Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
I kept my attention on Weston. I knew his cues pretty well by now. The set of his jaw said he wasn’t happy, but there was a touch of laughter in the tiny lines at the corner of his eyes. “West?”
“This is between you and Sutton.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “I refer to rule number five.” Callie rules all.
An exasperated sigh ripped through my lips as I cocked my head at my daughter. “Who is going to feed him?”
“Me! His food is in my bag, and I know the schedule.” Hope bloomed in her eyes.
“And what about cleaning his cage?”
“Me! I have a bag of shavings in my backpack too.” She bounced up on her toes.
“And water?”
“Every morning. I know how. We do it at school.”
I glanced at the black-and-white pig. “Fine. But three days, Sutton. Do you hear me? Three days.”
“Thank you!” She launched at me, hugging my waist, and then skipped away to hug Weston too.
“What’s that for? I wasn’t the one who said yes,” he said with a chuckle.
“That’s me hoping you’ll carry his cage upstairs for me. It’s really heavy.” She grinned up at him.
“That, I can do.” He lifted the massive cage into his arms and followed after Sutton as she walked up the stairs.
There went rule number eleven.
“What are we doing?” I asked Sunday evening as Weston led me to the couch. Dinner was done, showers had been taken, and I was exhausted. I’d manage to edit all of today’s heli-skiing photos, but Charles, one of the assistant photographers, had severely mislighted the group ones from the top of the lift, and I probably had another two hours at my computer before I could call it a night.
“Sit right here,” Weston said, gesturing to the couch.
“What is going on?” I sat, my eyes narrowing slightly.
“Just wait right here,” he answered, a hint of a smile on his lips. “And remember that I’m just the facilitator here.”
Now my curiosity was piqued.
“Sutton, you’re up!” Weston called up the stairs.
She skipped down the stairs in dress pants and a blouse, her hair perfectly combed and held back by a black headband. “Do you have it set up?” she asked as she skidded around the end of the banister, marching straight for the kitchen.
“Almost,” he answered, plugging his laptop into the television.
A Presentation by Sutton filled the flatscreen.
“Is that a PowerPoint?” My eyebrows hit the roof.
“She made it.” He grabbed a small black remote off the coffee table as Sutton came back into the living room, her hands full as she balanced a tray.
“Chocolate chip cookies and milk,” she said, putting the tray on the coffee table. “Because every good presentation has snacks.”
“It does?” I leaned forward, snatching one of the cookies. PowerPoint or no, there was no reason to waste chocolate chip cookies.
“It does.” Sutton turned to Weston, and he handed her the remote.
“Good luck, kid.” He took the seat directly next to mine, and I crossed my legs under me just so I’d have an excuse to rest my knee against him.
“Is this for school?” I stared at the PowerPoint. “Are you practicing on me?”
“Oh no.” Sutton shook her head, standing just off to the side of the television. “This is just for you.” She looked at Weston, swallowing nervously, and he nodded.
What the heck were the two of them up to?
“Have you seen this?” I asked him.
“Nope.” He settled in and stretched his arm across the back of the couch, just behind my head.
“Mom,” Sutton began, straightening her posture. “You’ve raised me here at Madigan Mountain from the time I was born.” She clicked the remote, and the next slide appeared. It was a set of pictures from when she was a baby, one of her standing in the snow after her first birthday, her snowsuit bigger than she was. The second showed us both, me with my photographer parka on and her strapped in on my back under a shaded canopy.
Man, those days had been tough. I’d worked with her on my back, in my arms, or on the ski slope right beside me until she’d been old enough to spend part of her day in the resort kid’s club.
“The slopes are my second home.” She clicked through the next slide. It was another collection of pictures, this time of her in ski gear from the time she was three all the way to nine or so.
I took a bite of my cookie and chewed, my suspicions rising.
“As you know, I’ve been training with an expert backcountry skier for the last two months.” She clicked and the slide changed to pictures of her with Weston up on the mountain. They were some of my favorite new photos I’d taken.
I lifted an eyebrow at my daughter, clearly seeing where this was headed.
She fidgeted nervously but clicked again. This slide displayed a quote. “Sutton Thorne is a remarkably gifted young skier with a rare combination of raw talent, determination, and good judgment,” Sutton read. “The quote is from Weston.”