Oregon - To Tell the Truth (Americana 37 - Oregon)

CHAPTER ONE

THE TAXI TIRES crunched through the plowed streets, snow mounded in high walls on either side. The milk-gray sky blended with the snow-covered slopes of the Sierra Nevada, fat crystalline flakes gently falling from the clouds. A group of skiers walked into the street in front of the taxi, skis in their hands, the tips resting against their shoulders. The driver pushed on the horn and they scampered laughingly out of his way. Then the tire chains clinked to a stop in from of the ski lodge.
"Here you are, miss," the driver announced, and the chill of the December afternoon swept into the warm interior as he opened the door and slid from behind the wheel.
As she stepped from the rear of the taxi and waited on the snow-mounded curb while the driver removed her luggage, Andrea Grant's arrival did not occur without notice, but the interest was only passing curiosity. No one recognized her and she felt a blissful sense of freedom with each breath of mountain air that filled her lungs. An entire week without sly comments being made behind her back, Andrea thought. She hadn't realized the gossip had bothered her.
A smile curved the fullness of her lips. A large flake landed on her nose and she wanted to laugh. How glad she was that John had suggested she take this holiday, the first one that she had had in more than three years.
John, always so wise and understanding, had stepped in to fill her father's shoes when she had so unexpectedly lost him so soon after cancer had taken her mother. He had offered his helping hand again when her engagement to Dale Marshall had been broken. Face it, Andrea scolded herself sternly, Dale jilted you. But that was in the past. She breathed in deeply. She would not let that bitter memory color her holiday.
The taxi driver was standing on the curb, her suitcases tucked under his arms. Letting the sparkle of anticipation return to her hazel eyes, Andrea turned toward the lodge entrance.
The lobby was crowded with skiers who had called it a day before the cloud-hidden sun settled behind Squaw Peak, the namesake of Squaw Valley. The hum of voices and laughter was nonstop. Andrea noticed that there was a contagion in the easy friendliness that abounded. Her own smile was warmer and more natural as she thanked the driver, adding a generous tip to his fee after he had set her luggage in front of the registration desk.
"It was my pleasure," he responded, as his gaze swung admiringly over her figure.
Andrea missed the driver's look, but she saw those directed her way by the male skiers in the lobby. She ignored them as she ignored all the other looks that had come her way since Dale.
That faint air of aloofness only increased her attraction, although it did succeed in keeping men at arm's length. She was fair-complexioned, but there was no coolness to her beauty. Wide and bright hazel eyes were heavily fringed with lashes and flecked with a warm olive green. Dark blond hair was swept away from her face, its shiny medium length swirling into thick curls angling away from her ears and neck for an attractive windblown effect. There was a model's uniqueness rather than perfection to her prominent cheekbones, although her figure was more curved than the pencil thinness of a model's.
"May I help you, miss?" The tightly polite line of the desk clerk's mouth relaxed into a smile.
"Yes, I believe you have a reservation for me. Andrea Grant," she supplied.
Flipping part way through a card index, he stopped. "Andrea Grant from Oregon. We have your reservation right here for one of the apartments. You'll be staying with us for a week, is that right?" At her answering nod, he smiled and slid a registration slip and pen toward her. "Fill this out, please, and I'll find someone to help you with your luggage."
Not an easy task, Andrea thought to herself as the clerk's attention was immediately claimed by a family waiting to register behind her. With her head bent over the registration form, she became conscious of being watched. She glanced to the side, and encountered the alertly appraising look of a pair of brown, nearly black eyes. The lean, handsome face revealed little concern that he had been caught studying her.
"Hello." His low husky voice vibrated around her.
Black hair gleamed with melted snowflakes while amusement deepened the creases along the corners of his mouth. Slightly nonplussed, Andrea stared into the strongly masculine face, feeling the leap of physical response to his unquestionable attraction. What was more, he knew her reaction, or sensed it at least.
Andrea guessed that his virile charm had breached the walls of a lot more than one feminine citadel.
"Hello." She returned the greeting evenly and reverted her attention to the form.
"May I have my key, Mike?" The request was addressed to the desk clerk as the man observed Andrea's subtle hint that she didn't wish to indulge in any idle flirtation.
"Sure thing, Mr. Stafford. There's a message for you, too." The key and a slip of paper were placed on the counter.
The hand that reached past Andrea was brown and strong. A brief, sideways glance at his face caught a thoughtful expression. That recklessly attractive look had vanished. He cast not one look her way as he moved away from the desk. She watched him leave, taking note of his tallness and his deceptively lean build that tapered wide shoulders into slim hips.
Something in the way he carried himself rang a bell in her memory. For a second Andrea couldn't place what it was; then she remembered the time several years ago when her father had pointed out a well-known figure. "Do you see the way he holds his head and those firm, unhurried strides?" he had asked. "There's a man who has earned the right to command and is respected immediately by all those people whom he commands."
Mr. Stafford, the desk clerk had called him. The name wasn't familiar to Andrea, but she hadn't really expected it to be. There was more than surface charm to the man and she wished now that she had not been quite so aloof. She would have liked to find out more about him. Only for curiosity's sake, she assured herself. She wasn't interested in him as a man.
Then her view of the disappearing stranger was blocked by a young man with two of her bags tucked under one arm as he reached for the key from the desk clerk. The informal atmosphere of the ski lodge was enhanced by the lack of uniforms on the staff, but Andrea guessed that this was the bellboy in his stag's head sweater and brown slacks.
"Art will show you to your room," the desk clerk told her as she slid the completed registration form to him.
"Could you recommend a restaurant?" Andrea requested.
"There're several in the Olympic House ranging from a steak house to sandwich or pizza shops. All of them serve good food. It all depends on what you want." He shrugged.
"Thank you," she said with a smile. "I think I'll decide after I unpack."
The accommodation was more spacious than she required, but it had been the only thing available when she had made the booking. Andrea decided that before the week was out she would probably be grateful for the relative privacy and comfort of the living room with its fully equipped kitchenette and the separate bedroom loft.
The memories it brought back of previous vacations at Squaw Valley with her parents, staying in a room very similar to this one, were happy memories. Most of the grief she had felt at the deaths following so closely on one another was gone now. She could look back without pain and sorrow.
Time was a healer. She could even think of Dale now without wanting to dissolve into tears. She knew part of her bitterness had been because his defection had followed so closely on the heels of her father's death. She had barely recovered from the shock of it when he had left her.