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The Skiing Suitor

By Niki Turner

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Warren leaned back and reached into his pocket for the letter of welcome from Doc Eby. That was how the man signed his name. They’d spoken on the phone, and Warren guessed the man had to be in his eighties if he was a day. He was retiring to Florida, getting “out of this dad- burned cold weather,” he’d said.
Doc Eby didn’t bother waiting for Warren to get from St. Louis to Steamboat. He high- tailed it out of town as soon as Warren accepted the position, explaining in a telegram that he wanted to beat the “deep snow.” That had been two weeks earlier. Warren peered out at the snow again and raised a brow. If this wasn’t the deep snow, what was? The train had come around a corner just outside of town and screeched to a halt, a small avalanche blocking the track.
According to the letter, when Warren arrived he would find the key to the doctor’s office and further instructions at the general store. Warren could finish out the six-month lease on the office and adjoining apartment above the store and then decide if he wanted to stay.
“If you make it through a whole winter in the ’Boat, you’ll have a better idea what you’re in for,” Doc Eby said when they spoke over the phone, his voice crackling into something that could have been laughter.
Warren was young and hale and hearty. He’d be fine. It would be an adventure. A ripple of apprehension tickled the base of his spine. He wasn’t the adventurous type.
“The boys almost have the track cleared. Steamboat Springs, next stop.” The conductor passed through the car, punching tickets. He paused when he looked at Warren’s ticket.
“Steamboat your final stop?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine place. Be sure you enjoy that Winter Carnival. It’s quite a party.”
Warren stiffened slightly. “I’m not much for parties.”
The conductor grinned. “Never been out here before, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, try to go in with an open mind. Folks out here do what they’ve gotta do to survive
and thrive.”
With that cryptic statement, the man moved on, swaying with the rolling motion of the
train.
A nervous tic twitched under Warren’s left eye. He’d never been accused of having an
open mind.
As the train rounded the corner he could see electric lights winking on, doing battle with
the early onset of winter darkness that shrouded the valley in early January. The brakes squealed and Warren’s fellow passengers began to gather their belongings. Many of them were weekend vacationers, from what he’d overheard in the dining car. They came to relax and socialize. Warren wasn’t interested in either of those activities. He wanted to be a doctor, a run-of-the-mill family physician.
He remained motionless even when the train chugged to a stop, caught in anxiety’s paralyzing grip. What if he had made a terrible mistake? He closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly.
“Lord, You are the God of order, and I trust you with my life. Please, order my steps,” he whispered.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Warren looked into the concerned face of the conductor who was making the trek back through the cars. “Just gathering my courage.”
“Whatever it is you’ve got to do, it’s a comfort knowing the Almighty has heard your prayers.”
It was Warren’s turn to smile. “Yes, it is.” He shook the man’s hand, appreciating the connection. The conductor moved down the aisle, checking seats.
He collected his carefully folded copy of the Rocky Mountain News, his hat, his coat, and his satchel, and stepped into the aisle. He didn’t feel any tangible sense of God’s power, certainly didn’t feel ready for the task ahead of him, but he knew he wasn’t alone, and that would have to be enough.
He stepped off the train into air so dry and cold the hairs in his nose froze stiff after the first breath and his eyes watered in response to the chill. He scurried after the other passengers toward the station, each of them tumbling through the door and heaving a sigh of relief when they reached the warmth inside. Warren sought directions from the clerk at the ticket window.
“The St. John store? Corner of Eighth and Lincoln. Straight up the street that way, you can’t miss it.” The young man, chin speckled with blemishes and golden fuzz, jerked his thumb to the left, then returned his attention to the book he was reading.
Warren stopped at the door, reached into his valise and withdrew a heavy wool scarf and leather gloves. Clapping his fedora on his head, he triple-wrapped the scarf around his neck to cover his nose and mouth, and tugged on his gloves. It wouldn’t do for the town’s new doctor to take ill his first week in town, he thought.
The scarf partially blocked the chill, but it was still bitterly cold, and the sidewalks—if there were sidewalks—were covered with a solid coating of hard-packed snow and ice. His thin- soled calf leather city shoes, the ones he’d bought himself as a graduation present, didn’t serve him well on the slippery surface. He lurched like a drunkard up the street, grabbing onto light posts and signs and the sides of buildings to stay upright. Dusk had fully fallen on the valley, and the streets were vacant.
