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“Mr. Thorlow?”
Grant raised his head from his paperwork and saw the face of a dead woman. Helen Fremont.
He dropped his pen, stiffened his back and stared.
It was her—exactly. Long blond hair, even features, crystalline blue eyes. Had they made a mistake? Had she managed to ski to safety?
The prickles, which had danced along the skin on his hands and neck, subsided. Not a ghost after all; this had to be Helen’s sister, whom he’d contacted in Toronto a little while ago and informed of the tragedy.
“We were identical twins,” Amalie Fremont said. “I take it you didn’t know. You didn’t like her very much, did you?” she added.
That was an understatement. He’d first met the woman shortly before Christmas, and found her flighty, brittle and insincere. He liked her even less now. Undoubtedly, her reckless skiing had caused the avalanche, and his best friend was dead because of her.
If only she’d never passed through their quiet mountain community. Her brand of trouble belonged in the big city as far as he was concerned. As for her twin sister, he was less sure. Amalie Fremont’s gaze held qualities of intelligence and reserve that he’d never glimpsed in Helen.
Plus there was that inexplicable buzz he’d felt from just shaking her hand….
Dear Reader,
I’ve often made the drive from Calgary to Vancouver through the Rocky Mountains. One year I was with my husband and two daughters, when we decided to stop at the information center at Rogers Pass. That was where I first saw the video Snow Wars, and decided that a man who worked at Avalanche Control would make a perfect hero for a romance novel.
Several years passed before I developed the plot to suit my hero and had my editor’s approval to go ahead with the book. Now I needed to drive back to Rogers Pass to flesh out the details for my story.
I have to be honest. Some books are just more fun to research than others. The men at Avalanche Control in Rogers Pass couldn’t have been more helpful. Together we worked through different scenes in my book, melding my storytelling ideas with the physical realities of the setting. They shared tales of successful rescues and of heartbreaking tragedies. Cheerfully, they endured all my questions, from “How long do the batteries in an avalanche transceiver last?” to “How many minutes can someone survive once buried by an avalanche?”
I hope that in this book I’ve done justice to their answers and their profession.
Readers, I’d love to hear from you. You can e-mail me at cjcarmichael@SuperAuthors.com. Or write to Suite #1754—246 Stewart Green S.W., Calgary, Alberta, T3H 3C8 Canada.
Sincerely,
C.J. Carmichael
For my sisters, Kathy and Patti, with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to those real-life heroes in Rogers Pass for their generous assistance with my research: Dave Skjonsberg, manager, Avalanche Control; Jeff Goodrich and John Kelly, avalanche observers; Alan Polster, park warden, Glacier National Park.
Thanks, also, to Pat Dunn, at Parks Canada, who helped me gather much useful material.
Any factual errors are mine.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PROLOGUE
HELENA FREMONT KNEW that her dilemma was at last resolved. Her obligations to Davin, her baby, had been taken out of her hands.
Panic choked a cry from her throat. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t see. Burning pain shot up from her left leg—broken—but this was the least of her problems.
Air. How much had been buried with her? How long would it last?
The avalanche had carried her too far, buried her too deep to hope for rescue. When the oxygen that had been submerged with her was gone, she would soon follow.
I’m sorry, baby. Please forgive me.
The noon sun had been shining through the light curtain of falling snowflakes an hour earlier when she and Ramsey had set out for their day of skiing. Now, in her coffin of packed powder, Helena held the picture of her infant boy in her mind. She saw him as he’d been in the minutes after his extraction from her womb, over eleven years ago. The last time she’d set eyes on him.
That labor, the birth, her experiences after…Even now, her final minutes ticking away, the memory was a horror. Better to go like this—a slow, but relatively painless death.
Better for her, perhaps…Guilt pressed in like the snow above her head. Fifteen minutes ago she’d laughed at the risk of an avalanche. Her companion, Ramsey Carter, had tried to steer her along the safe ridge that he’d mapped out in the small wooden shack where they’d spent the night.
