Smoketree - By Jennifer Roberson Page 0,1

bones,” I agreed. “I have a rather prominent assemblage of them. But it’s what the camera likes—makes lots of angles and hollows and planes.” I smiled at her doubtful expression. “I’ve got a big jaw and high cheekbones and a perfectly wonderful manager. The last is the most important of all.”

“A manager is more important than looks?”

“Without a good manager it doesn’t matter much if you’ve got the looks. ” I shrugged. “Lots of girls have jaws and cheekbones. But my manager suggested a little corrective dentistry, and then he got me a contract with the biggest cosmetics company in the country. That was him, not me.”

Cass slanted me a sideways glance. “Corrective dentistry?”

“I had my front teeth capped and my back teeth pulled. Not my wisdom teeth-those went a long time ago. My back molars.”

“Why?”

I tapped my face. “To accentuate the classic hollow-cheeked look. ”

“My God—”

I smiled. “Most models aren’t so much without makeup. Very few of them are beautiful in the classic sense of the word. Certainly not me. But some people photograph better than others; thanks to my genes and a little manipulation, I’m one.” I stopped short. “Was one.”

“You still are,” Cass said sharply. “You still look like this.” I stared in surprise as she pulled a magazine from under the front seat and slapped it down next to me. The cover was creased but Cass smoothed it with one hand and held it flat.

I saw a close-up of a laughing, brown-eyed model with shoulder-length blonde hair blown back from her face. It was the kind of face every camera loved. The photographer had done an excellent job capturing a gaiety of spirit that filled the frame with joyousness and appeal. The girl had a warm, vibrant personality that demanded a similar response from anyone looking at the cover.

The girl was me, one week before the accident. Me, six months ago.

“It’s not that bad,” Cass protested. “Your hair hides most of it. Besides, plastic surgery would take away all the scarring.”

“This is the result of plastic surgery,” I told her more calmly than I felt.

That silenced her. For a moment she stared at me as we halted at a stoplight, then she looked away and gassed the car. Her face was slowly turning an unbecoming shade of red. “Well,” she said finally, “I really know how to stick my foot in it.”

I sighed. “Forget it. It’s a mistake everyone makes.” With effort I kept my hand away from the scar. “The surgeons will try again when this one is healed. That’s partly why I’m here—to wait out some of the time. ”

Cass shook her head in disgust. “I really should learn to keep my mouth shut. Uncle Nathan says I’ll start driving the guests away if I don’t.” She chewed at her bottom lip a moment, then smiled and glanced at me. “Have I driven you away yet?”

“Not quite. I’ll let you know.” My eyes drifted down to look at the magazine again, then resolutely I looked away. “Tell me about Smoketree.”

“You want the official brochure stuff or the real thing?”

I liked her candor. “I’ve read the brochure already. It sounds like every other brochure I’ve read.”

Cass laughed. “I know, but it works. How else do you get the folks to come out here?”

I thought about Vanessa’s unorthodox method, telling me she couldn’t afford to lose sleep over me anymore. Not that I blamed her; models need sleep or it shows on film—sleep is a lot more important than food.

I looked at Cass. “The real Smoketree, if you please.”

Cass cast me a sharp, assessing glance and I realized I had underestimated her. She wasn’t naive so much as uncomplicated, which was refreshing. She was also smart enough to have changed the subject. She launched into a description of the dude ranch that sounded suspiciously like public relations rhetoric. Then she veered off on a related topic, waving a hand at a huddled group of pyramidic mountains overshadowing the town we rapidly left behind.

“Those are the San Francisco Peaks. Smoketree is around on the other side of that left peak. ”

I surveyed the sharp cones on my right. Pines thicketed the lower slopes and shoulders of the mountains, but the peaks shook themselves free of vegetation and rose bare-flanked above the timberline, breaking into a hollow basin blanketed with glistening snow.

I sat up. “Snow? This is the middle of May.”

Cass grinned. “We had a late storm in April. That’s what’s left of it—not much, really. And yes—it