Snowstorm of Our Past novel · Chapter 9 of 32

Chapter 9: Butterscotch

"I don't need you to tell me what to ask my husband," I said.

Amber tilted her head.

"Then why do you look so scared?"

She turned and walked back toward the hotel, her heels clicking, her white coat bright under the parking lot lights.

I got into the truck.

Gabe had heard every word through the open window. I could tell by the way he was holding the wheel.

We were out on the interstate before I asked him.

"Who chose the route?"

He didn't pretend not to understand.

"Clint did."

"Tell me."

"Dale told him to take the lead. Said a lieutenant had to learn sometime."

Gabe's jaw worked.

"There were two ways up. The long way through the trees, or the traverse across the open slope."

"And Clint picked the traverse."

"It was faster."

"Was it wrong?"

"The slope was loaded. Anybody who knew snow would've stayed in the trees."

He glanced at me.

"Clint was twenty-five and from Colorado Springs. He didn't know snow."

"And Dale?"

Gabe was quiet for a long moment.

"Dale knew snow," he said. "Dale grew up in Montana. He didn't say a word."

In the back seat, Gran had stopped singing.

On Christmas Eve, the Silver Spur gives away soup.

Gran's done it every year for fifty years.

Green chile and potato, all night, free to anybody who walks in.

There's a jar by the register for people who want to pay, and it always fills up.

By seven, every booth was full.

The miners' grandsons were at the counter. The ski patrol kids were in the corner.

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