widow who had buried two husbands and now supported herself. Her teeth were stained with tobacco, her expression was serene, and her English was good.
‘‘I’ll do more than comfort them.’’ Karen strode across the high, flat area where she’d set her tent and down the path to the construction site. Gravel rolled out from under her boots and tumbled onto the site.
The stone roots of Mount Anaya grew around the spot where the hotel would be built. Once the foundation was properly installed, the hotel would be secure against earthquakes, or so said the architects and structural engineers.
She’d been here since spring, the start of the construction season, and immediately she’d realized that the architects and structural engineers hadn’t taken into account the mountain itself. Granite tumbled like giant building blocks throughout the long valley, legacies of rockfalls so massive they had obliterated the landscape. Here and there tiny green plants struggled to poke their heads up, but they were damned. The thin soil quickly loosened, slipped, and carried them away. Nothing was allowed to live here, for over it all the mountain loomed, massive, bleak, cruel.
Karen tried never to look at Mount Anaya, but as always the peak drew her gaze—up the side of the hill, up the sheer stone slopes, up the glaciers and snowfields, to the top of Mount Anaya. There the pinnacle stabbed the blue sky with a point of white and gray.
Mountains, all mountains, formed the stuff of her nightmares, but Mount Anaya . . . In Sanskrit, it meant ‘‘evil course.’’
The natives believed the mountain was cursed.
After two months of living in its shadow, Karen believed it, too.
The mountain ruined her days, and the midnight lover haunted her sleep. She was trapped here by her father’s expectations and her own sense of duty—and by Phil Chronies.
A dozen men lolled around, leaned against the two ancient and exorbitantly priced backhoes they’d hired from Tibet, petted their yaks, and chatted.
As she walked up, she smiled.
Their interpreter, Lhakpa, came forward and bowed.
She leaned forward and spoke to him only. ‘‘Thank you for taking command of my men until Mr. Chronies can arrive.’’
‘‘Yes. Of course. I command the men.’’ Lhakpa bowed again.
‘‘Last night, when Mr. Chronies reported to me, he told me there would be blasting today.’’
‘‘Yes. He tells us where to place the dynamite. ’’ Lhakpa beamed happily.
‘‘I tell him where to place the dynamite.’’
As she walked toward the locker containing the dynamite, Lhakpa’s eyes grew big. ‘‘Mr. Chronies will be unhappy if you—’’
She swung around and faced him. ‘‘Have you not seen Mr. Chronies report to me morning and night?’’
‘‘Yes, Miss Sonnet.’’
‘‘Have you not seen me direct Mr. Chronies every day, all day long?’’
‘‘Yes, Miss Sonnet.’’
‘‘Mr. Chronies obeys me in all things.’’ She smiled with toothy good humor.
It was true enough; Phil obeyed her grudgingly, but he obeyed her. She had a system, and she’d be damned if she would allow Phil and his laziness to put them farther behind; that would erode her already precarious position as a woman in a man’s occupation.
Besides, she’d learned her job from the bottom up. She knew how to do every task on the site. And performing the task of setting the dynamite, she knew, would gain her the men’s respect, because, like all men, these were very impressed by loud explosions that blew large boulders into small pebbles.
If she could only feel sure the mountain would be as impressed, and let her construct this cursed hotel.
He lay flat on his stomach on a boulder above the construction site, watching Karen Sonnet while resentment and lust roiled in his belly.
Why was she here? Why couldn’t it have been someone else? A man, preferably, some guy like all the rest, who knew hotel construction, who drank and smoked, who was amenable to a
‘‘I’ll do more than comfort them.’’ Karen strode across the high, flat area where she’d set her tent and down the path to the construction site. Gravel rolled out from under her boots and tumbled onto the site.
The stone roots of Mount Anaya grew around the spot where the hotel would be built. Once the foundation was properly installed, the hotel would be secure against earthquakes, or so said the architects and structural engineers.
She’d been here since spring, the start of the construction season, and immediately she’d realized that the architects and structural engineers hadn’t taken into account the mountain itself. Granite tumbled like giant building blocks throughout the long valley, legacies of rockfalls so massive they had obliterated the landscape. Here and there tiny green plants struggled to poke their heads up, but they were damned. The thin soil quickly loosened, slipped, and carried them away. Nothing was allowed to live here, for over it all the mountain loomed, massive, bleak, cruel.
Karen tried never to look at Mount Anaya, but as always the peak drew her gaze—up the side of the hill, up the sheer stone slopes, up the glaciers and snowfields, to the top of Mount Anaya. There the pinnacle stabbed the blue sky with a point of white and gray.
Mountains, all mountains, formed the stuff of her nightmares, but Mount Anaya . . . In Sanskrit, it meant ‘‘evil course.’’
The natives believed the mountain was cursed.
After two months of living in its shadow, Karen believed it, too.
The mountain ruined her days, and the midnight lover haunted her sleep. She was trapped here by her father’s expectations and her own sense of duty—and by Phil Chronies.
A dozen men lolled around, leaned against the two ancient and exorbitantly priced backhoes they’d hired from Tibet, petted their yaks, and chatted.
As she walked up, she smiled.
Their interpreter, Lhakpa, came forward and bowed.
She leaned forward and spoke to him only. ‘‘Thank you for taking command of my men until Mr. Chronies can arrive.’’
‘‘Yes. Of course. I command the men.’’ Lhakpa bowed again.
‘‘Last night, when Mr. Chronies reported to me, he told me there would be blasting today.’’
‘‘Yes. He tells us where to place the dynamite. ’’ Lhakpa beamed happily.
‘‘I tell him where to place the dynamite.’’
As she walked toward the locker containing the dynamite, Lhakpa’s eyes grew big. ‘‘Mr. Chronies will be unhappy if you—’’
She swung around and faced him. ‘‘Have you not seen Mr. Chronies report to me morning and night?’’
‘‘Yes, Miss Sonnet.’’
‘‘Have you not seen me direct Mr. Chronies every day, all day long?’’
‘‘Yes, Miss Sonnet.’’
‘‘Mr. Chronies obeys me in all things.’’ She smiled with toothy good humor.
It was true enough; Phil obeyed her grudgingly, but he obeyed her. She had a system, and she’d be damned if she would allow Phil and his laziness to put them farther behind; that would erode her already precarious position as a woman in a man’s occupation.
Besides, she’d learned her job from the bottom up. She knew how to do every task on the site. And performing the task of setting the dynamite, she knew, would gain her the men’s respect, because, like all men, these were very impressed by loud explosions that blew large boulders into small pebbles.
If she could only feel sure the mountain would be as impressed, and let her construct this cursed hotel.
He lay flat on his stomach on a boulder above the construction site, watching Karen Sonnet while resentment and lust roiled in his belly.
Why was she here? Why couldn’t it have been someone else? A man, preferably, some guy like all the rest, who knew hotel construction, who drank and smoked, who was amenable to a
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