The Mountain Between Us (19 page)

“They can't start without us,” Olivia said, but picked up her coat.

She parked the SUV in the lot behind the Dirty Sally and they walked next door to the Last Dollar, but Olivia hesitated at the front door. “There are a lot of people here,” she said, the butterflies on the tunic seeming to have migrated to her stomach.

“People have taken a real interest in this.” Lucille reached around her and opened the door. “Go on in. This is your big night. Enjoy it.”

At first no one noticed when they stepped inside the café. The aromas of fresh coffee and baking bread and grilled steak surrounded them. But as Olivia was hanging her coat on the pegs by the door, someone started applauding. Flushing, she turned to find a restaurant full of people—most of them familiar to her—clapping for her.

“Welcome, everyone.” Danielle, a fuzzy teal sweater hugging her curves, joined Olivia by the front register. “This is a big night for us. We're celebrating the completion of our mural, painted by artist Olivia Theriot.”

More applause. Olivia couldn't feel her feet as Danielle led her toward the back of the room, where Janelle waited with a pair of scissors. The girls had strung a wide pink satin ribbon across the back of the room. Janelle handed Olivia the scissors, then stepped back.

She turned to face the crowd. Bob sat nearby, with Reggie and some of the other Dirty Sally regulars. Another crowd of barflies stood just inside the front door with Jameso—apparently they'd emptied out the place to come watch her. Maggie was there with her camera, along with Rick, Tamara, and her husband, and so many other people she recognized, even if she didn't know their names.

D. J., however, was not there. She told herself it didn't matter, but her shoulders slumped just a little at the realization. “Speech!” someone called.

Right. She was supposed to say something. All the remarks she'd so carefully prepared earlier had vanished from her head, so she'd have to wing it. “I want to thank Janelle and Danielle for giving me this opportunity,” she said. “They took a chance, hiring someone like me, without a lot of experience, for a project this big. I really appreciate it.” More applause. She smiled. This wasn't so bad. “I also want to thank my mom, Lucille, and my son, Lucas, for all their patience and understanding while I worked long hours to complete this project. And thank you to Lucas for helping with my research. And to Cassie Wynock and Bob Prescott for their help in learning about the history of Eureka so I'd know what to paint. And thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate with me.” There, that was enough. She turned and snipped through the ribbon. The flash of Maggie's camera momentarily blinded her.

Then Danielle was hugging her. “It's so beautiful,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

Janelle embraced her then and pressed an envelope into her hand. “Here's the final payment,” she said. “You did great.”

Others came to congratulate her, and someone handed her a glass of wine. She hadn't realized she'd been scanning the crowd again until her mother moved in close. “D. J. told me to tell you he's sorry he couldn't be here,” she said. “They had a big snow slide up near Robber's Roost and he's working to clear it.”

“Oh.” She had no idea where Robber's Roost was, but she didn't really care. “Well, I don't know why he'd have wanted to come anyway.”

“He said to tell you congratulations.”

Then Lucille moved away and another group of well-wishers came to offer hugs and handshakes. Olivia tried to pretend all the accolades didn't matter, but she couldn't stop smiling every time she glanced back at the mural. “Artist Olivia Theriot” was right there in black script in the bottom right-hand corner. Had anything ever looked so good?

When the picture of Olivia with the mural ran in the paper two days later, Jameso cut it out and tacked it up behind the bar. “I don't know if I can stand working with a celebrity,” he teased.

“Oh, please.” She swatted at him with her bar towel, but she couldn't quite hide her smile. This elation probably wouldn't last, but she was enjoying it while she could.

The door opened and a snow-covered figure entered. The man shook and snow flew, revealing Bob. “It's a whiteout out there,” he said. He took his customary stool at the bar and Jameso drew a beer without waiting for him to ask. Bob drained half the pint, then set the glass on the bar with a hard thump. “Maybe we ought to start a new pool,” he said. “Have folks guess how many days this season we'll be cut off from the rest of the world.”

“Cut off?” Olivia asked. “What do you mean?”

“When the snow piles up, avalanches can cut off the passes at either end of town,” Jameso said. “No one can get in or out.”

