Swept Away. Gwynne Forster

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      “I’m going to do everything I always wanted to do and see the things I’ve longed to see,” she promised herself as her Swiss guide helped her strap on her ski boots.

      “You’ve only had two lessons, and you’ve done pretty well, miss, but you’re not skilled enough to go chasing down these mountains by yourself,” Tomass, her German-Swiss guide cautioned her.

      Emboldened by her early success and invigorated by the calm, crisp mountain air, she felt as if she could soar over the snow-covered peaks that surrounded her.

      “I’ll be careful, Tomass. Promise.”

      He finished lacing her boots and towered over her, reminding her of Schyler. “If you respect these mountains, they’ll respect you. Some champion skiers have gotten careless or cocky and breathed their last breath right here.”

      They compromised. She bought another hour of his time, and they skied together, her cares falling away like discarded clothing as they flew with the wind at her back.

      “We’d better call it quits,” he said, two hours later. “Be sure to get a hot tub, because every bone you’ve got will be screaming.” At the chalet she thanked him, returned the rented skis and set out for a hike across the lush, green valley.

      Beauty as far as she could see. She hadn’t known that the Alps, the grand mountain range of Europe that stretched from Italy through France and Switzerland to Austria, was of such imposing grandeur, so spectacular a feast for the eyes. She walked briskly, marveling at herself and the world around her, hardly able to believe she’d just skied on the Jungfraujoch, that rugged prize of the Swiss Alps that stood 11,333 feet at its peak and where skiers had challenged nature for over 850 years. At its foot nestled Grindelwald, arguably one of the most scenic places on earth. She gaped, spellbound, when her eyes first beheld it. Then she turned away from the awe-inspiring scene of snow-covered mountain, green valley and alpine roses that perfumed the air, wanting to banish the desire to have Schyler Henderson hold her hand as she stood there. She took a deep breath and quickened her strides through the meadow, enjoying a feeling of spiritual renewal.

      Bewitched by the scenery, she lost track of time and place. Against the majestic white peaks, wildflowers of every color littered the fields, putting to shame the Ricola television advertisements.

      “Guten Tag, Fraulein. Where you headed?”

      She hadn’t seen the man as she strolled along deep in thought. “Hello. Where’m I going? Well…nowhere special. I’m just walking.”

      The tall, blue-eyed blond gazed at her with frank appreciation of what he saw. “It gets dark early in these mountains. Where you staying? There’s no lodging anywhere near here.”

      She noticed that he said it matter-of-fact-like, as though her situation were hopeless. “I’m staying at a hotel in Interlaken.”

      “Interlaken? You’re at least a three-hour trek from there. You’d better come with me.”

      Go with this stranger? She didn’t think so. She smiled her best I’m-in-charge smile. “Thanks, but I’ll get there okay.”

      She didn’t fool him. “By morning you could be covered with snow. You don’t know these mountains, miss. You’d better come with me.”

      He started to walk away and tendrils of fear unfurled through every molecule of her body. Suppose he was right. “Wait. Where are you—?”

      His piercing eyes, as blue as the clearest sky, didn’t smile when he said, “Home. My parents will put you up. There’s no moon tonight, so I have to get there before dark. Nothing to fear. So come.”

      He walked on, so she followed him, and followed, and followed until she thought her knees would crack.

      “How…how much farther is it? I’m winded.”

      He pointed to a distant light, the only other sign of life for as far as she could see. “Another couple of kilometers or so. Come along now.”

      Another two miles. She stifled a groan and geared up her strength. When at last she stumbled into the two-story, unpainted chalet with its sloping roof and windows lined with boxes of blooming geraniums, she felt as if she hadn’t an ounce of energy left.

      “Papa,” her rescuer told the older man who greeted them at the door, “she’s lost, so she’s staying the night.”

      Words were exchanged in German, and for a while she wondered if the old man would let her stay. But he smiled, shook hands with her, and switching to French, asked her name. When she told him, he welcomed her and called his wife, from whom she received another welcome. Veronica followed the woman up the rustic stairs to a cheerful room. She’d never seen so many handmade quilts, hand-embroidered sheets and pillowcases as were stacked on shelving in the room. She thanked the woman and dropped into the nearest chair.

      “Nous prendrons le dîner dans quelque minutes,” the woman said, as though anyone who didn’t speak German would speak French. “We eat in a few minutes.” Veronica followed the woman to the bathroom, which was clearly the only one in the house, for a woman’s shower cap hung on the same hook as a man’s razor strop and razor. She hadn’t known that men still used them. Glad for the chance to refresh herself, she did so as best she could. She went back to her room, and a short time later, heard СКАЧАТЬ