Holiday Homecoming. Mary Anne Wilson

and detention and forgotten lessons and brilliant hair around a beautiful face that—in the dreams, at least—had smiled at him.

      When his body seemed to have ideas that were ridiculous, Cain rolled out of bed and headed for the elaborate bathroom. No, cave. The walls, floor and ceiling were fashioned from rock and stone, with a sunken Jacuzzi in the middle of the floor, positioned perfectly for the view out stone-arched windows that overlooked the main ski runs. He passed it by in favor of the open shower, a three-sided structure built into the rock of the mountainside. A waterfall ran out the back wall, and with a flick of a switch, the waterfall became rain falling from overhead in varying strengths, from a mere sprinkle to a deluge. Side jets massaged the body at the same time.

      He flicked the switch and warm water rained down on him immediately. He tipped his head back, letting the water run over his face. Despite the soothing water, he felt edgy and tense. And the dream’s images refused to evaporate under the steamy spray. Finally, he got out and reached for a towel. As he started to dry himself, he glanced out the windows to the high slopes in the distance and remembered what he’d decided the evening before. There it was. The mountain. Killer Run.

      Dawn was bathing the mountain in its glow, and he suddenly felt like a kid who was going to play hooky. This was probably because of all those crazy dreams about the teacher. He decided to do something he’d done a lot when he was a kid—take off with his skis on his shoulder, heading for the mountain.

      He tossed the towel on a side shelf and reached for a house phone, set into a rock niche next to the trio of sinks under more windows. He hit the star button, and even though a glance at the nearest clock said it was only five-twenty in the morning, the call was answered on the second ring.

      “Good morning, sir. This is Alfred. How may I be of assistance to you?”

      “I want to go skiing,” he said.

      Before he could add anything, Alfred said, “Very good. Have your requirements on file changed?”

      Cain didn’t know he had any requirements on file. “What do you have?”

      Alfred read off a list without hesitation, from Cain’s shirt size to his preference in ski bindings. Everything sounded right, even the fact that he liked down vests and not jackets, that he liked thermals under his clothes, that he favored bands instead of hats and liked reds. Jack had fed Alfred all the information and he’d noted everything.

      “Nothing’s changed,” Cain said.

      “When will you be needing your supplies?” Alfred asked.

      “Within half an hour?”

      “Absolutely,” Alfred replied without a second’s hesitation. “Is there anything else, sir?”

      “Coffee.”

      “Espresso? Cappuccino? Café mocha? Latte? Cinam—”

      “Just coffee,” he said, cutting off the recitation. “Just black, please.”

      “Colombian? Afric—”

      “Anything. Just make sure it’s hot,” he said.

      “Yes, sir,” Alfred said.

      Good to his word, Alfred had the supplies at Cain’s cabin in twenty minutes, along with strong black coffee in a thermal carafe. He drank most of the coffee before he put on the thermals, then black ski pants and a white turtleneck pullover over them. He shrugged into the red down vest and tried the boots. They were a perfect fit. Damn, Jack was good, Cain thought with real admiration. He slipped on reflective glasses, drained the last of his coffee, then grabbed his bundled skis and poles and left.

      When he was a kid, he’d walked all the way from the orphanage, but had cut across Jack’s land, which had been untouched back then. He’d climb every inch of the way to the ridge—no lifts or rides of any kind then, either. He’d leave about three in the morning to get there by sunrise, and sometimes Jack and Joshua, maybe even Gordie, would be there waiting for him. Then they took the run together.

      The Inn operated its lifts 24/7 even if no one used them. Convenience was everything at the Inn, and Cain took the easy way up. He rode on the lower lift, caught a ride at the halfway point on another lift, then switched to the one that went closest to Killer Run.

      He got off at the top but kept going upward, managed to climb over the confinement fence that marked the edge of the Inn’s property, and headed for the trees that lined the east side of the run. He traveled parallel to them as he trudged higher, studying the sweep of the run as he went, watching for any hazards hidden under the snow. Downed trees, rocks, anything could be concealed under the whiteness, but you got to where you could read the snow itself, the shape, the way it flowed, any intrusions in the way it hugged the mountain.

      His breath curled around his face as he struggled to make the top. As a kid, he’d made the top easily. Now it was work, not like taking elevators up and down at the hotel or working out on a treadmill. But worth it, he knew when he saw Killer Run.

      It was beyond a series of ridges that jutted out into the air from the mountainside. If you hit the top of the run just right, you’d clear the ridges. If you didn’t, the ground below was deep with snow and hopefully you’d land safely, missing rocks and small trees. He’d always been lucky that way.

      Now he climbed, ignoring old signs that said Private Property and No Skiing—Danger! Jack had mentioned that Old Man Jennings had died and he was working with his heir. So there wouldn’t be a frantic man screaming at Cain and ordering him off the mountain.

      The sun was up completely, the day keenly bright with light glinting off the fresh snow, and his glasses tinted everything slightly blue. His boots sank calf-deep in the snow, and he climbed much more slowly as he went around the ridges and up the back way. He spotted the tree grouping he was looking for—a stand around a clearing at the top, right where the run started.

      At last he stood on the top of the mountain, the heavens above him and the whole valley of Silver Creek below.

      He took a deep breath of the thin, cold air, then jammed his skis and poles into the deep snow and just stared at the view. Beyond the grounds of the Inn, the town appeared like a Christmas-card scene, all white snow, the spread of quaint buildings, the distant ski lifts and the smoke from numerous chimneys drifting into the sky.

      He studied the Inn. It was just as pleasant looking, but years and years newer from all the development. The scattering of expensive cottages, each positioned for the most privacy, gave the impression of being their own small town. Smoke curled into the air from many chimneys, and the main lodge spread out in both directions, nestling into the snowy land.

      He lifted gloved hands, cupped them around his mouth and did something he’d done every time in the past. “Top of the world!” he yelled. The sound echoed clearly to him five times, then with the vaguest whisper of a sixth time, before it was gone.

      “Six,” he yelled, letting the single word come back to him over and over. “Still champ!” His voice was everywhere, then faded away. He reached for skis, put them down, stepped into the bindings and bent to fasten them. Then he stood, flexed his legs and made his way to the start of the run, the one spot that was perfectly aligned with the outcropping below.

      He flexed his hands on the pole grips and was ready to push off, when he heard someone yell, “Hey, there!”

      His lifted one ski, pivoted and looked behind him. He thought he glimpsed something yellow, then it was gone. It appeared again off to his right, and then the teacher broke out of the trees. She was skiing her way toward him. Her yellow knit hat was pulled low over her brilliant hair, the colors a vivid contrast with her dull gray jacket and ski pants. When she was four feet from him, she tilted her head back and peered up into his face.

      The sight of her stirred something so basic in him that he had to inhale a deep breath to level out his thoughts. He took in the deep amber eyes, the lift of her chin, the flame of her hair. Old goggles hung around her neck, and plain knit gloves covered her hands. She wasn’t his type—at least, he’d