“Can't they just plow the snow out of the way?” she asked.

“Not so easy when it keeps sliding down off the mountain,” Bob said. “You have to wait until it quits snowing for a while, then get the big rotary plows from the state out to clear it. Sometimes they even have to bring in heavy equipment to shift trees and rocks off the road.”

Olivia shuddered. She'd heard talk like this before, but she hadn't really believed it. People around here liked to exaggerate the hardships sometimes, as if that proved they were hardier and tougher than everyone else. “What if there's an emergency and somebody has to get out?”

“They just have to wait,” Bob said. “You can't beat Mother Nature at her own game.”

“Murphy and I skied out over Black Mountain Pass one year,” Jameso said. “Not because we had to, just to prove that we could.”

“Jake Murphy never had the sense God gave a goat,” Bob said. “You could get buried in snow up there and nobody'd find you 'til July.”

“Being crazy must be a requirement for living here,” Olivia said.

“If crazy is not wanting to play by the rest of the world's rules, then maybe you're right.” Bob shoved his empty glass forward. “I'll have another.”

She pulled another glass of Irish Ale. She'd never thought of herself as a person who played by the rules, but maybe it was possible to take being different too far. People around here didn't show off their new cars—they bragged about how many miles they had on their old beaters, and how their ancient rust bucket pulled a tourist's new Lexus out of the ditch last week. Most nights one or two snowmobiles shared space with the trucks and cars in front of the bar, and last week the town council had officially closed Darter Avenue on the North End of town to vehicle traffic, designating the snow-covered slope as a “sleds and skis only” thoroughfare.

These people didn't just tolerate winter—they reveled in it.

“I'd just as soon the roads stay open until UPS has delivered all the stuff Barb ordered for the nursery,” Jameso said, as Olivia slid the beer in front of Bob.

“I don't see why a baby needs a bunch of fancy stuff,” Bob said. “I slept in a dresser drawer until I was two.”

“Barb's driving me crazy. Every week she's got some new idea for a new color scheme or a new piece of furniture or gadget.”

“What does Maggie say?” Olivia asked.

“Maggie's turned the whole thing over to Barb. I really think it's their way of keeping me occupied and involved, as if I'd forget about the baby without them reminding me of it every day.”

“Would you like to forget?” Olivia asked. “At least for a little while?”

“No!” He flushed. “Okay, maybe sometimes I'd like to, but I won't. Finding out you're going to have a kid changes the way you look at everything. “

“Some men can't handle the responsibility,” Bob said. “Jake was like that. When things got heavy, he left.”

“What do you mean, he left?” Olivia asked.

“He skipped town when Maggie was three days old, so she never knew him.”

“Lucas's dad and I split when Lucas was two. He never came back once to see his son.”

“Well, I'm not like them,” Jameso said. “I'm not going to desert Maggie or my kid. But she doesn't believe that.”

He seemed to mean it, but how could he be sure? Olivia wondered. Maybe he'd freak out when the baby got here. “Did you know Maggie was pregnant before she told you?” she asked.

“No way. I mean, I guess I knew it was a possibility, but I never thought . . .” He shook his head.

Of course, he and Maggie didn't live together, and he hadn't known her as long as Olivia had known D. J., but maybe guys didn't pick up on these things the way she thought. Maybe D. J. really had been oblivious to all the hints she'd dropped.

The door opened again, ushering in another blast of cold, a flurry of snowflakes, and Junior Dominick, who dragged a large cardboard box covered in Christmas wrapping paper. “Where do you want me to put this?” he asked, straightening and brushing snow from his shoulders.

“There by the door will work.” Jameso came from behind the bar to help him position the box.

“What's that for?” Olivia asked.

“The food and toy drive for the Santas,” Junior said. “We've got a big list this year, what with the economy and all, so encourage folks to fill it up.”

“The Santas?”

“The Elks puts together Christmas packages for anybody in need; then volunteers dress up like Santa and make the deliveries Christmas Eve.” Bob joined them in front of the box.

