Bailey, Suzanne’s husband. They hooked their mountain bikes on the back of his Jeep and headed up the winding road that curved around the mountain.
“Hope you’re up for a screaming ride,” Logan said. “And then a business meeting.” He’d told them about his idea of taking on the resort at Saddle Mountain. In the bright sun of a September morning, the wild hills around Willow Lake were clad in a crazy quilt of colors. The drive up to the ski resort filled Logan with nostalgia, for the boy he’d once been, and for Charlie, the boy he’d raised.
The boy who was moving half a world away.
Logan had worked nonstop on the new enterprise, meeting with the retiring owner and sketching out a detailed business plan. There was only one glitch—money. He needed lots of money, more than any one guy had. He needed investors. He’d been on the phone and email constantly, talking with bankers, brokers, private investors. Thanks to his business in town, he knew a lot of people, and there was serious interest. He was working with an expert in ski resort financing, who told him the preliminary financials looked good. There was a lot more work to do, but Logan was determined.
He’d told his father his plan, and had received the predictable wet blanket treatment. Still, he did want his dad to see the place, and had persuaded him to drive up to the mountain today for a meeting about the idea. He’d even offered Al a stake in the enterprise. Al, of course, had assumed he was joking, but he’d agree to pay a visit, just to see.
But first—the ride. He, Jeff and Adam spent an hour careening along the trails that, when the snows came, would be ski runs. As he churned over the bumpy terrain, his mind went into overdrive. Once he took over, this was going to be a year-round resort. The trails would be waymarked and graded for mountain biking, and they’d modify the main chairlift to take riders to the top. This new direction felt, to Logan, kind of like falling in love. He woke up each morning thinking about it, fantasizing, knowing in the deepest part of his gut that he could make it work. He’d heard people talk about finding their life’s passion. This, he was fast discovering, was his.
The runs were swaths of green, veined by forest and rock. Streams cut through some of the runs; in winter they would be frozen over and buried by several feet of snow. Pedals churning, he climbed and descended, sweat and dust mingling on his forearms. The hour they’d allotted themselves before the meeting went by quickly, and they reluctantly concluded the ride at the resort’s main lodge.
“Awesome,” said Jeff, brushing the dust off his shorts. “Excellent way to start the day.”
“I thought you’d like it. There’s going to be a lot more going on up here in the off-season next year.” Logan unclasped his helmet and sucked down half a bottle of water. He used the rest of the water and a hand towel to get the sweat and grime off his face.
The resort’s owner walked down from the on-site residence, a big, rambling place that had been the original lodge in the 1950s and had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast and owner’s lodgings.
Logan already knew that if they made a deal, he’d be selling his house in town and moving to the residence. It was huge, way too much house for him, but it made sense to be on-site, especially when he was in the process of taking over.
In jeans and a plaid shirt, and a graying beard that needed a trim, Karsten Berger looked like one of the workmen. “You guys are crazy,” he said, indicating the bikes.
“Mountain-biking kicks ass,” said Adam. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“I just might, at that. The lodge is open if you need more water or something to eat.”
Just then, a shiny black vehicle turned off the road into the parking lot and came to a stop in front of the lodge.
“Holy crap,” murmured Adam, watching Al exit the sleek black Escalade, his bespoke suit catching dust from the wind blowing across the parking lot. “You never told me your father was Darth Vader.”
“Yeah, he’s kind of got that whole evil empire thing down pat.” When Logan was a kid, he used to greet his father with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.
Now Al O’Donnell arrived at the resort like the pontiff making a papal visit. He traveled with a small entourage—the driver of his sleek black SUV, his personal assistant, a humorless stick figure of a woman named Miss Teasdale, and two others who looked like bodyguards but were more likely in charge of guarding Al’s wealth.
“Thanks for coming, Dad,” Logan said. “This is Karsten Berger. His family has owned Saddle Mountain since 1949.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Karsten.
“That’s a hell of a long time to keep a business in the family.”
Karsten chuckled. “Some would say I’m a slow learner. Should have ditched the place decades ago.”
“So why are you ditching it now?”
Logan had explained the situation to his father numerous times over the phone. But his father didn’t believe Logan should make a financial move without checking out every angle—repeatedly. Saddle Mountain had been teetering on the brink of closure for several years. Karsten was ready to retire, and hadn’t put as much money into the place as he probably should have. He’d told Logan he had interest from a big corporation that was in the real estate development business. The downside was that the developer would simply do a cookie-cutter rehabilitation, creating mediocre ski terrain in order to drive condo sales.
The alternative was for someone local to take over the resort and focus on its best and most unique assets. That was where Logan came in.
“I’m older than these hills you see around us,” said Karsten. “None of my kids or grandkids wants to take it on.”
“I know what that’s like,” said Al. “You spend your life building something to last, but there’s nobody to carry on.”
“Hell, Dad, why be subtle when you can make your point with a sledgehammer?” asked Logan. He was already starting to regret inviting his father up for the day. “Tell you what. Let’s take a look around.”
It was a cozy resort complex designed like an old Tyrolean place in the Alps of Austria. The centerpiece was the big brown-and-orange Austrian-style chalet, set squarely in the middle of everything. Five chairlifts radiated up the mountain in different directions.
Some of Logan’s best memories with Charlie had been made right here on the mountain. They came here together every year, reveling in the snow and the scenery, savoring the rush of speed as they rode down the mountain on their snowboards. It was the one time Logan could simply be with his kid and escape everything else—the tedium of running his firm, a marriage that wasn’t working, the everyday challenges of parenthood.
“It’s a diamond in the rough,” said Logan.
“Emphasis on rough,” said Al, shading his eyes and checking out the old lodge.
“It’s got the second-highest vertical drop in the state,” said Logan. “Three thousand three hundred feet.”
“Could be this is one of those ideas that’s just crazy enough to work,” said Adam, never one to hold back his opinion.
“How’s that?” Logan’s father’s scowl darkened.
Logan used to be afraid of that scowl. Not anymore. “The idea’s not crazy at all. This resort is just a few hours from the city. The financials are going to be a challenge, but I can make it work.” Looking out over the vast property, he could picture a vibrant family place, alive with skiers and snowboarders in winter, mountain bikers, hikers and climbers in summer. With or without his father’s approval, he’d find a way to bring his vision to life.
“Why this?” Al demanded. “Why now?”
“This place means something to me. It’s unique in the world, and I know exactly what I want to do. I practically raise Charlie here in the winter.”
“I didn’t know you were so keen on skiing,” said Al.
In high school, his knee injury from soccer had sidelined Logan from everything—except partying and painkillers. That had been the start of a crazy, headlong descent down the wrong path. Then the reality that he’d gotten a girl pregnant had smacked him sober, and he’d put his life back together again. The knee had taken