But the virgin drifts on the sloping bowl had been too inviting. She’d dug in her poles and pointed her ski tips toward the inviting concave mountain basin. Around her the snow lay in thick scallops from the previous day’s storm. The whoosh and scratch of her skis against the ice crystals were the only sounds as she swooped down the 35° slope.
Except for Ramsey’s cry. “Helen!”
She’d laughed and tucked her body lower to the ground. Funny how many ways there were to outrun pain. She never would’ve guessed skiing on the edge of her control could be one of them. She almost felt she was flying. Then suddenly she really was in the air. She glanced down and couldn’t see her feet.
Something hit her from behind and she was falling, ski poles dangling wildly from the safety straps attached to her wrists.
Now the snow was no longer fluffy, but hard, concrete stuff that burned her skin and bruised her bones as she was sucked deeper within it. The skis, which had allowed her to skim the crystal surface just minutes before, were now anchors dragging her down. Her flailing arms became imprisoned in the mounting piles of snow, ensnared, too, by their attached poles.
When her free fall finally stopped, she was like a butterfly mounted on Styrofoam. Movement was impossible. How much snow settled above her? She had no idea. All she knew was that she was packed in and everything around her was dark and absolutely still.
In the isolating darkness, it was a shock to realize she could still hear the world above—tree limbs rubbing in the stiff breeze, the squawking from a couple of disturbed whiskey jacks. She tried to struggle, but her range of motion was limited to the wriggling of her fingers from hands spread out sideways to her body.
Too late she wished she had kept them in front of her face before she was buried. Snow pressed in on her eyes, against her nose and mouth, making it a struggle to gasp for air.
Had Ramsey seen the avalanche in time? Been able to ski to safety? She hoped he hadn’t followed her, wasn’t at this moment risking his life for hers.
Flashes of light played before her eyes. She knew the snow must be cold, but her body beneath the tight ski pants and Nordic sweater felt warm, the pain in her leg almost trifling. She listened for Ramsey’s voice above, but moments passed and she heard nothing.
She hoped he would be safe. It was only fair. He, after all, had a family to return to. While she did not.
She thought of Davin, her baby, her love. Poor baby. Regret pounded through her veins, along with her cooling blood. What was she doing here? She never should have left the first time. Nor the second…
Desperate for air, she opened her mouth and took in dry granules of snow, instead. Realizing her mistake, she tried to spit them out, but her face was packed in too tightly. Panic built, then exploded. From low in her chest she let out a scream that no one would hear.
The scream went on and on, until her lungs were burning and the ringing drove all other sound from her ears.
Inside her head, her scream had a name, and her mind conjured a face identical to the one she saw reflected in the mirror every morning. Her last conscious thought was a plea for help.
Amalie! I can’t breathe! Help me, Amalie!
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS JANUARY, and cold to be standing outside in the snow, but eleven-year-old Davin Fremont didn’t mind. He laughed as his aunt Amalie took a wild swing at the piñata strung up in his best friend’s backyard—and missed.
“Come on, guys,” his aunt pleaded, her eyes covered by a tightly knotted scarf. “Give me a clue. Right or left?”
“Left!” one of the kids at the party yelled.
“Right!” shot back Jeremy, the birthday boy.
Amalie stumbled in the snow, unaware that the papier-mâché sheriff hung precisely over her head. A gust of wind set it spinning and Davin yearned for the candies and trading cards he knew were stuffed into the hollow form.
“No clues,” he said, hoping he’d get another turn with the bat. “It isn’t fair.”
“Oh, sure. Fair. I didn’t hear any talk about fairness when you were up here, Davin.”
“Maybe we should give her another spin.” Jeremy’s mother was laughing almost as hard as Davin. When a couple of the boys started to run toward Amalie, she leaped forward to restrain them. “I was only kidding! She’s having a hard enough time as it is.”
“Just wait until it’s your turn, Jen,” Amalie threatened.
“No doubt you’ll have the piñata shattered before then.”
