They stood there in the dark kitchen for a long time. Finally, she pulled back.
“Well, did you find anything?” she asked, the relief that he was here deflating her anger.
Pete shook his head. “But I did talk to a street hustler. Smart kid. He dropped a few hints.” He sighed, looking troubled.
She squeezed his hand.
“I just wish I had more time,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s a story here, Cass, a real story. I don’t think anyone’s dug into it.”
A shiver went down her spine. “Maybe there’s a reason for that.”
Pete’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”
“C’mon, we should get some rest,” Cassidy said. “We have a long flight tomorrow,” she added, relieved when Pete gave no resistance.
Eleven
Mt. Baker backcountry, Washington
January 10, 2016
Cassidy Kincaid rounded the hairpin turn and accelerated her truck up the snow-packed mountain road. The back wheels fishtailed but she quickly regained control and grinned at Pete who had been pouring coffee for her from the thermos. He raised an eyebrow in that playful way that made her heart bounce. The moment felt magical: she was going backcountry skiing, and she was in love.
The previous summer they had been apart for an agonizing two months while Cassidy taught the undergraduate field geology course in Montana, and Pete traveled for several new stories: a groundwater contamination outbreak in Spokane, immigrants in America’s work force in San Francisco, and a series on an illegal fish farming operation in Oregon’s Coos Bay. Pete had also started researching a future book on the lives of immigrants in the U.S.
Since their reunion in October, Pete had become a regular figure at Casa de Rocas. He had taken over a drawer in her dresser, and a duplicated collection of his toiletries filled up the left side of her bathroom sink. They hadn’t yet talked of the future and of what would happen after Cassidy finished her PhD in the spring. She knew she wanted Pete to come with her while she completed her postdoctoral but she didn’t know how to ask.
Entering the adjacent ski area’s overflow parking lot, Cassidy slowed and drove across the plowed surface to the trailhead. A Tahoe idling a few cars down blinked its headlights.
“Mark and Tara are here,” Pete said before exiting the truck.
Cassidy swallowed the last of her coffee and followed.
“Guess who won the bet?” Mark said in a teasing voice.
“What bet?” Pete asked.
“The bet on how many minutes late you’d be,” Mark replied, smirking.
“Uh, you did,” Pete answered.
“Yep, Tara guessed seventeen and I said twenty-four.”
“Sorry,” Pete said. He slung his arm around Cassidy. “We just couldn’t get out of bed this morning.”
Cassidy gave him a playful shove. “Let’s get a move on. I’m freezing,” she said.
They suited up in the early dawn, the air so cold it burned like ice in her lungs. Cassidy slid the strap of her avalanche beacon over her head and around her back, snapping the clip tight against her body. Pete did the same—his a slightly different model, newer than hers. Then they layered up with fleece and Gore-Tex jackets, neck gaiters, and hats. Pete blew on his fingers and did little hops to warm himself while Cassidy finished snapping down the buckles on her ski boots.
“We should probably stay off the face today,” Pete said.
Cassidy nodded. “The ridge line or the trees should be good,” she replied, remembering the details of the avalanche forecast they’d listened to during the drive from Seattle. As a former ski patroller, Cassidy understood that a “moderate” avalanche forecast was the most dangerous, partly because it meant conditions were unpredictable, and partly because skiers considered “moderate” to mean “not that risky” and entered the backcountry believing that they were safe. Cassidy would never make that mistake. True, Washington’s snowpack was much wetter and had longer dry periods than Tahoe’s, but snow was snow and she understood how to read the layers.
When everything was ready, they shouldered their packs containing the remaining safety gear, extra clothes, water, and lunch. Cassidy was particularly excited about the smoked salmon sandwich Pete had made her and the chocolate-covered espresso beans. Pete closed the tailgate and their eyes met—his a shiny grey-blue, sometimes so pure they seemed to pierce right through her, stealing her breath in the process. He leaned down and kissed her, his lips cold to the touch, then pulled back and grinned.
“I love you, Cassidy Kincaid,” he said.
“I love you too,” she replied, feeling a giddy pulse of joy pop into her chest.
Mark and Tara met them at the edge of the parking lot where a packed, wide trail led into the basin.
“What’s with the bunnies, bro?” Mark asked Pete, pointing at his retro-style ski hat adorned with pink bunnies—a recent find from a thrift store.
“Don’t be dissin’ the bunnies,” Pete replied. “They’re my secret weapon.”
“Oh, right,” Mark replied. “I forgot you’re really a spy.”
After the teasing, they completed a quick check of their beacons, making sure each signal transmitted.
“Ready?” Mark asked, his bushy eyebrows raised.
“Oh, shoot,” Tara said, and asked Mark for the keys.
Mark frowned. “What now?”
“I almost forgot the cookies,” she said, then dashed back to the Tahoe.
Mark rolled his eyes, and they waited through an uncomfortable pause for Tara to return. She returned to the group and handed back the keys to Mark without looking at him. Then, after lining up at the edge of the slope, the group pushed off and glided down the trail, the blue dome of the sky yawning before them.
They traveled single file through the bottom of the valley. The climbing skins attached to the bottom of their skis sliding forward then arresting with each stride, until they reached the back of the cirque, a broad bowl rising nearly three thousand feet to a knife-edged ridge that shone like a silver ribbon in the early sun. Such bluebird conditions were rare, and Cassidy stopped several times just to admire the vast and splendid view. Mark snapped several shots with his compact SLR.
After a quick break to discuss the
