skier he had admired, replaced by a shaking, hostile amateur. If that was the true Maddie, she had no business on the mountain let alone on patrol.
She skidded to a halt outside the Gothic Center cafeteria, clicked out of her skis and hustled inside. Zephyr was emerging from the building and stared after her, then turned to Hagan. “What happened to her? She looked a little green.”
“We went up on Peel to check out the powder,” he said. “We got to the top of the run and she freaked.”
“You took her down Peel? No wonder she flaked on you.”
“What do you mean?” He brushed snow from his shoulders and frowned at his friend. “She ought to be able to ski double black. She was supposedly an Olympic-caliber skier.”
“Yeah, but she had that horrific accident.” Zephyr shook his head. “I bet it’s like post-traumatic stress or something. You know, where soldiers flash back to battle and relive horrible stuff? She was probably up there remembering her accident.”
Hagan stared at Zephyr. The man had such a stoner-rocker-boarder image he forgot sometimes that Zephyr was actually pretty smart. “I knew she had an accident. Was it really that bad?”
“Dude, it was sick! The video’s on YouTube somewhere. You should take a look.” He glanced toward the door where Maddie had disappeared. “Truth? I’m surprised she ever got back on a pair of skis again.”
HAGAN DID NOT SEE Maddie the rest of the day. He suspected she was avoiding him. He alternated between feeling guilty about talking her into skiing Peel, and anger that she had not spoken up and told him she was afraid to ski the steeps in these conditions.
Of course, in the same position, he would not have admitted he was afraid. But she was a woman. They were supposed to be better at admitting their true emotions, were they not?
After his shift he turned down Zephyr’s invitation to check out a new band at a local club, and headed to his cabin. After feeding Fafner and heating soup for himself, he logged onto the Internet and searched YouTube for “Skiing accident” and “Maddie Alexander.”
The film was in color, apparently part of the video from television coverage of the event, one of the final World Cup races before the Olympics, in St. Moritz, Switzerland. Maddie, wearing the skintight one-piece red, white and blue racing uniform of the U.S. team and a blue helmet painted with clouds, popped out of the gate and barreled down a steep slope that glinted blue with ice.
Though the sun was shining at the top of the slope, halfway down she momentarily disappeared from view in a cloud of blowing snow. She skidded around a sharp turn and fought for control, miraculously righting herself and tucking tightly to regain speed.
She was a blur as she soared down another straightaway and into the next right turn. The steel-on-ice screech of ski edges scraping the hardpack rasped from the speakers. Hagan gripped the edge of the desk, his whole body tensed, his own muscles tightening, his body bracing as she took yet another curve at breathtaking speed.
Then she hit a jump and soared through the air. Too high, he could tell, and he sucked in his breath along with the spectators on the video as she hit the ice hard, at the wrong angle. Arms and legs flying, she bounced, then rolled like a crumpled wad of paper hurtling down the slope, hitting, rising, hitting again.
Hagan groaned as she came to a stop, arms and legs at unnatural angles. She was still. Absolutely still. The screen went black, yet he continued to stare, fighting nausea.
If he had not known better, he would have thought the woman in the video was now dead. How had she survived such a fall, much less come back to ski again?
He took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. No wonder she had freaked out up there on Peel. The snow swirling around her, the steep pitch and narrow chute were not that different from conditions the day of her career-ending accident.
So why had she not let him call for a snowmobile to take her down? He did not have to search hard for the answer to that question. He knew a little about pride himself.
He thought back to part of the conversation they had had at the Eldo, when he had spouted that nonsense about facing fears. As if he knew much about that. He was much better at taking the other advice he had given her—that sometimes it was better to avoid the fear-inducing situation altogether.
He had built a life for himself based on that one principle, a life that, though lacking in a certain warmth, left him in control of events and emotions. He knew all about maintaining control.
But Maddie might be able to teach him a thing or two about courage.
MADDIE DID HER BEST to avoid Hagan for the next few days. She was mortified that she’d fallen apart in front of him, and had no desire to hear any more comments about her supposed Olympic skiing abilities.
Maybe if she’d freaked in front of another woman, or any other man on the patrol, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But Hagan was so infuriatingly perfect—a great skier and a skilled patroller with a reputation for always being cool in a crisis. The other patrollers looked up to him and of course, almost every woman he met drooled over him. She couldn’t deny she’d done a little drooling herself, though that particular weakness annoyed her greatly. She didn’t need Mr. Perfect reminding her of her own imperfections.
But Crested Butte was a small community, and she knew she’d run into him eventually. She told herself she’d keep things cool and cut him off at the knees if he even tried to bring up that day on the mountain. She succeeded in not seeing him for a week, but Friday night found her at the Eldo with Andrea, Scott and Lisa, Zephyr and Trish. She couldn’t stop watching the door and sure enough, a little after eight o’clock, Hagan and Max walked in.
Maddie turned away and pretended interest in Zephyr’s description of the new outfit he’d put together for his Free Skiing Championship debut. “What you wear says a lot about you,” he said seriously.
“So does your outfit say ‘this man is out of his mind?’” Trish said.
He grinned at her. “Crazy like a fox. I’ll dazzle everyone with my threads, then blow their minds when I show my stuff on the mountain.”
Trish rolled her eyes. “My mind is blown already, just contemplating it.”
“Hey, where’s Casey?” Trish asked as Max pulled out the chair beside her.
“She’s helping Heather with some wedding stuff,” Max said.
“Hers or Heather’s?” Trish asked. Maddie had learned Dr. Ben Romney and Heather Allison, Casey’s boss at the Crested Butte Chamber of Commerce, were due to wed in a few weeks.
Max shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I leave all that up to her. I told her to just tell me when and where to show up and I’ll be there, ready to say I do.” He reached for a cup and the pitcher of beer in the center of the table. “It would be fine with me if we went to the courthouse in Gunnison and got it over with.”
“A wedding should be more than a business transaction,” Andrea said. “It should be a romantic day to remember.”
“Women think like that,” Scott said. “Men don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“Maybe if it was conducted like a business transaction, people would be more realistic about what to expect from a marriage,” Hagan said.
Scott laughed. “Like you’d know a lot about it, Casanova.”
Hagan’s face remained impassive. Maddie told herself she should quit looking at him, but she couldn’t seem to help it. The man was a puzzle. Just when she thought she’d figured him out, he came up with some comment like that one about marriage and sent her thoughts spinning in a new direction.
As if feeling her gaze on him, he turned and for a split second, their eyes met. She quickly ducked her head, but not before registering the sadness in his expression.
No. She