Holiday Homecoming. Mary Wilson Anne

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