No wonder, he thought, it’s too cold for anyone to be outside. Ahead, he could just make out the words “St. John’s General Store and Dry Goods” painted on the side of a two-story brick building. His destination. If he could get there without breaking his neck, he’d count it a blessing. He adopted a shuffling gait, moving each foot forward a few inches at a time like a penguin to keep his footing.
Doc Eby could have mentioned the need for boots, he groused. Boots would be his first purchase in Steamboat.
Something whizzed past him, a dark, sleek shape shooting down the center of the empty street at breakneck speed. Startled by the apparition, he lost his balance. Arms wind-milling, he went down, landing hard on his backside, long legs splayed out in front of him like a child’s toy.
He mentally checked himself for fractures or other debilitating injury. Finding nothing broken, merely bruised, he got to his hands and knees, considered crawling on all fours the remaining thirty or so feet to the front door of the store, and then, as the cold soaked through his gloves, forced himself upright, scanning his surroundings for signs of the creature. The gliding figure was gone.
He cupped his hands against the store window and peered inside. Only the barest glow of light illuminated the interior. Warren rapped on the door with stiff knuckles. Doc Eby had assured him the building’s owner, or someone from the store, would be waiting for his arrival. Perhaps they’d forgotten, or gotten the days confused, or given up and gone home when the train was late.
He stepped back and turned a slow circle. More lights were coming on as restaurants opened for dinner. Several blocks down he spotted a sign for a hotel and sighed. If no one answered at the store, he’d have to go get a room. He contemplated the contents of his wallet. Getting a hotel room would leave him strapped for cash, but he had enough for one night.
He raised his fist to bang on the door again, only to have it swing open. He jerked his hand back just before it connected with the upturned chin of a most delectable young woman.
He stepped back in horror. “I beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t think anyone heard my first knock.”
She cocked her head to one side and cupped a hand around one ear. “Sorry? What did you say?”
Her cheeks were flushed and she seemed out of breath, as though just answering the door had been a strenuous workout. Was she also hard of hearing? “I said, I beg your pardon,” he repeated, raising his voice.
She shook her head, and he could see from the faint light that her eyes were the color of aquamarines. “I still can’t hear you. Maybe you could take off the scarf?”
He blinked. Then realized his triple-wrapped wool scarf muffled his nose and mouth. He whipped off the scarf, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry, again. I didn’t think anyone heard me knock the first time. I was about to knock again when you opened the door.”
“I didn’t hear you the first time. I was just locking up for the night and saw you standing out here.”
“You weren’t expecting me?”
Warren stepped back and peered through the gloom at the sign that hung over the door. He was at the right place, wasn’t he? “Doc Eby told me someone would be expecting my arrival.”
Those marvelous blue eyes widened, and she clapped a hand to her forehead. “You must be the new physician! I thought the train had been delayed for the night. Oh dear. I’m so sorry, please, come in.” Instead of just stepping back to let him pass, she reached out, grabbed his sleeve and dragged him through the door.
“I went down to the station and asked after the train. Someone said it was likely to take all night to clear that portion of track.” She snapped on the lights, flooding the building with light. Warren blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the glare.
“Let me find the keys, and the box Doc left for you,” the young woman said, her voice muted as she rummaged under the counter. Warren looked around. It was a lovely shop, clean and orderly. Bolts of fabric were lined up according to color against one wall. Displays of canned goods were arranged in artful presentations. The tension in Warren’s shoulders melted away, soothed by the tidy scene. Yes, a very nice store, indeed.
“Found ’em!” The woman popped up from behind the counter like a character in a carnival game. He looked at her more thoroughly. A blue and yellow striped knit cap hid her hair over a bright green sweater and a red split skirt. Nothing matched, yet she radiated a kind of indomitable energy that appealed to him and repelled him at the same time, like watching a tornado from a distance.
“I’ll show you the way upstairs.” She dangled a ring of keys from two fingers of one hand and clutched a thick brown parcel in the other. Like an industrious hummingbird, she bustled around the counter and buzzed toward a door near the back wall. It was only as she began to climb the stairs that he noticed her favoring her right leg.
“Are you injured?”
“It’s nothing. Just a strained muscle.”
Warren cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “I am a physician, Miss...er...” She was halfway up the stairs. He was at the bottom. She turned, made eye contact with
him. “It’s Miss St. John, and my leg will be fine. I’m training for the ski jumping competition at the Winter Carnival and I had a rather bad landing yesterday, but it’s not that bad. Just sore.”

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