and the kids yelled and ran around and knocked things
over. Families wanted suggestions for activities, baby
bottles heated at odd hours, snacks for the kids after the
kitchen was closed.
He’d had a particularly hellish group in August.
Ironically a church group. Teenagers. They’d taken over
the lodge as well as all five of his cabins strung along
the river. They sang songs, they built bonfires, they
flirted and wrestled and ate like there was no tomorrow.
They swarmed.
John just wanted to be alone. Didn’t seem like too
much to ask, did it? He’d bought the damn place because it was about as isolated as you could get without roaming with Kodiaks in Alaska. Paying guests would
give him enough income to get by, he’d figured. He
would cook, serve, clean. Give him something to do.
Otherwise, he’d keep to himself.
He just hadn’t realized how busy Thunder Mountain
Lodge was. One person after another told him, “We love
the lodge. We come every year. It has to be one of the
most beautiful places on earth.” He also heard how refreshed they were after their stay.
They should have been here at the same time as the
church group.
He had closed up the cabins for the winter, on the
advice of the old curmudgeon he’d bought the lodge
from, turning off the water and wrapping pipes. He’d
done that just a few weeks ago. The lodge itself had
six guest rooms along with his quarters in the back,
plenty for the backcountry skiers and snowshoers
who came in the winter. He had a couple scheduled
to arrive tomorrow. Something told him they wouldn’t
be coming.
Wouldn’t break his heart.
But he did wish he’d gotten down to town and back
a few hours earlier.
The last half hour was a bitch, with the snow piling
up at record speed and visibility close to zero. His mind
kept flashing back to the sandstorms in Iraq, as blinding
and bewildering.
Damn it, don’t do this. Focus.
He knew every turn, every landmark. Even so, with
the advent of darkness, he almost missed his turn. The
massive, wood-burned sign that read Thunder Mountain
Lodge carried a swag of snow and was already buried
up to the bottom of the letters.
The lodge was half a mile farther, down a winding
driveway that dropped toward the river. This privately
owned land was heavily forested, the old growth here
one of the attractions.
John had left the shed doors open and now drove
right in. He was going to have to get out the shovel if
he wanted to close them.
Unload first.
Making several trips, he carried the groceries and
booze into the big, empty kitchen. Mail he left on the
farmhouse table that sat in the middle. Once he’d put
away the perishables in the restaurant-quality refrigerator, John put his parka and gloves back on and went out to shovel enough to close the shed doors. Having already worked up a sweat, he cleared a path to the front steps and the steps themselves, too, even though he’d
likely have to redo them come morning if he needed to
go out.
Then he stood for a minute in the dark, only the
porch light and dim glow coming from the windows,
and listened to the eerie hush snow brought when it
wrapped the world in white batting.
For that brief moment, his soul felt at peace.
IN BACK, at least two of the girls were crying, one
quietly, one not so quietly. Fiona simply didn’t have the
energy to try to reassure them. In fact, she’d have liked
to cry herself.
They’d gone off the road twice more. With all three
boys pushing, each time they’d made it back onto pavement. This last time, the snow had been knee deep. That meant the undercarriage was pushing through snow.
Clammy with panic, Fiona started forward again. Now
even the sound of the chains was muffled. Thank God,
the highway didn’t seem to run next to a river or creek.
If they slid down an incline…
Don’t think about it.
For the thousandth time, she told herself, if we keep
going, we’ll eventually come out of the mountains.
Studying the map all those hours ago, she’d noticed a
couple of little towns dotting the line of the highway
once it crossed the pass and descended toward the Willamette Valley and Portland. There would be lights.