Cassie Miles - Footprints in the Snow

Shana took a sip of the bitter coffee, which was nothing like the thick, rich espresso she’d grown to adore while in Kuwait. “Tell me about Camp Hale.”

“Construction started in 1942 under Charles Minnie Dole who started the 10th to train for cold weather warfare. At the high point, there were ten thousand men stationed here. Now, most everybody has shipped out.”

She was no World War II buff, but Shana was certain that Camp Hale no longer existed. In the hotel where she was staying in Leadville, there were several black-and-white photos of the historic Camp Hale site and the famous troops who had fought bravely in Europe at the end of the war. A long time ago. “What are you doing here?”

“Me and a skeleton crew pulled guard duty for a government project.” He checked his wristwatch. “I need to report back real soon.”

“You’re leaving me here?”

“The rest will do you good,” he said. “I’ll come back this afternoon and help you get into town.”

She tasted disappointment with her coffee. Last night, he’d been clear about making no promises that they’d be together. But she expected more from him. Something. Anything.

She glanced toward the cabin door. Her short metallic skis were propped against the wall beside his long wood skis. Hickory skis with old-fashioned cable bindings? The laminated wood shafts of his ski poles were equally antiquated with a twisted bamboo basket.

A rifle also stood near the door. “What kind of gun is that?”

“A .30 caliber Garand with an eight round clip. Standard issue.”

“Not really.” In the Middle East, she’d become familiar with the weaponry used by U.S. troops. “What about the M16? Or the M4 Carbine? The .50 caliber sniper rifle?”

“A .50 caliber?” He scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”

“Every soldier in Iraq carries at least one of those weapons.”

“Iraq?” His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah, I remember now. You were in Kuwait. The Middle East.”

“I know a little bit about military equipment.”

“So you’re an expert.”

“I didn’t say that.” Why was he so cranky? “I was just noticing that you have some old-fashioned equipment. Like those wood skis.”

He fired a glare in her direction but said nothing. If she’d been smart, Shana would have followed his example and kept her mouth shut, but she continued, “I didn’t even know they made bindings like that anymore.”

“Now you’re an expert on ski equipment.” He looked down at her from his towering height. “I should have guessed from your skill on the slopes when you slid halfway down the mountain on your butt.”

“That wasn’t my fault. How could I know a blizzard was coming?”

“A sky full of snow clouds should have been a clue.”

“I get your point.” She adjusted the blankets around her. “I wasn’t being careful. Maybe because of the altitude sickness.”

“Maybe,” he conceded.

“I’m usually a rational, logical person.” At her new assignment in Rifle, she’d be the project manager. “I’m very responsible.”

When she stared directly into his intense blue eyes, she saw a brief spark. A flicker of memory from last night?

“I guess,” he drawled, “I’ll have to take your word about being responsible.”

While she groped in her mind for a snappy comeback, he pulled his snow pants over his fatigues and sat on the chair to lace up his boots, which were also old-fashioned in design. She tried to imagine why Luke—who was obviously an experienced skier—would be using such antiquated equipment.

“I know,” she said. “You’re doing some kind of historical reenactment. Something about the early days of the 10th Mountain Division. Am I right?”

“I don’t have time to play games, and the 10th isn’t history.” He frowned. “Are you feeling okay? You sound a little Looney Tunes this morning.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “As soon as possible, I’m out of here.”

“Whatever you say.”

Wrong! He was supposed to tell her that he’d enjoyed their kiss last night. At the very least, he should offer a couple of light compliments. “I know you enjoyed it. Last night was every man’s fantasy. Being trapped in a cabin with a naked woman.”

“Depends on the woman,” he said.

“Are you telling me I’m not your type?” If she hadn’t still been nearly naked, she would have leaped from the bed and smacked him. “I suppose you prefer brainless blondes.”

“Not really. I wouldn’t kick Betty Grable out of the sack, but Rita Hayworth is my pinup. You’d look a little bit like her if you’d—”

“Stop it,” she snapped. “Rita Hayworth. Camp Hale. Wood skis. Exactly what year do you think it is?”

He slipped on his parka, grabbed his skis and opened the cabin door. “It’s 1945.”

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“I’ll be back this afternoon. Rest easy, Shana.”

The door closed firmly behind him.

This was just typical of her luck. She finally let down her guard and allowed herself to experience the fantasy of the moment, and the guy was certifiably insane.

She pushed aside the K rations. That was another 1945 term—K ration instead of MRE. Did he really believe it was over sixty years ago?

Did it matter if he did? His message was pretty darn clear. He was done with her. Well, fine. She was done with him, too. No way was she going to wait around in this dinky little cabin for him to come back. Shana could find her own way back to the ski trails and the parking lot where she’d left her rental car.

When she crawled out of the bed, it felt as if every muscle in her body had been strained. A gigantic purple bruise decorated her thigh. She stretched and took a couple of cleansing breaths, hoping to move beyond the pain.

While she dressed, she forced down another cup of coffee, more water and another few bites of the disgusting K ration food substitute. What a lousy way to start her time in Colorado!

Even though Luke had been utterly obnoxious, she probably ought to leave him a note, explaining that she’d decided not to stick around. As she poked around on the table looking for a paper and pencil, she found a black-and-white photograph of a young kid with curly hair. Luke’s son? On the back of the picture was a note written in fountain pen. “Roberto. Christmas, 1944.”

The edges of the photo were frayed, indicating that it had been handled a lot. Carefully, Shana returned the picture to the table.

In her pack, she found a confirmation for her hotel room and scribbled a note on the back.

Thanks for saving my life. Going to town.

Goodbye forever, Shana.

Before leaving, she glanced around the cabin. So much for windswept fantasies. It was time to get back to the real world. She grabbed her skis and trudged out the door.

As if to compensate for her dark mood, the weather was spectacular. Brilliant sunlight illuminated clear blue skies and sparkled like diamonds on the new-fallen snow that decorated the pine trees surrounding the forest. Yesterday’s blizzard was already beginning to melt.

She shoved her boots into the bindings and fastened the tethers. Her first gliding step was agony. When she got back to the hotel in Leadville, Shana intended to spend the rest of the day soaking in the tub, healing her physical wounds.

She followed the tracks of Luke’s skis through the forest. The more she moved, the more her muscles loosened up. Except for the bruise on her hip and the remnant of a headache, she was okay. Slowly, she made her way through the forest to an open slope that seemed familiar. Was this where she’d fallen yesterday?

Though she wasn’t sure which direction led back to the marked cross-country ski trails, she figured that if she kept heading downhill, she’d eventually find her way. She’d barely eased the tip of her ski onto the slope when she heard a gunshot.