Soul Fire

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form electronic or mechanical inclusive of recording, photocopying, scanning, or by use of information storage retrieval methods without explicit written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. The events are imaginary, the characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent persons living or dead, and the dialogue from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons or events is entirely coincidental.

To my devoted husband for his tireless edits, valued opinions, ongoing encouragement, unfailing enthusiasm, and his enduring love, I am always deeply grateful. To my daughters and my sons, each of whom read the manuscript and gave valued input, I am so very appreciative. Each of you offered something different and important to the work. I thank God every day for each of you. Finally, my sincerest gratitude goes to two remarkable women, Michele Payne and Susan Daniel for their editing expertise and valuable input.

We skidded to a fast stop throwing a spray of snow onto the yellow caution tape. Above it, a neon orange sign, now almost white, warned: RUN CLOSED - EXTREME DANGER. I pushed my goggles onto my forehead and squinted through the glare. The icy air bit into my cheeks as I examined the notorious West Face of Blackcomb Mountain. In spite of the bitter wind, dark clouds clung to the peak obscuring the notoriously treacherous slope.

Tara lifted her goggles up and pursed her lips nervously. "Don't do it, Ashla," she warned me as she scanned the double black diamond run. Likely, she was recalling the last time she skied down this slope when she had to be airlifted off the mountain with a fractured tibia. “I’m serious, Ashla. It looks bad.”

The West Face is steep, twisted, icy, and just plain scary. It’s a near free-fall experience down the windward face of the mountain.

“You’ve never finished without a major wipeout, Ashla. Leave it.”

I looked back up at the sign. The ski resort was cracking down on people violating closures. If I wiped out during this closure and needed help, my family would get a huge bill for the rescue, and of course, my judgmental error would probably be plastered across the media to deter other rogue skiers.

I bit my lip. If anything went wrong on this run, I would be in so deep. Dad was laid off last week, so our deal was no more pricey pastimes. Trouble was . . . this was our school’s annual ski trip, the biggest event of the year, and the first time our school had ever gone to the famous Whistler Resort.

Well, my parents will never know. They think I’m staying over at Tara’s place. I simply borrowed a little money from my education fund to make this happen.

Ducking under the yellow tape, a strange feeling jabbed me. I took a deep breath and blocked all second thoughts. This was my epic run. I’d saved it for last as I was determined to conquer the illusive
Face
.

“See you at the bottom,” I told Tara. Wiggling my goggles back in place, I  pushed off, my skis barely touching the incline as I picked up speed. In a split second, the mountain became a blur.

It was dangerous, exhilarating, and crazy!

The icy wind sliced into my lungs, and my focus intensified as I descended into the thickening mist. It clung to me as I tore through it. If I lost concentration, even for a second, I would be over the edge flying five hundred feet down into a white oblivion.

The Pin was coming up fast. It was the first of two hairpin turns over sheet ice that slopes steeply from side to side. If I slowed down, I would slide right off into a deep crevice. I let my speed build and shot around The Pin over the narrow Ice Bridge and down the next vertical. So far, so good. My previous wipeouts were behind me, and my heart was racing.

Next up . . . Blind Jump! Only the best skied The Face; however, many fall trying to land on the icy boilerplate and bum ruts that pock the base of the jump. I hit the kicker fast and was instantly airborne. Blind now, I wouldn’t glimpse my landing spot until the final seconds of flight.

Then I saw him!

He had one ski on and the other dangled broken from his hand. He stood exactly where I would land. “Move!” I yelled. He whirled around, his face registering my flight toward him. Then, he did something completely unpredictable.

He reached out to catch me!

I twisted my body in a desperate attempt to avoid him. “Duck!” I screamed, spreading my legs wide so my skis wouldn’t impale him. Our eyes locked. Two thoughts zipped through my mind: one, the impact was going to be tremendous, and two, he had gorgeous turquoise eyes. If I’d had more time, I might have also realized that this was not going to end well.

I hit him so hard that he went over sideways with me wrapped around him. I heard two snapping sounds, like sticks breaking, and he let out a blood-curdling yell! My skis flew off as we hurtled interlocked down the icy slope with me on top of him. We hit a bump and toppled over each other.

Headfirst now, we careened down the run, me on the bottom this time. His arms were locked around me and he was yelling so loudly that I began to worry his shrieks would trigger an avalanche. I caught a glimpse of his legs. They were both askew. Broken!

Another bump and we ended up on our sides, face-to-face, sliding helplessly toward the lower hairpin called The Pike. If we failed to go around it, we would shoot right over the edge and down a six hundred foot drop. Between here and there was a single barren tree. If we struck it at the speed we were going, one of us would be killed. Somehow, I had to slow us down.

The slope turned to powder. I bent my knees and dug the heels of my ski boots into the snow also using my elbows and hands like anchors in a desperate attempt to reduce our speed. It was working, but we were still moving too fast. The lone evergreen loomed closer. It was our only chance . . . that or go over the edge!

