Footprints in the Snow
This is my destiny.
Through the swirling eddies of snow, she saw him. A man dressed in white from head to toe—camouflaged in the storm. Though he was skiing uphill against the pelting wind, he moved with great speed, driving his long skis forward. His technique amazed her.
“Who are you?” Shana asked once he’d approached.
“Sergeant Luke Rawlins.”
A soldier? Though she was dizzy and weak, she cracked a smile. It seemed that the cavalry had skied over the hill and come to her rescue. All she could see of his face was a firm, stubborn jaw.
With a huge effort, she stood upright, knee-deep in snow. Her legs felt like rubber. The cold had drained the last bit of strength from her muscles.
Before she could tell him that she was fine, her eyelids closed. She was falling through the swirling snow into unconsciousness.
CASSIE MILES
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
To the brave men and women of the
10th Mountain Division. And, as always, to my
favorite Marine sergeant, Rick Hanson.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cassie Miles lives in a Denver high-rise with a view of the Front Range through her office window—a huge temptation to get outside and play. After a broken ankle a few years ago, she hung up her skis, but still enjoys hiking, climbing and sitting in a grove of aspen, reading a book.
Books by Cassie Miles
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
694—THE SECRET SHE KEEPS
769—RESTLESS SPIRIT
787—PROTECTING THE INNOCENT
820—ROCKY MOUNTAIN MYSTERY †
826—ROCKY MOUNTAIN MANHUNT †
832—ROCKY MOUNTAIN MANEUVERS †
874—WARRIOR SPIRIT
904—UNDERCOVER COLORADO ‡
910—MURDER ON THE MOUNTAIN ‡
948—FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Shana Parisi—An exploration geologist on vacation in Colorado when she’s swept up in a surprise blizzard.
Luke Rawlins—A sergeant in the 10th Mountain Division who has already seen action on the front lines.
Enrico Fermi—Nobel Prize–winning physicist who worked on the Manhattan Project.
Dr. Douglas & Dr. Schultz—Coworkers with Dr. Fermi.
Verne Hughes—Captain in charge of operations at Camp Hale.
Henry Harrison—Private First Class, conscripted into the 10th.
Edward Martin—Private First Class in the 10th.
Jack Swenson—Expert ski instructor and mountain man from Aspen.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
Shana Parisi knew better than to leave the well-marked cross-country ski trail in the mountains outside Leadville. Above all, she believed in following the rules. Her logical, predictable nature served her well in her work as an exploration geologist for AMVOX Oil.
But today was somehow different. Acting on impulse, she’d stepped off the marked trail and gone exploring. Ignoring the beginning twinges of a headache, she’d skied from one interesting geological feature to another. These mineral-rich mountains were like a trip to Disneyland, especially since she’d spent the past year and a half on assignment in Kuwait. Colorado felt so clean, so fresh, so incredibly all-American.
She poked around the edges of an open pit mine. Studied the striation on a granite cliff. And entered a natural cave pocked with dark crystals, several of which found their way into her pocket along with an unusual shard of glassy green that looked like trinite.
Outside the cave, she slipped her boots into the bindings of her short backcountry skis, fastened the tethers and inhaled a gasp of the thin mountain air. Her lungs burned. Glancing at her wristwatch, she saw that she’d been out here for over three hours. Too long. Her slight headache had turned into a real killer.
Adjusting her goggles, she peered downhill at a wide slope bordered by thick pine forest on either side and tried to remember where she’d left the cross-country trail. Downhill to the left. Or to the right? Every year dozens of people got lost in these mountains. Some were never found.
Surely, she hadn’t gone too far off track. Reaching up, she tightened the scrunchie that held her thick black hair up in a ponytail. Earlier, she’d taken off her heavy gloves and parka; the May weather was warm enough for skiing in just a down vest and turtleneck.
It was colder now. Heavy gray clouds roiled overhead, and darker clouds were coming in behind them. Snowflakes fell in nasty little sputters. Should she dig her warmer gear out of her backpack? Making that simple decision seemed difficult; the inside of her head was fuzzy. Something was wrong with her. Maybe altitude sickness. She was near the Continental Divide, over ten thousand feet. She needed to get off this mountain.
Though tempted to tuck into a ball and schuss downhill like an Alpine skier, she wasn’t that skilled. Carefully, she traversed the ridge above the snow-covered slope. It took all of her concentration to coordinate thrusting with her skis and picking with her poles.
A fierce wind gusted around her, taking her breath away. A strange glow surrounded her—like a spotlight from the heavens. The wind became a deafening roar. Her body was weightless, disconnected. What’s happening? She blinked slowly and everything returned to normal.
Then, the storm hit hard. An instant blizzard. The heavens split open and dumped a truckload of snow on her head.
Her goggles smeared with moisture, and she could barely see. The freezing cold sank through her turtleneck and into her bones as she kept going. Though she was skiing furiously across the ridge, it felt as if she was standing still, suspended in the storm.
