The Longest Run: a Ski Patrol Rescue Romance (Book 4 of Lawson Family series)

Chris was going too fast, and he knew it.

The wind clawed at his jacket as he flew down the slope, powder flaring around the edge of his monoski. He’d spent hundreds of hours in the simulator, memorizing every micro-movement it took to ski as a paraplegic. Since arriving at Big Sky, his focus had been razor-sharp: run the course, hit the gates, chase the podium.

But this wasn’t the racecourse.

This was fresh powder—the kind that hid traps beneath a layer of fluffy white lies. He hadn’t trained for this. He’d thought muscle memory would kick in.

It hadn’t.

The chopped-up snow clung and tugged, unpredictable as sand in surf. His shoulders burned from overuse after yesterday’s long training session, and his triceps were trembling now, trying to hold his line.

He shifted his weight back, hoping to float the nose of the monoski through the turns.

Too much.

The edge of his ski caught on something dense—a buried mound—and yanked his entire chair sideways. His body pitched. Arms flailed. The world tilted.

Whump. He landed in a cloud of cold powder.

He lay there, chest heaving, heart slamming against his ribs.

Inventory.

Head, check. Arms, check. Legs? No feeling, of course. No new pain, though. Monoski still attached.

Snow was plastered to the top of his goggles, and his mouth filled with the taste of cold nylon and his own pride.

Damn. I used to eat powder for breakfast!

He exhaled hard and rolled onto his side, grunting as he twisted to check the slope. One of his outriggers—a ski ‘stem’ that strapped to his wrist and gave him the ability to steer—had gotten hung up twenty feet uphill.

Perfect.

Below him, his friend Taylor—now also his personal trainer—had stopped at the next ridge, staring uphill. Chris gave him the ‘okay’ sign with one gloved hand, then started the long drag uphill to retrieve the outrigger.

Each push through the snow cost him: in strength, in frustration, in breath.

He was only a few feet from it when a pair of skis slid into view above him, carving an arc across the slope.

“You okay?” a voice called.

Female. Calm.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, fingers closing around the outrigger just as she came to a stop beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the red-and-black uniform of the Big Sky ski patrol.

Great. The cavalry’s here.

She didn’t rush in. Just stood there, poles planted. “Can I help?” she said.

He flicked his eyes toward her, annoyed at how winded he still was. “I don’t need help,” he snapped. He yanked the strap of the outrigger and slapped it onto his wrist, already regretting his tone.

Silence.

He looked up again. Her name tag read Carly, and she’d pushed her goggles up on her helmet. Dark brows. Brown eyes. Snow crystals clinging to her lashes. She wasn’t looking away like most people did when they met a disabled skier—wasn’t pretending not to see the chair or the mechanics of what he was doing.

No, she was watching him.

With interest.

Maybe even… amusement?

His irritation flared again, then cooled just as fast into something sharper—curiosity.

He turned back to his monoski and used the outriggers to lever himself upright. The motions were automatic, practiced. Not graceful, but efficient.

She still hadn’t moved.

“I’m good,” he said, trying for neutral but hitting somewhere closer to clipped. “You can move on.”

“No worries,” she said casually. “I’ll head down in a bit.”

He blinked at her. She was waiting. Watching.

As if she didn’t trust him not to crash again.

His jaw clenched. He dug his outriggers into the snow, lined up his shoulders, and shoved off.

He didn’t look back. But he felt her gaze on him all the way down.