“Jenny, if I had any idea where you were standing, I just might be tempted…” His aunt raised the plastic baseball bat in her hands threateningly.
Davin saw Jeremy smirk and he laughed, too. It was fun the way his aunt and Mrs. Mitchell teased each other. They’d been friends a long time. Gone to university together, and now worked at the same hospital. Davin and Jeremy were going to do the same thing when they grew up.
“Come on, swing the bat!” urged one impatient party guest.
That was when Davin noticed his aunt wasn’t moving. It was like she’d frozen solid. A second later she moaned and collapsed to her knees.
“Aunty?” He glanced at Jeremy’s mom and dad. The concern on their faces made him scared. He ran for his aunt and threw both arms around her, as Jeremy’s dad whisked the scarf off her face.
Aunt Amalie didn’t seem to notice. She was bending over her stomach, her mouth open. “I ca-can’t breathe!”
Davin hugged tighter, more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. Was his aunt dying?
“Honey, give her some space.” He felt Mrs. Mitchell pry his arms away. His aunt was on the ground now, curled into a ball, her hands at her throat.
“Stand back, boys! Should I call 911?” Mr. Mitchell sounded tense.
“I’m not sure. It’s almost like an epileptic fit, but Amalie isn’t—” Crouched in the snow next to his aunt, Jennifer was holding Davin with one hand while she observed her friend. “She is breathing, though she seems to be having trouble drawing in air. Amalie, can you hear me? Is your chest hurting?”
“Yes. No. It’s my leg…” Suddenly, his aunt went still again. “I can’t move!”
What in the world was happening? Davin began to whimper; he was so scared….
He felt the cold bite of the winter wind as Jennifer withdrew her arm from his shoulder. As he watched, she reached for his now-motionless aunt. Gently she picked up her wrist with one hand, brushing snow from her face with the other.
“Amalie, it’s okay.”
His aunt blinked.
Davin rushed forward again, this time just taking her hand, the one Mrs. Mitchell wasn’t holding.
His aunt’s gaze shifted to him. She blinked, then gave a wobbly smile. “I guess I missed the piñata, huh?”
Relief was sweeter than the icing on Jeremy’s birthday cake. “You’re all right?”
“Of course I am, buddy.” But she looked shaky as Mrs. Mitchell helped her sit up from the snow.
“Amalie? What happened?”
“I’m not sure, Jen. It was really weird. But I’m okay. I promise.”
Jeremy glanced at Mr. Mitchell’s face. He seemed relieved. Mrs. Mitchell, too, was smiling. He scrambled to his feet and held out his hands to help his aunt stand. If all the adults thought this was okay, then it must be.
“I’m sorry to break up the party, Jen, but I think we’d better leave.”
Mrs. Mitchell gave her a hug. “Let Aaron drive you home.”
“Really, I’m fine.” Her smile was as bright as ever, and now that she was standing, she was steady and strong.
They were in the car, when Mrs. Mitchell suddenly remembered the treat bags and had Jeremy run to the house to get Davin’s.
“Thanks for inviting me to your party,” Davin said, accepting the bright blue-and-yellow bag through the open passenger window.
“Take care, now!” Everyone waved as his aunt pulled the car out onto the street.
It was cold in the car and quiet. Davin peered at the treat bag in his lap but didn’t feel like checking to see what was inside.
Instead, he checked his aunt. She looked normal, except her skin was kind of white and she was driving slower than usual.
At the next red light, she gave him a smile. “I’m okay. Really, Davin.”
“Then why—”
Her gloved hand reached for his shoulder. “Do you remember my telling you that when Helena is hurt I always know because I get the same feeling?”
Oh-oh. He should have figured this was all connected to Amalie’s twin. Everything bad in his life somehow tied in with her. The mother he wished he didn’t have.
Davin shut his mouth and didn’t ask any more questions.
AMALIE NOTICED Davin’s withdrawal, so common whenever the subject of Helena came up. When the traffic light turned green again, she took her hand from his shoulder and placed it back on the steering wheel.
