Kit's Ultimate Deal

Chapter 1Near Sunrise Ski Resort Apache Reservation, Arizona Fresh powder—ought to make for great skiing tomorrow. Kit Poindexter slowed the BMW, feeling the car slip as she took a sharp curve. She flipped on the lights and followed their wavering beams into the swirling white-speckled twilight. Since arriving in Arizona in January to start her new post with Bernard Brothers Investments, she hadn’t had one chance to go skiing, which had been one of her favorite leisure time activities back home. When she mentioned her planned weekend at Sunrise to Les Bernard, her employer, he had beamed. “Great timing, Kathy,” he said. “I’ve got a new client coming in, an Aye-rab, I think, looking for some good property to be developed into an upscale resort. Understand there’s some choice acreage around the edges of the reservation, so take a look and see if you see anything that looks promising…maybe ask around a little if you can. You locate something, I guarantee there’ll be a nice bonus for you.” She hated when he called her Kathy, but she knew from experience she couldn’t make him stop. Being a petite female in the business world brought disadvantages. How did you get the men to take you seriously? But the bonus sweetened his comment. With a few extras like that, she’d have her million and be able to go back to Boston, maybe before Sam sent their father’s legacy into oblivion. Why hadn’t Dad seen she had twice the business acumen of her half-brother? Another skid jerked her attention back to driving. She was definitely on the highway, but which lane? I hope nobody’s coming down the road. Edging the car to the right, she glimpsed the hillside, rising from the roadbed. At least her lane was on the inside. After what seemed a long, steep climb, the highway leveled off. Her visibility had become so limited she almost missed the turn-off. She managed to get onto the narrow road leading to the ski area. Only one set of tire tracks marred the pristine white blanket of snow that thickened with every passing moment. She nibbled her lip, striving to stay calm. Only twenty miles now. Surely the storm can’t get worse. Her new Arizona friends would laugh if they knew she’d let a little southwestern snow scare her. After all, as she’d told them, she’d lived with real winters most of her life. But that had been in a city where the roads were paved and plowed. Abruptly, the ride went bumpy, as if she’d gone from pavement to a chuckhole pocked dirt road with no notice at all. This road was even less defined than the highway, rambling up and down, from ridge to ridge, snaking across deep ravines. Trees edged both sides, the only clues that indicated the direction of the road. Her car slithered, slipped sideways, tilted, and came to a jolting stop. A BMW was not supposed to do this. Those glossy TV ads never showed a Beemer doing anything as un-elegant as getting stuck in a ditch. She ground her teeth in frustration, stomping on the gas once more. The wheels spun, throwing mud and snow. The Beemer wouldn’t budge. “Damn it! Why does this have to happen now?” With a resigned sigh, she shut off the motor. As Aunt Catherine had always said, “No use beating a dead horse.” Or in this case, a dead Beemer. Kit turned around and leaned over the back of the seat, rummaging for her boots. If she had to get out, she wasn’t going do it in her cross-trainers. The snow must be at least ten inches deep, maybe more. She decided to put on her parka, too, glad she’d brought the thick coat. She hadn’t expected to need it. Wasn’t this Arizona? Sunny Arizona? How far had she come from the main highway? She hadn’t thought to check the mileage, but she felt like she’d traveled a long way. She could probably hike to the lodge and find someone with a four-wheel drive vehicle to come tow her car. First, she’d try her cell phone. As soon as she unlocked the screen, she could see there was no service. She muttered a very unladylike curse. She’d discovered there were still quite a few dead zones in the wilds of the southwest. It figures. Gathering her resolve, she shoved open the door and stepped into the storm. The cold hit her like a fist in the stomach. She gasped, then slammed her mouth shut as the icy air burned her throat. Wind-driven grains of snow stung like needles when they hit her face. She pulled the hood of her parka as far forward as possible before she turned to begin slogging down the road. Just her luck—that direction led her right into the wind. In mere minutes, she was out of breath. Kit paused, turned her back to the wind, and looked behind her. She couldn’t see her car, though she knew she hadn’t come very far. The depressions of her footprints were nearly buried by fresh snow. The snow wasn’t falling, but swirling and surging, flying as if each flake had internal power. That wind was something else. Maybe I ought to stay at the car. Someone should be along shortly. Kit hesitated. Go back or continue? She couldn’t stay here. On this exposed ridge top, the wind howled past like a freezing jet-wash. If only she knew how far the lodge was. She went on a few steps, then turned back. She’d be better off waiting in the car. At least she wouldn’t be quite so cold inside, out of the wind. She could start it again and run the heater, although she’d heard it was dangerous to sit too long in a storm with your motor running. Carbon monoxide gas could build up and poison you before you knew what was wrong. Long before she reached the car’s meager shelter, her teeth began to chatter and violent shivers racked her. Wind chill. Hypothermia. In Arizona. I don’t believe this! * * * * Bret McClintock peered through the windshield of his Dodge Ram, straining to find traces of the road. Even though he knew it almost as well as his own drive—make that the drive at Aunt Melba-Jean’s, where he’d lived the past eight years—nothing looked normal. The snow covered everything, and visibility was down to a