“There's a tree at the bank with the kids' wish lists,” Junior said. “Folks can pick an ornament off the tree, buy the stuff on the list, and deposit it here or in any of the other boxes around town. We need food for the Christmas dinner, too. And, of course, cash is always welcome.”

“How many people are you collecting for?” Olivia asked.

“Last year it was thirty-five families,” Junior said. “This year we might have as many as fifty.” He turned to Jameso and Bob. “We need more Santas and drivers, so get over to the Elks Hall and sign up.”

“I'd scare some poor kid to death if I showed up as Santa,” Bob said. “But I'll help with the packing and stuff.”

“You should come and bring Lucas,” Junior told Olivia. “It's a great way to show kids the true meaning of the holiday.”

“Sure, I'll do that.” She'd make sure they got an ornament off the tree, too. Maybe that would help her look at the holiday in a better light—and take Lucas's mind off the gun he wanted.

The phone rang and she turned back toward the bar to answer it, just as a piercing shriek rent the air. “What the hell is that?” she asked, covering her ears.

“Emergency siren at the fire department,” Junior said. He exchanged worried looks with the other men.

The door to the saloon burst open and Maggie raced in, the blare of the siren still echoing behind her. “There's been a big avalanche up on Black Mountain Pass,” she said. “D. J. was plowing up that way and got pushed off the mountain.”

C
HAPTER THIRTEEN

W
hile the others in the bar exclaimed and fired questions, Maggie watched Olivia. The younger woman was very pale—and very silent. “I'm headed up there now to try to get the story for the paper,” Maggie said. “I just thought you all would like to know.”

“I want to come with you.” Olivia was already pulling her coat from behind the bar.

“All right,” Maggie said. Clearly, she wasn't going to keep the girl away, and she probably didn't need to be driving, as upset as she looked.

Olivia waited until they were headed up the road to Black Mountain Pass in Maggie's Jeep before she spoke. “What happened?” she asked.

“I don't know everything, but the scanner message sounded like one of the avalanche chutes up on Black Mountain let loose, and swept the plow and the driver off the side of the mountain.” Saying the words gave Maggie a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She glanced at her passenger. Olivia stared straight ahead, only the tightness around her mouth betraying her agitation. “Rick said this happens at least once a year,” Maggie continued. “Most of the guys make it out okay.”

“It's crazy,” Olivia said. “He's crazy. Why would anyone take a job like that?”

“Because they're men and men are crazy?” Maggie smiled at Olivia's shocked expression. “I don't really think they're all crazy,” she said. “But some of them do seem to enjoy testing the limits. Maybe it's a testosterone thing, liking risk and danger.”

“He was in Iraq for six months,” Olivia said. “Driving trucks in supply convoys. Maybe life here seemed too tame after that.”

Maybe that was why Jameso liked hurtling down mountains on skis or flying through the night on his motorcycle, Maggie thought. Maybe regular life was too tame after fighting in a war. “It's none of my business, I know,” she said, “but you and D. J. used to be . . . involved?”

Olivia fixed her with a cool stare. “Are you asking as a reporter?”

“No, I'm asking as another woman. As a friend.”

Some of the stiffness went out of the younger woman's shoulders. “We lived together for about a year. Then he decided he'd rather go to Iraq than stay with me and we split up.”

“And then he came to Eureka . . . looking for you?”

“Why do you think he was looking for me?”

“Nobody comes here by accident. And that would be too much of a coincidence, for both of you to end up in this remote small town.”

She nodded. “He came looking for me. He said he was sorry and he wanted to try again. And you probably think I'm a coldhearted bitch for not taking him back.”

“I don't think that. Saying ‘I'm sorry' doesn't automatically make everything right.”

“I hope he's all right.” Olivia's lips compressed into a thin line. “Then I can personally kill him for being so stupid.”

Flares in the road warned them they were nearing the accident scene. Half a dozen cars and trucks—probably belonging to the Search and Rescue team—were parked along the shoulder leading to the summit of the pass, along with three county sheriffs' SUVs, light bars flashing. Maggie parked behind an old Dodge she recognized as belonging to Charlie Frazier, Shelly's husband. “Search and Rescue is here,” Maggie said. “That's good.”

