Page 132 of Love Me Reckless

The kid takes off down the ladder.

Ansel comes in behind me, shining the light straight down. I unzip my ski suit to my waist so I can slip off my belt, then get as low as I can so I have a visual on the filter. It’s going to be tight to get in there, but I can do it.

“Any word from the power company?” Brody asks McTavish over the radio.

“Power’s out across the valley.”

Brody huffs a giant sigh, then seems to realize what I’m up to. “You’re gonna run it without the filter?”

“It’s short term.”

“McTavish is going to eat his fucking lips off.”

“Better than a kid going into a coma.”

“Right.”

“Hand me that channel lock,” I say, my voice strained from my odd position.

Brody wriggles between me and the hydraulic pump and slides the tool into my hands. I use it as a clamp on my belt looped around the cylinder. “Got it.”

The ladder rattles as JT returns. “What now?” he asks talking fast.

I eye him hurrying toward us with one of the Rubbermaid trash bins used to collect garbage from guests in the lift line and a section of hose I’m pretty sure came from the snowmaking equipment.

Fucking genius.

“Start siphoning the fuel.”

To my relief, he gets right to it. After this, I’m going to buy him a beer.

I crank the channel lock, which turns my belt into a cinch and bites the tension on the fuel filter. I hinge back and slip the belt to get more slack, then repeat the cinch action, rotating until the section with the filter comes off and drops into my other hand. I drain the housing into the catch bowl below it, then remove the filter and screw the housing back on.

“Almost done,” JT calls from the other side of the engine box.

The whine of an approaching snowmachine echoes between the walls.

“How much longer?” McTavish barks.

“A few minutes,” I say. Brody relays on the way down the ladder to meet Carson. They both return just as JT gets the last of the contaminated fuel from the tank.

Carson shuffles toward us, straining to hurry with the five-gallon jug. It only weighs forty pounds but it’s not an easy load one handed.

“Let’s do this,” I say, rolling to my feet and slipping my thick gloves back on.

Carson assembles the nozzle and pours in the fuel, which sloshes around inside the tank, making an odd echo in this place that’s usually too loud to carry on a conversation without shouting. Once Carson’s done, the three of us make eyes at each other before I start the engine.

A throaty rumble fills my ears and the diesel engine comes to life.

Below us, cheers ring out from the guests.

“We’re in business,” Brody says into his mike. “We’ll stay and shut her down after everyone’s unloaded.”

McTavish clicks the mike in acknowledgement.

After a quick round of high fives, we all clamber down the ladder.

I’m feeling pretty damn good about my efforts until I realize I still have to ski down once the lift closes. My toes give an angry throb inside my tight boots.

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