Turning to dig in with her edges, her skis stuttered across a patch of ice then slipped out from under her. A scream wrenched from her throat as she went flying. Her boots broke free from the bindings, and she released the poles. In a somersault, she landed on her backpack and slid downhill. Her skis, still attached by tethers, crashed beside her. She dug in the heels of her boots, fighting until finally she came to a stop.
When she struggled to stand, her feet sank deep into the snowpack, and she sprawled backward. With her heart beating rapidly, she couldn’t catch her breath. She was dizzy, light-headed. The entire world was shrouded in white. And cold. God, it was cold.
Forcing herself up, she lurched and stumbled again, falling forward on her hands and knees. A wave of nausea surged in her belly. She vomited into the snow.
She needed to pull herself together, but she couldn’t move. Did she hit her head when she fell? Was she paralyzed? More likely, she was in early stage hypothermia. A seductive lassitude. This is what happens when you break the rules.
It occurred to her that she might die. Alone. Unmarried and without children. There would be no one to mourn her passing except for her globe-trotting diplomat father whose greatest concern would be to choose the most appropriate coffin.
She lay back in the snow, too cold to care what happened to her. The roaring winds swept over her. In their wake came confusion. And then, a strong sense of certainty. She was meant to be here at this place and in this time. This is my destiny.
Through the swirling eddies of snow, she saw him. A man dressed in white from head to toe—camouflaged in the st
orm. Though he was skiing uphill against the pelting wind, he moved with great speed, driving his long skis forward. His technique amazed her. This guy was an incredible Nordic skier. A real athlete.
By the time she forced herself to sit up, he was beside her. She peered up at him. “Who are you?”
“Sergeant Luke Rawlins, 10th Mountain Division.”
A soldier? Though she was dizzy and weak, she cracked a smile. It seemed that the cavalry had skied over the hill and come to her rescue. His head was covered by the white hood of his fur-lined parka. His eyes were hidden behind goggles. All she could see of his face was a firm, stubborn jaw.
With a huge effort, she stood upright, knee-deep in snow. Her legs felt like rubber. The cold had drained the last bit of strength from her muscles.
Before she could tell him that she was fine, her eyelids closed. She was falling through the whirling snow into unconsciousness.
IN HIS ONE-ROOM CABIN, Luke pulled the wet turtleneck up and over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Though his purpose in stripping off her wet clothes was to get her dried off and warmed up, he couldn’t help looking. Her body was slim, but she curved in all the right places. The flare from her slender waist to her hips was sheer perfection. Her olive skin was smooth and unblemished except for three little moles that formed a triangle above her hip bone. Her breasts were small but exquisite—more beautiful than the marble statues he’d seen in Italy.
It had been a long time since he’d been with a naked woman. Nearly half a year. Before he shipped out for the front lines. Before he’d been wounded.
The woman he held in his arms groaned. Her head lifted for a moment before lolling forward. He tugged one of his army-issued T-shirts over her head and shoulders, then stretched her out on the bed and pulled up the covers to her chin.
Sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, he held her wrist to check her pulse. The beat was steady and stable; she was going to be all right after she warmed up. Though she’d taken one hell of a fall, she had no broken bones. Tomorrow, she’d feel the bruises.
Her nose wiggled as she stirred in her sleep. Then she sighed and went quiet again. She was beautiful, a regular sleeping beauty. Her thick black hair framed her face. Delicate eyebrows arched above her full lashes. Her best feature was her full, pouty lips. She had the kind of mouth that begged to be kissed.
When he’d rescued her from the blizzard, she’d looked like hell with snow matting her hair, her complexion drained and her lips tinged with blue. What had she been doing out here? This wasn’t a sanctioned area; she shouldn’t have been up here, but he was glad she’d broken the rules. This pretty lady—whoever she was—made a good diversion.
Only a few hours ago, Luke had received his orders to return to the front lines of battle. In less than a week, he’d be shipped back to hell. He wasn’t a coward, but the order scared him. He remembered too well. Too many scenes of carnage were burned in his memory. When he closed his eyes, he saw the blood and the devastation. Buildings shattered. People torn apart. His ears still echoed with the cries of dying men and women. He felt the pain of his own wounds and relived the moment when he had been shot, when he saw his own death and welcomed it.
He didn’t want to go back. Except for one thing.
He glanced toward the snapshot on the table. A picture of an eight-year-old boy with thick, curly black hair. His skinny chest thrust proudly as he waved to the camera. Roberto. Though Luke needed no reminder of the boy, he always carried that photo with him. He’d made a promise to Roberto. I’ll come back for you. That solemn vow was more important to him than the war or his dedication to the 10th Mountain Division or even his own survival. Roberto was the reason Luke would return to the front. Though it seemed impossible to find one small boy among the multitude of orphans left by the war, he had to try.
When Luke came to the cabin tonight, he’d been hoping to find his sense of purpose. Because he was going to need every bit of his strength and courage to find Roberto and make everything turn out okay, he needed a reason to believe in himself again. And the storm had brought this strange woman to him.
