Twitter and at www.laurelgreer.com.
Happy reading!
Laurel
For my parents, who modeled a love of reading
and let me consume books by the light
in the crack of the door—thank you.
Contents
Note to Readers
April
Zach Cardenas wrenched his key in the lock on the first-aid shack near Sutter Mountain’s summit and drew another line in his mental tally.
One workday closer to Whistler.
Not to forgiving himself, or Sam.
But he clung to the hope that making another figurative payment on the debt he owed would ease the guilt and grief wedged in his heart.
Or visiting the accident site will be one more reminder of how watching over Cadie means keeping one promise but breaking another.
Jamming his keys in the pocket of his ski patrol jacket, he erased the unwelcome thought. In a week he’d climb on a plane. He wasn’t one for countdowns, but honoring Sam’s final requests had become all-encompassing and couldn’t be realized until he and their buddies went on a memorial backcountry trip to British Columbia.
The ones who’d survived, anyway.
Lucky, the news had called them last spring. Zach scoffed. The reporters wouldn’t have chosen that description had they been the ones left desperately digging through snow for survivors, only to board the homebound plane with three fewer passengers.
Nor would they have framed him as a hero had they known about the argument he’d had with Sam the night prior to the avalanche.
Shaking off the memory before it picked off the half-healed scab on his soul, Zach turned his attention to his friend and supervisor, Andrew Dawson.
“Day’s done, Dawson. Hammond’s Chute beckons.” He motioned toward their skis, which were secured to one of the few metal storage racks that remained after the end-of-season cleanup. Fixing his helmet under his chin, Zach zipped up his ski patrol windbreaker, jammed on his gloves and waited.
Andrew jerked his head in agreement. He waved for Zach to lead the way to their equipment. “Let’s head out.”
If there was one thing that helped Zach forget, it was cutting into spring snow with freshly sharpened and waxed skis. The afternoon couldn’t have been more perfect. Swathes of white sliced into thickets of evergreens that arrowed down to the village of Sutter Creek, Montana. The sun still shone but it had dipped behind the mountain, leaving a welcome chill. He started toward the narrow entrance of Hammond’s Chute. Pausing briefly to gauge a good line, he took a breath and pushed himself over the lip. The regular pattern of the moguls took him back a decade to when he’d competed for the Canadian Olympic freestyle ski team in his early twenties. The rush of perfect vertical spiked his adrenaline. But the challenge was good—he needed to be in top form for when he headed home to heli-ski one of the remote ranges near Whistler.
He eyed a ridge on the edge of the run that looked decent enough to launch off. Following up a stretch of moguls with a good flip was an ingrained habit. The faint swoosh of Andrew behind him anchored him as he took the jump.
Weightless, like his stomach was free from gravity. Bend knees... Annnnd down—
An eerie snap, the unmistakable crack of failing plastic and fiberglass, filled his ears.
He pitched to the left. The world tilted. No, no, no. He focused on the mogul ahead as he tried to balance on his lone unbroken ski. He hit the center of the mound of snow and launched.
Uncontrolled. Too fast.