The women climbed out of the car and trudged up the road. The sun had come out, bathing the scene in dazzling light, so that every snow crystal sparkled. Maggie squinted in the glare, even behind her sunglasses. The air smelled of diesel and pine. A pyramid of snow ten feet high blocked the highway, spilling into the canyon along the side of the pavement, where the road abruptly dropped away to nothing.

“I can't believe there isn't even a guard rail up here.” Olivia hugged her arms across her chest and scowled at the canyon.

“I thought the same thing when I first came up here,” Maggie said. “Then someone pointed out that guard rails wouldn't stop an avalanche, and they wouldn't allow the plow drivers to push the snow over the side.”

“Is he really down there?”

“Let's find out.” She approached the group of men and women gathered at the drop-off. Olivia trailed behind. As they drew closer, Maggie saw that someone, probably Search and Rescue, had strung a cable from a rock anchor, down into the canyon. “What's going on?” she asked Charlie, a stocky thirty-something with a ginger beard.

“The plow came to rest in a bunch of trees about thirty feet down, on its side,” Charlie said. “We've got a couple men down there digging their way into the cab. We won't know much until they clear the snow.” He shifted his gaze over Maggie's right shoulder. “What are you doing here, Olivia?”

“The driver, D. J., is a friend of hers,” Maggie said.

“I'll have to ask you to step back, out of our way,” Charlie said. His tone wasn't unfriendly, but it was firm.

They moved back a few steps. Maggie took a few photos of the avalanche and the men working. “It's freezing up here.” Olivia stamped her feet.

The girl wore a stylish, but probably not very warm, denim jacket. “Do you want to go sit in the Jeep?” Maggie asked. “You could run the engine to keep warm.”

“No, I want to be here when they bring him up.”

Two other team members had a Stokes basket ready to haul up the injured man. Maggie prayed he was still alive. She hadn't told Olivia the other thing Rick had revealed to her—that the men who didn't make it out alive were usually in bad shape.

Both women turned at the sound of running footsteps. Lucille, her red wool coat bright against the snow, hurried up the steep slope to them. She stopped in front of them, red-faced and out of breath. “I came as soon as I heard. Olivia, are you all right?”

“Just dandy.”

Lucille moved closer to her daughter but didn't touch her. Maggie thought again how different they were—tall Lucille with her raw-boned features and Olivia, delicate and gamine. Yet the women had the same mouth and the same firm set of their jaws.

“What's taking so long?” Olivia asked.

Maggie shook her head. She'd had her ears tuned for a shout from down below, some indication that they'd found D. J. alive.

A man she didn't recognize climbed up from the canyon and shook his head. “The cab's empty,” he said. “He must have been thrown out . . . or jumped.”

Olivia made a sound like a whimper and turned away.

“What are you going to do now?” Lucille asked the man.

“We'll start searching the canyon.” He didn't add “for the body.” Maggie's own imagination supplied those words. She scanned the vast canyon. The tops of dark green fir and spruce jutted from the snow, which looked soft and inviting, but she knew just beneath the surface lay jagged boulders. How could any man survive hurtling off the side of a mountain into that?

A wrecker arrived, the rumbling engine shaking the ground at their feet. Maggie looked up at the cliffs to their right, half-fearing another avalanche. But the snow clung there, silent and still. The driver climbed out and walked to the back of the rig and began spooling steel cable from the winch. “The plow doesn't look too damaged,” Charlie told Lucille. “You should be able to get it running again without too much trouble.”

“I'm more concerned about the driver than the plow.”

“Of course. Still, with all our budget problems, not having to buy a new plow is a good thing.”

Everyone watched as the wrecker driver climbed down, cable in hand. Fifteen minutes later he was up again. The winch groaned. Rocks shifted, and he began the slow process of hauling the wayward plow to the surface.

The diesel motor of the wrecker growled and popped. The winch groaned, and the scrape of metal against rock as the snowplow climbed made Maggie want to put her hands over her ears. Olivia kept her eyes fixed on the cable, scarcely blinking, giving no indication that the noise bothered her.