She felt badly that she’d spoiled the end of the party for him. And just when they were having so much fun. But the urge to rush home was something she couldn’t ignore…maybe she’d find some word from Helena.
She and Davin lived in a rented duplex about six blocks from the Mitchells in Bloor West Village. The Toronto neighborhood was handy to the hospital Amalie worked at—she could take the subway with just one transfer. The neighborhood had once been run-down, but now it was considered trendy. Amalie appreciated the blend of new and old in the shops and cafés that lined both sides of Bloor street.
Since completing her training as a nutritionist, she had dreamed of one day buying the house she now rented. But real estate prices were sky-high for the two-story brick dwellings, with their tiny front porches and high-pitched roofs. It didn’t seem to matter that the buildings were small and packed tight together, many with original plumbing and wiring.
Location, location, location. They were close to the subway, to downtown Toronto, to the lake, to just about everything, it seemed.
Amalie rolled her Jetta behind the Dodge Omni that belonged to the neighbors who lived in the other half of her duplex, then turned to her nephew buckled into the front seat beside her.
“I’m sorry if I scared you, Davin.”
He hadn’t uttered a word since she’d made that reference to her sister. Amalie put her hand to Davin’s head and brushed back hair so fair it was practically white. His eyes shone like clear blue topaz, in the dwindling afternoon light. With coloring just like hers, and her sister’s, Davin had been an exceptionally beautiful child.
But that was changing. Just this year his features had begun to lose their little-boy roundness, taking on a definite masculine shape. He was growing up. Inside, however, he was still her little boy. Too young to understand the odd emotional connection that existed between her and her identical twin.
“Hungry?”
He shook his head.
“Well, how about a cup of hot cocoa, then?” Amalie turned off the ignition and got out of the car. As she removed the glove from her right hand so she could search for the house keys in her purse, she felt the bite of the northwesterly wind on her cheeks and her hand. It was almost February, and while the days had begun to lengthen, the recent interval of cold weather was a reminder that spring was still a good two months away.
Warm air and the lingering aroma from the cinnamon French toast she’d made for breakfast welcomed her as she opened the front door. Letting her nephew go ahead, Amalie stomped the snow from her boots, watching it scatter over the gray-painted boards of the porch floor.
Once inside she passed along the narrow hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. Immediately, she scanned the kitchen counter. Sure enough, the red light on the answering machine was flashing.
Davin had disappeared into the living room. She could hear a murmur from the television, and decided against calling him back to pick up the ski jacket and mitts he’d left lying on the floor.
Looking past tired, oak-veneer cupboards, dull yellowed linoleum and cracked and chipped countertops, Amalie reached for the playback button on the machine with a shaking hand.
You have one message.
She dropped to a kitchen chair and stared out the window. A weathered maple dominated the narrow strip of yard. To her the branches appeared weary after a valiant season of struggling against freezing temperatures, driving winds and snowfall after snowfall.
The machine clicked, and her mother’s recorded voice came out at her.
“Hello, Amalie. Just wondering why you hadn’t phoned yet this weekend. Your father and I are fine, although Dad’s back is aching after shoveling all that snow from last night’s storm. I hope you and Davin managed to go to church this morning. Give us a call when you get in.”
No word from Helena after all. Amalie’s disappointment fused with the guilt she felt about not going home this weekend as usual and shoveling that long driveway for her father.
She knew the guilt was irrational. Jeremy’s party had been important to Davin, and he deserved a little fun. Weekends with her parents in the small town north of Toronto ran a predictable pattern. Saturday, she did the odd chores they couldn’t seem to manage on their own. Sunday, all four of them went to church in the morning, then came home for a big midday meal. Afterward, she and Davin piled in the car for the two-and-a-half-hour drive home.
Only occasionally did she and Davin remain in Toronto for a weekend, but when they did, her mother created such a fuss it was hardly worth it. For instance, that reminder about church. Her mother knew Jeremy’s party had been scheduled for Sunday at eleven.
