert instructor.”

“I had to try it without him sometime; he can’t go around skiing with me all my life. I don’t believe, friend or not, that you would stand for that. Besides, I wasn’t exactly alone.”

“No, and I have a feeling that was half the problem.”

“I hope you won’t say so in front of Logan. He already feels responsible enough for my accident. Why, I can’t imagine, because that is all it was, an accident. There wasn’t a thing he could have done to prevent it. If anyone is to blame, I am. The other skier wouldn’t have tried to cut in front of me if I had been following Logan as close as I should.”

“No, and furthermore, he might have recognized her, which would not have done at all.”

“What are you saying?” Clare asked.

“I think you know well enough. I’ve heard the description of this hit-and-run skier, and I’ve taken the measure of Mrs. Janine Hobbs, a lady who has cut quite a figure on the slopes lately with her European outfits and her snobbery. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn Logan is responsible for the fall you took, at least indirectly. Janine has not been at all happy with the attention he has been paying to you these last few days.”

The same thought had occurred to Clare, though it was hard to make herself believe anyone could set out deliberately to injure a person for such a petty reason. “Why? She knows there is nothing serious between Logan and me.”

“She did warn you about getting too cozy. I don’t suppose she could have had any occasion for thinking you were ignoring her warning?”

Clare slanted a long glance at her friend. “Are you asking if Logan and I are getting cozy?”

“No!” Beverly exclaimed. “What you do is your own business.”

“I take that to mean that you think we are.”

The other girl moved to sit on the foot of the bed where Clare lay. “No, not really. But I can’t help but be worried about you all the same. When is it all going to end, Clare? How is it going to end?”

Clare could not meet her friend’s concerned gaze. “I don’t know,” she said, smoothing the ribbon trim of the blanket that lay across her lap. “I wish I did.”

“You don’t have to stay, you know. You can always pack up and leave. I could help you get everything together right now, and in a little while John could come and carry you to the car.”

“Oh, Beverly, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t go and leave everything unsettled, leave Janine a clear field. There is no telling what kind of scheme she will come up with next for entangling Logan in some sordid mess.”

“You are worrying about Logan when you should be worrying about yourself. What bothers me is why he is putting up with all this. I would have sworn he wasn’t the type to let himself be manipulated in any way, not by a woman like Janine.”

“It’s the screenplay. He wants Marvin to do it.”

“Is that it? Is it really? It seems a high price to pay to me, especially for someone like Logan, though I may be making the classic mistake of thinking the actor is the man. Anyway, I want you to know that if anything, else happens, you are to come to me on the double. Don’t think twice, don’t look back, just come. All right?”

“You are sweet for putting up with me, when this was supposed to be a holiday with you.”

“I am not sweet,” Beverly declared, reaching oat to touch Clare’s hand with firm, reassuring fingers. “I am a sour and jealous pessimist, and I probably shouldn’t be worrying you with all this. Maybe I should go on home and take my frustrations out on John. It may not be fair, but he did ask for it when he asked me to marry him.”

“I expect he would feel slighted if you took your problems to anyone else.”

“Yes, and he will also feel slighted if he doesn’t find his dinner waiting. It’s getting to be that time.”

So it was. Beyond the windows, night was closing in, though the transition from the dull gray of the snow clouds to darkness had been so gradual Clare had not noticed. Beverly gathered up her coat and handbag, gave Clare a quick hug, then moved to the door.

With her hand on the knob she said, “Take care of yourself, Clare, and remember what I said.”

“Yes, I will,” Clare promised, and gave a final wave as Beverly let herself out into the hall. She lay listening to Beverly’s receding footsteps. Her thoughts, as she stared at the flowers, the red roses and purple cinerarias across the room, were somber, as dark and as cold as the night beyond the windows.

It might have been a few minutes, it might have been an hour later, when a knock came on the other door. It had locked automatically behind Beverly. Clare was just pushing back the covers when the panel swung open and Logan entered. He smiled at her surprise and pulled a key from the lock.