The wing of a plow blade emerged first, jutting up over the lip of the canyon like the talon of a prehistoric monster. Then the top of the cab came into view, a little dented, but surprisingly intact. The rest of the machine emerged quickly, until it sat upright on the road, listing a little to one side from a flat tire. The wrecker driver unhooked the cables, then returned to the wrecker to reposition it to load the plow onto the flat bed.

“I hope she's okay. She was my favorite machine.”

The man spoke from behind them. Olivia gasped and they all turned to stare at D. J. He had a streak of blood on one cheek and one knee was torn out of his coveralls, but otherwise he appeared unhurt. “Where did you come from?” Maggie asked.

“I climbed up out of the canyon.” He wiped his hand on his jacket. “I jumped free when the machine started to slide, and landed in a bunch of rocks. Knocked the breath out of me; then it took a while to figure out how to get back up here.” He grinned. “That was a wild ride!”

Olivia walked toward him, eyes dark and huge in her pale face. Maggie raised her camera, ready for a shot of the big reunion hug. But instead of flinging herself at him, Olivia reached out and slapped him.

D. J. reeled and took a step back to keep from falling over. The sound echoed through the canyon. “Don't you ever scare me that way again!” Olivia shouted.

She stalked back down the road, toward Maggie's Jeep. D. J. stared after her, one hand to his cheek, which bore the clear imprint of her hand. Then he grinned, a goofy, half-out-of-it smile.

“What are you grinning about?” Maggie asked.

“Don't you see?” he said. “It means there's hope. She still cares.”

D. J.'s reaction to Olivia's slap stayed with Maggie in the days following the accident. The ways couples chose to reveal their emotions would probably make a fascinating study for a psychology class, but with Christmas only a couple of weeks away, she was more focused on finding the right gift to show her feelings for Jameso.

Though she'd turned down his marriage proposal, she wanted him to know that she did love him—and she was glad he was the father of her baby. So she wanted to give him a gift that was special and would have meaning for him. That ruled out typical guy gifts like shirts or fishing lures or ski equipment.

She debated on books or music, but nothing seemed right. Barb was no help. “I'm giving Jimmy a contraption that monograms golf balls and a gift certificate for a massage,” she said when Maggie telephoned and asked for suggestions. “Last year I gave him a round of golf at a course in Scotland—that was probably the best gift I ever gave him, but I don't want him expecting something that good every year.”

“Jameso works at a bar. He has access to all the liquor he wants. And he has every piece of ski equipment known to man.”

“Jimmy has tons of golf stuff, but he still likes it when I buy him something new. Just look at it like buying a gift for a bigger kid. Give him something he'd like to play with. You, for instance. All wrapped up in a red satin bow and nothing else.”

“Yeah, I don't think so. When are you going to be here? Maybe you can help me shop.”

“We're leaving the day after the party.” The annual Stanowski Christmas bash was one of the benchmarks of the Houston holiday season, at least in the rarified circles in which Barb traveled.

“And Jimmy is okay with this? I thought he hated snow.”

“He thinks he hates snow. He's never been around enough to know. Besides, I promised him we'd soak nude in the hot springs with the snow falling gently around us. He'd never pass up an opportunity like that. You do have snow, don't you?”

“Plenty. People tell me it's shaping up to be a record year.” Even now, when Maggie looked out the front window of the

Miner
's offices, she could see a drift of white settling onto the already snow-covered streets and cars and buildings. “Jameso's thrilled at the skiing, and I'm just glad I don't have to drive far in the stuff.”

“And you're not going near a snow shovel, I hope.” Barb spoke sternly. Not for the first time, Maggie thought her friend would have made a great sixth-grade teacher.

“No, Jameso is taking care of all that.” In fact, for a man who up until now had shown no hint of ever wanting to settle down and be responsible, he was amazingly attentive. He accompanied her to doctor's appointments and had let Barb bully him into creating her idea of the perfect nursery. “He seems happy about the baby,” she added.

“So, are you going to marry him?”

Maggie squirmed in her chair. “He hasn't asked again.” Marriage was a topic they were both clearly avoiding.