Her friend Jenny was always bugging her about taking too much responsibility for her parents. “You need to lighten up and have a little fun,” she urged over and over again.
But Jenny had two brothers and a sister, and her mom and dad weren’t the type to make demands on their children.
Amalie’s family was totally different. Her parents had immigrated from Germany when she and Helena were only seven, and they’d never fully integrated into their new country. As they got older, they relied on her more and more, and she felt she owed them whatever help she could offer.
Especially since she knew that she and Helena had both been such disappointments to them.
Amalie reached for the phone, then decided not to return her mother’s call at the moment, in order to keep the line open. With any luck she would hear from Helena soon, so she could stop worrying.
If only there were some way for her to contact her sister. But Helena’s occasional note or gift for Davin rarely included a return address. Her phone calls were even less frequent, and Amalie had learned not to ask where she lived or what her phone number was.
The two sisters hadn’t actually seen each other since Davin’s birth, and he was already eleven.
Yet Amalie had never needed to see her sister to know when she was in trouble.
“Oh, Helena, where are you?” Amalie laid her head down on the kitchen table, atop her folded arms. Being an identical twin was part blessing, part burden. To be so close to another human being meant never to be truly alone. But it also meant having to struggle for a separate identity.
For Helena, that struggle had been harder. Amalie was certain that was why she’d moved so far from home, so rarely kept in touch.
It was because of her, and the knowledge hurt. Firstborn, Amalie had always felt responsible for Helena. Yet no matter how she tried, in the end she’d always let her sister down.
Closing her eyes, she attempted to focus in on her subconscious communication with her sister. Amalie pressed her hands to her temples, tightened her jaw. Phone me, Helena!
But it wasn’t until the following evening that the call finally came. And it wasn’t from her sister.
AMALIE WAS LIFTING the lid from a pot of boiling water when she heard the first ring. The lid slipped from her fingers and fell back on the pot with a clash, sending bubbling water spraying over the element, where it hissed angrily.
She turned off the heat, then reached for the phone, praying it wouldn’t be another call from her mother.
“Hello?”
A throat cleared over the line before a man identified himself. “This is Grant Thorlow. I’m the manager of the Avalanche Control Section of Highway Services in Glacier National Park.”
The bombardment of words, none of them familiar, had her groping for pen and paper. First she scribbled down his name: Grant Thorlow. “Where did you say you were calling from?”
“Rogers Pass,” he said. “That’s in British Columbia.”
“Yes. Of course.” The treacherous Rocky Mountain corridor of the Trans-Canada Highway was a well-known Canadian landmark.
“I was wondering…” He paused, and she could hear him swallow. “Is there any chance you’re acquainted with a woman named Helen Fremont?”
This was it. She clung to the receiver, fear and hope making her heart pound. “Do you mean Helena?”
“I don’t think so. It says Helen here on her bank card.”
Amalie discounted the small difference. Helena had never been happy with the old-fashioned German names their parents had baptized them with. “What does she look like?”
The resulting pause was alarming, giving Amalie time to consider possibilities. There’d been an accident. Helena was in the hospital.
“Tall, blond, blue eyes,” he said finally. “In her late twenties.”
“That’s my sister. Is she okay?”
With any luck the injuries would be minor.
Grant’s response crushed her hopes. “No. I’m afraid she isn’t. We’ve been searching for next of kin for most of the day. Your sister didn’t carry a lot of identification on her. We found your phone number in her apartment, but there was no name”
“Never mind about that.” The man’s rambling was driving her crazy. She gripped her pen and tried to keep her voice level. “Please tell me what happened.”
“Well…” Again he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we believe your sister was caught in the path of an avalanche yesterday afternoon. At this point, we’re presuming she’s dead.” Another pause, then he added, his voice a little rougher this time, “Both she and the man she was skiing with.”
Dead. Amalie’s hand went to her heart. Oh, she’d known, she’d known.