Alaskan Hideaway. Beth Carpenter

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       CHAPTER ONE

      SNOW CRUNCHED UNDER Ursula’s ski poles as she pushed up the rise and stopped at the top of the hill to catch her breath. She’d earned an Anchorski second-place medal in the over-fifty age group a few winters ago, but that didn’t mean she could keep up with her eight-year-old goddaughter. From somewhere nearby, a raven cackled as though amused at these earthbound creatures with boards strapped to their feet.

      Up ahead, Rory picked up speed as the slope grew steeper. She crouched into a tuck, her corn-silk hair lifting from her shoulders and streaming behind her. At this rate, she’d be airborne before she reached the bottom of the hill.

      â€œRemember, pizza,” Ursula called. The little girl instantly spread the tails of her skis and slid to a stop.

      She looked back at Ursula and frowned. “I know what a wedge is.” Of course, she did. Rory had been on the ski trails before she could walk, riding in a pulk behind her parents. She didn’t need anyone to remind her to shift her skis in “pizza” position to slow herself or “hotdog” to speed up.

      â€œSorry. I forget you’re an expert. But I’m not as fast as you. Slow down a little so I can keep up. Okay?”

      â€œOkay.” Rory flashed a smile before she resumed skiing, and Ursula’s heart melted. Rory’s smiles had been all too rare lately. After a week including a discouraging meeting with Rory’s teacher and a glowing article about the new resort in Seward that was bound to cut into Ursula’s business, this was exactly what they both needed. Time outside, space to move and breathe. Somehow, nothing seemed quite as overwhelming in the outdoors.

      The trail ran between a cluster of spruce trees and a huge boulder making a sharp bend toward the right-of-way across Betty’s place. Movement caught her eye, and Ursula looked over to watch a rabbit disappear into the woods. She rounded the bend and turned her attention back to the trail.

      What in the—? A gate Ursula had forgotten existed blocked the trail at the bottom of the hill. Rory had spotted the gate first and was standing in the middle of the trail. Ursula slowed but couldn’t stop in time to avoid a slow-motion crash, and they both skidded downhill in a tangle of arms, legs, skis and poles, coming to rest a couple of feet from the heavy gate.

      Ursula sat up. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

      Eyes wide, the girl nodded and stared at the gate. “Why is that there?”

      â€œI don’t know.” The top rail sported a new sign: Private Property. No Trespassing. A thick chain looped around the fencepost adjacent to the gate. On the far side, someone had gone to considerable trouble shoveling the snow away so the gate could swing shut. It had always been open during the six years Ursula had been operating the inn. Betty had enjoyed watching the skiers and hikers pass through on the way to the main trails. She used to sit outside on nice days and wave at them.

      Ursula got to her feet and jabbed her poles into the snow before offering Rory a hand up. The wooden sign pointing toward Fireweed Trail was missing, too. This was no misunderstanding. The shortcut she and her guests took across her neighbor’s property to the cross-country trails was closed.

      This wouldn’t do. Not only did she and Rory enjoy Nordic skiing, but access to trails was one of the main draws for her bed-and-breakfast inn, especially in the winter. Across the snow-covered meadow, a steel-gray SUV with a propeller-shaped medallion on the grill backed up to Betty’s porch, its liftgate open. A real estate agent, no doubt, finally getting the place ready to sell.

      It had been almost two years since Betty Francis, Ursula’s friend and neighbor, passed away at the age of eighty-nine and left her cabin to her granddaughter, Danielle. Except for a monthly cleaning service, the cabin had been deserted ever since. Ursula was surprised it had taken Danielle this long to list the property. She’d seldom found time to visit even when her grandmother was alive, with her busy career writing cookbooks.

      Rory’s lip quivered. “Does this mean we can’t ski anymore?”

      â€œOf course we can ski. We can get to the trails by Marge’s place if we need to, but maybe if we ask nicely, they’ll let us through today.” If they could get the agent’s attention, anyway.

      Either way, the gate wouldn’t stay closed for long. The credit union had already preapproved Ursula for a loan. Assuming the asking price was anywhere near reasonable, Ursula was ready to buy Betty’s cabin and the land around it. With that new resort going in, she needed something special to entice guests, and with this property she could give her guests something the hotel couldn’t.

      A man stepped to the edge of the porch and looked their way. Ursula waved, but he didn’t respond. She held her hand against her face like a phone to let him know she wanted to talk, but he just crossed his arms over his chest and stared at them. Great sales technique.

      Ferocious barking interrupted her thoughts. A black-and-white dog tore through the snow. All at once, Ursula was glad for the heavy gate. She liked dogs, but the pit bull charging toward them didn’t evoke her usual warm and fuzzy response. She clutched her ski poles, just in case she needed them to fend it off. Rory squeaked and hid behind her.

      The dog roared and leaped at the gate, shaking the heavy iron, fell to the snow and leaped again. Ursula knew fleeing would only engage the dog’s chase response, so she slowly eased away from the fence, staying between Rory and the dog. What kind of realtor brought a vicious dog along on his visits?

      Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, “Call off your dog.” She wasn’t sure if he could make out her words from that distance or not, but if he did, he chose to ignore her.

      Fine. She turned and urged Rory back up the hill. “We’re okay. The dog can’t get through the gate.” The barking continued long after they had rounded the boulder and disappeared into the forest. Eventually, Ursula heard a distant whistle and the dog quieted. By that time, they were halfway home.

      Once they made it to the B&B parking area, she and Rory released their bindings and stepped out of their skis. When she laid a hand on Rory’s shoulder, she could feel the girl shaking, whether from fear or anger Ursula wasn’t sure. Ursula was leaning their skis against the wall on the porch when she heard a chattering noise. A squirrel dashed across the porch and tried to run up Rory’s leg, but the ski bibs she wore were too slick.

      Rory giggled. “Hi, Frankie.” Giving up on climbing her leg, the squirrel ran up the porch post to stand on top of the railing. Rory stroked a finger along his back. “I couldn’t find you yesterday. Where were you?”

      Ursula smiled at their reunion. Animals were Rory’s soft spot, and she’d been fascinated with Frankie from their first meeting. “He comes and goes. He was probably just off playing with his friends.” She patted her coat and found a few sunflower seeds in the breast pocket, which she handed to Rory. The squirrel took them from her hand, stuffed them into his cheek pouches and scurried away. Good old Frankie. Unlike a certain realtor, he didn’t bite the hand that fed him. Rory watched him disappear into СКАЧАТЬ