He hadn’t noticed her on the slope until he heard a yelp and saw her crashing out of control. She’d been a long way uphill from where he’d been standing, and he had to backtrack and circle around before he could reach her. She was damned lucky that he’d shown up when he did.
He’d saved her life. The odds against him being nearby at the exact moment when she crashed were a million to one. And if he hadn’t been here, she would have frozen to death in this freak spring blizzard. Lucky for her. And for him, too.
The fact that he’d been there—at the right place and in the right time to save her—gave him satisfaction. It was almost enough to renew his spirit, almost enough to make him believe in the possibility of redemption.
Leaving her bedside, he went to the table and poured a double shot of Jack Daniel’s into a mug. Holding the cup aloft, he toasted her. “Here’s looking at you.”
She groaned. Her eyelids fluttered.
Luke savored his whiskey and waited patiently.
When she finally wakened, she bolted upright to a sitting posture. Her dark brown eyes were huge and luminous. “Where am I?”
“One of the mountain huts constructed by the 10th Mountain Division.”
Though she nodded in apparent understanding, he saw confusion in her rapidly darting gaze. Her lips worked before forming words. “I’ve always wanted to stay in one of these huts. It’s almost impossible to get a reservation.”
Though her words didn’t make sense—a reservation?—she was relatively coherent. He nodded toward a cup of water on a chair beside the bed. “You should drink something.”
“Right. I’m probably dehydrated.”
As she sipped the water, his gaze went again to those full, ripe lips. His temperature rose. The memory of her lush naked body lingered in his mind.
He reached for the opened pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes on the table. “Smoke?”
“I quit, but I don’t mind if you do. You’re Luke. Is that right?”
He nodded. “And you are?”
“Shana Parisi.”
“Nice to meet you, Shana Parisi.” He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, except for the headache from hell.”
“I assessed your physical condition. Your vitals are strong. I got you warmed up before you went into hypothermia, but you probably have altitude sickness. I’m guessing you haven’t been at this elevation for more than a day or two.”
“Your guess is correct.”
“Where are you from?”
“Most recently, Kuwait. Before that, Thailand.”
He hadn’t expected that response. Kuwait? Thailand? She was turning into a very interesting diversion. “What brings you to Colorado?”
With a frown, she rubbed at her temple. “I’m a geologist. I work for AMVOX Oil, and we’re looking into an oil shale operation on the western slope.”
A geologist. That explained the rock samples he’d found in her pockets. Luke finished off the dregs of his Jack Daniel’s, glad for the whiskey warmth that spread through him and lightened his mood. He sure as hell hadn’t expected to be smiling tonight.
She eyed him curiously. “You knew exactly what was wrong with me. Are you a doctor?”
“Trained as a medic,” he said. “But it wasn’t a complicated diagnosis to figure out that somebody who was turning into a human Popsicle might be going into hypothermia.”
“When does the headache go away?”
“After a couple of aspirin. First, you need to eat something to elevate your blood sugar.”
He crossed the two steps from the table to the bed and held out a Baby Ruth. When she took it from him, their hands touched. An electric spark shot up his arm.
She’d felt it, too. A gasp escaped her lips. Her dark brown eyes widened in surprise.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For
the chocolate.”
Shana couldn’t quite believe the explosion of energy and awareness that came when they acciden tally touched. That electric sensation was almost enough to make her forget that her head ached and her body was stiff and sore. Luke Rawlins was quite a man.
Immediately she knew that she needed to be careful around him. He reminded her of a lot of the guys she’d worked with on exploration and drilling sites. They fancied themselves to be superstuds, and she’d learned long ago to keep her distance. She didn’t want to be just another notch on the bedpost.
Purposefully, she looked away from Luke and concentrated on the tangible facts. She was glad to be here and to be warm, blessedly warm. A cast-iron potbellied stove stood near the door where their parkas hung on hooks. There were no extra frills in this small, one-room cabin lit by the amber glow of lanterns. A hut. She knew a bit about this system of simple log cabins that had been constructed in the 1940s by the 10th Mountain Division. In Leadville, there were dozens of memorials to these World War II heroes. “Didn’t you say that you were with the 10th Mountain Division?”
“That’s right.”
“Those guys were supposed to be the best skiers, mountain climbers and sharpshooters in the world. Elite commandos.”
“We still are.”
As she peeled the wrapper off her Baby Ruth, she dared to study this soldier in his army-green fatigues—kind of a weird outfit for somebody who was on vacation at a mountain hut. But she was willing to excuse this minor eccentricity. The man had saved her life. Also, he was remarkably good-looking with deep-set blue eyes and the tanned complexion of an outdoorsman. His brown hair was short in a no-nonsense military cut that worked for him. She guessed that he was in his early thirties. If she’d been in the market for a man, he’d be the right age.
But she wasn’t looking. Or was she? There was a sense of destiny about being here, being with him. Destiny? Yeah, sure. She believed in science, not kismet. Trying to ignore the twinges of pain inside her head, she nibbled at her candy bar and sipped the water. Rehydration was important.