nose and a half. He should have stayed home, but when Jason called last night to tell him old Tracks Three was willing to talk, he’d jumped at the chance. The oldest man in the White River Apache tribe, Tracks Three had first-hand knowledge of events long forgotten by most people. He’d heard tales of the legendary Apache leaders from people who had actually fought and fled with them. The old man’s tales might confirm some of Bret’s personal theories. Though not yet accepted by anyone else, they were ideas that, once published, could change the academic view of Native American tribes of the Southwest and their history. Storm or no storm, he couldn’t miss this opportunity. The clouds brought an early twilight. Even with the truck’s lights on, Bret couldn’t see much besides snow. Then he saw a dark shape, only half-covered with white, loomed ahead. The sight sent jumbled thoughts racing through his mind. A car? What’s someone doing out here on a night like this? I bet whoever it was missed the turn-off to Sunrise. Hope he had sense enough to stay in the car’s shelter. The wind chill must be twenty below. Bret braked gently so he wouldn’t skid. The truck crunched to a stop behind the stalled vehicle. Leaving the engine running, he got out to investigate. As he approached the driver’s side, the door cracked open to reveal a woman’s pale face, surrounded by a damp, fur-edged hood. “Oh, thank God! I was beginning to think nobody would evah come by. Surely there ought to be more people going to Sunrise. The skiing will be great once this storm cleahs.” The voice sounded feminine, a strong hint of Boston in the dropped Rs. In the dim light, Bret couldn’t clearly see her face. “You aren’t on the road to Sunrise, miss. You passed that turn-off three miles back. This road leads to an Apache settlement down in White River Canyon.” Darn newcomers, why can’t they stay out of harm’s way? “Oh, no! How am I going to get to Sunrise? Would it be asking too much for you to pull me out and help me get turned around?” Bret shook his head; snow fell off his battered Stetson. “Wouldn’t do much good. Your little car’ll never get there in this weather. There’s one more steep grade before you reach the lodge. I’m starting to have trouble on the level here, even with high clearance and four-wheel drive.” The woman sat silent for a moment, apparently contemplating his statements. “What am I going to do?” Her voice held both a plaintive note and a touch of frustrated arrogance—almost as if the storm was a personal affront, interfering with her plans. “Come with me. We’ll get your car tomorrow or the next day, whenever it clears. I’m going to try to make it to a cabin, about a mile farther on. It’d be suicide to go down into White River or attempt to get to the lodge tonight.” He heard her ragged sigh. “Okay. My car won’t start again, and without the heater, I’m chilled to the bone. I guess I can’t stay here, can I?” “Not unless you want to freeze.” She clambered out, sinking into the snow. “I’ve got to get some things in the trunk: my overnight bag, my briefcase.” She waded toward the rear of the car, weaving as if the whirling whiteness made her dizzy. Once there, she fumbled, scraping snow away to find the lock, while she struggled not to drop her keys. “Here.” Bret took the key from her stiff fingers and jabbed it into the icy lock. After he twisted hard, there was a grating sound and then the trunk swung open. Snow slid in soft chunks to the ground. He reached in, grabbed the cases, and slammed the lid shut. “You’ll have to get into the truck on my side. Try to step in my tracks—that way you’ll get less snow in your boots.” When she followed him without protest, instinct told him she was being uncharacteristically mild and obedient. Bret snorted. She sounds like a real New England princess, so it’s probably a safe bet she’s never suffered much discomfort. Like Barb—she thought roughing it was a regular motel instead of the five-star hotels she was accustomed to. Might do her good to learn how being scared and miserable feels. Why do I always have to get mixed up with these damned society women? After Bret boosted the woman into the cab, she slid across the wide bench seat to let him in. He shoved her bags onto the floor at her feet before he settled behind the wheel. Gingerly, he backed up enough to clear her car, then started on once more. He stared into the gray infinity ahead, mesmerized by the slow sweep of the wipers. They shoved sluggishly at the accumulating snow, barely clearing the glass. The headlights faded into the grayness; he couldn’t see more than one truck-length ahead. Bret swore under his breath. Another mile was going to be tricky. He didn’t attempt to make conversation. Distraction from the difficult task of driving was the last thing he needed. Tracks Three and his stories would have to wait. Right now, Bret’s primary goal was survival. This must be the longest mile I’ve ever traveled. Even worse than the last mile of the Mule Mountain Double Marathon last May. Probably slower, too. Bret wiggled his shoulders, fighting off the ache of tension that tightened his back and arms. He relaxed one hand at a time, flexing fingers going numb and stiff. Finally, he recognized the lightning-blasted old Ponderosa pine that marked the turn-off to the cabin. A solid, ageless structure, the stone and log building belonged to an old family friend. Over the years, he’d spent a lot of time there. He eased the truck off the road, rolling to a stop with the bumper almost touching the porch rails. Turning to his passenger, he saw she’d slumped, leaning against the door. He flicked on the cab lights so he could look at her. Somehow, she’d gotten wet before he picked her up. Even the blast of the truck’s heater hadn’t counteracted the resulting chill. He realized she was slipping into hypothermia. Bet she started to walk and changed her mind. Lucky for her, or she’d be as good as dead now.