How to Survive a Holiday Fling

Visibility maxes out at about thirty feet. The gray haze blocks what should be an expansive view across two thousand acres of winter wonderland. Light ice and snow fall steadily, prickling any exposed skin. The darkness on the horizon promises a full-on blizzard. In other words, it's not only frigid, but this weather is for shit.

Drew, the frat brother we called Loki for solid reasons back in the day, is long gone. The notorious troublemaker whipped down the infamous canyon with a rebel yell and not one glance back. Fucker. The guy lives near Jackson and skis all the damn time. In all fairness, I'm an expert skier, too. But there's a snowboard currently attached to my feet, and that's giving me pause. I'm not a newbie boarder, but I'm not great, and I've got a sinking feeling this blasted canyon demands great.

On a normal day, there'd be a crowd of onlookers gathered to gawk at anyone foolish enough to attempt Corbet's. Folks from the lift could get a good look at any epic crash and burn. On the bright side, the current storm system stops the lookie-loos. If I smash into one of the imposing rock walls on either side of this canyon, there will be no video posted on YouTube.

I hop forward and peer over the edge. The invisible lift is somewhere out there in the haze.

I'm too fucking old for this shit. Why the hell did I let Drew talk me into this? What the hell am I going to do if I break a limb? I live on a fucking ranch. A vision of my sorry ass riding a horse in a cast has me cringing.

We knew conditions wouldn't be great today. Why the hell didn't I pick skis? What the hell was I thinking? I'm a good snowboarder, but am I Corbet's Couloir good?

My hands sweat in my gloves, but a deep freeze stings my toes. My quads burn, a solid reminder I'm no longer in my twenties. Yes, this might qualify as one of the stupidest things I've done in my thirties, and that's saying a whole helluva lot. Fucking Drew.

"You okay?"

The voice comes from out of nowhere. It's almost like I imagined it. Tips of skis appear. My gaze follows up loose black ski pants to a helmet, goggles, and a black face and neck cover.

"There are other ways down. You don't have to do it." The voice is distinctly feminine, and I'm just man enough that I won't ask her about those alternate routes.

Drew left me here, and I assumed this was the only way down. An alternate route is damn attractive, but there will be a blizzard in Texas before I admit that to a girl. Even one in shapeless ski pants and a matching shapeless black ski coat that falls mid-thigh, with winter gear that completely hides her face.

"Are you scared?"

Now, that question just pisses me off. Never ask a Texan if he's scared. "No, ma'am, I'm good. You go."

"I don't want to leave you up here if you…that storm's coming in. Lifts have stopped."

Visibility is now about ten feet. This has to be the stupidest thing I could possibly do. I can't even see the rock walls I need to avoid. Flakes fall, dusting my gloves and my coat.

"There's no shame in fear." There's a hint of a smile in the way she lassos those words.

"That sounds like a dare."

Her muffled laugh travels over the packed snow. "Take it how you want."

The twenty-foot drop taunts me. The stranger mocks me.

"I can call ski patrol—"

"That's quite all right." My southern drawl comes out with the statement because that's what I do to calm a situation. It's instinctual. A slow southern drawl relaxes all things. But southern drawl and all, that cliff in front of me is still a straight fucking drop.

"What level snowboarder are you?" There's an air of authority in her tone that makes me suspect she's an instructor. She's not wearing the signature ski patrol red jacket, but she is up here on what's widely considered one of the most difficult routes at Jackson Hole. "If you—"

"I'm fine, promise," I lie. "Just go on."

"Nuh-uh. You first." She pushes forward on her poles so she's a whole helluva lot closer. She's probably one of those college kids on holiday vacation with her parents and knows the mountain like the back of her hand. I recognize her type because I used to be that type. Know-it-all. Fearless. It's not that I'm fearful, but I have responsibilities that will be a shit ton more complicated if I'm sporting a cast on one or both legs.

The snow falls heavier now, further diminishing visibility. Once I go, it's going to be a blind fall.

"Ladies first," I tell her. She shakes her head like she's annoyed with me and she's tired of my shit. That would be entirely understandable. But I'm not giving in, and I gallantly gesture with my arm for her to proceed.

"I'm gonna go, but I'm waiting for you. It's a regular expert run after you get through the pass. When you land, do a quick right to avoid smashing into the rock."

Smashing into the rock? Fucking great. "No problem, got it," I lie again.

"Do you have a phone? To call ski patrol? In case we get separated?"

"You taking me under your wing?"

"Do you have a phone?" Her gloves wrap around her poles, but she sounds like those hands are on her hips.

Visibility is piss-poor. A wall of blurry white exists behind her. Snowflakes plaster to my goggles, and I use the back of my glove to wipe them, only for new flakes to replace old ones.

"I do," I grunt.

Satisfied, she raises one ski, pushes on a pole, lines up on the edge, and whoosh. I get one glimpse of a long dark braid down her back that lifts from the base of a sticker-plastered helmet as gravity claims her. And…she's gone.

Ah, shit. The next person to come around will be ski patrol.

I hop until the tip of my board hangs over the edge, lean forward, and freefall.

The scream that rips out is half terror and half thrill.

"Holy fuuuuck!"