I threw my upper body out ahead of us and spread my arms wide, ready to grab onto the trunk. We were still slowing. I angled myself so my arms would catch the tree and prayed the bark wouldn’t peel off my face. Suddenly, the tree was right there in front of me!

An explosion of pain ripped through my head. Then…blackness!

Time must have passed because when I opened my eyes, I was staring at the sky through a ragged break in the fog. At first, I thought that I’d taken one of my usual spills, but then I heard someone moaning nearby.

It came crashing back to me. I lay perfectly still. My goggles were gone, my face bare to the frigid air, and my breath was forming clouds above me. He groaned again, and I judged he was not too far downhill. I remembered his legs. “Are you all right?” I called, my voice muffled by the mist.

“No.” There was a long pause. “You?”

“Not sure,” I answered back.

“Where are you?” I asked, worried he might be dangling over the precipice.

“Staring at the bottom of the ravine,” he panted. “It’s a long way down.”

Oh no! I jerked my head in his direction. Blinding pain roared across my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut and fought down nausea. I could hear him breathing hard and wondered if he was trying to drag himself out of trouble. Slowly…cautiously, I opened my eyes. Everything was blurry. I blinked until he came into focus. He was about twenty feet downhill from me, his legs hanging over the edge of the precipice. He was on his back trying to work himself away from the abyss.

I cringed. Pulling on those broken legs must have been intolerably painful.

We needed help. I felt in my upper jacket pocket for my cell phone. Not there. It must have fallen out during our tumble down the mountainside. I looked up the run, but there was no sign of it. Hopefully, he had his cell.

I sat up with painful slowness. The mist and mountainside swirled around me as a searing rod fired through my brain like a bolt of lightning. The world turned upside down and lunch came up, splattering the snow. I took some deep breaths and waited for the nausea to pass. Then, very slowly, I skidded down the steep slope toward him.

He had managed to get himself back up onto the run and was lying on his back. His thick dark hair was covered with snow, and when I looked down at him, I saw relief in his turquoise eyes. His angular face was familiar to me, but my thoughts were chaotic and an enormous headache pounded my brain. He was around my age, and again I was struck by a familiarity. Then it hit me. This was none other than
Justin Ledger!
I had just piled into the hottest guy at Mount Olympic High. There were at least thirty of us on the mountain as part of the ski trip. What were the odds that I would collide with none other than Seattle’s youngest hockey pick for the NHL?

What had I done?!

Glancing down at his legs, my heart skipped a beat. They were splayed at asymmetric angles. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as though he had been running. He panted for breath. His face was coated in a layer of sweat. I knelt beside him and gently touched his arm. “Where’s your cell?” I asked.

He lifted his right hand. The screen was shattered.

“Mine’s gone,” I told him. There was only one thing left to do. I had to go for help. I looked up the run hoping to see my skis, but there was no sign of them. Without them, getting all the way down this steep mountain wearing unforgiving ski boots was going to be impossible. Did I have a choice? “I’ll go for help,” I told him.

He said something, but I couldn’t hear him, so I leaned down and put my ear to his lips. Suddenly, my head felt like it would explode. I heard, “Don’t leave me. Please.”

Dizzy, I pulled back and looked at him. His face was contorted with pain. I could feel it, worse than my own. Our eyes met, and in that instant, I knew I had to get help. “I won’t be long,” I promised him.

His hand clamped onto my wrist. “Someone…will…come,” he said. “Don’t leave. Please.”

The run was empty, the mountainside eerily hushed. How long since we collided? Minutes? An hour? Surely, another rogue skier would take on the West Face before the mountain closed for the night. I looked down and saw desperation in his eyes, his face like chalk. “My legs,” he whispered, “can’t feel them.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Blood was pooling around his left leg. Lots of blood! But why? I realized the broken leg bone must have torn something. A vein? An artery? The pool of crimson seeped across the white snow at an alarming rate. My heart filled with dread and I wanted to cry out,
No! Don’t let this happen.
Pure raw panic flooded my lungs, suffocating me.

“Please…somebody, help us!” I whispered, glancing back up the slope. But there was no one. I was all he had. He needed help and he needed it now. I couldn’t wait.

Struggling with foggy thoughts, I tried to remember last summer’s first aid course, which had been part of my lifeguard training. It took immense effort to recall the instructor’s words. “Stop the bleeding. Use whatever you can and apply pressure to the wound. Like this,” she had said. Trying to visualize the demonstration, I tore off my gloves and my jacket. Then, I yanked off my thin pink sweater. There was no way for me to cut away his ski pants or access the wound. I couldn’t lift him. He was way over six feet and likely almost two hundred pounds. I had to try to slip my sweater under and around his upper leg. I pushed it under his leg.