Lakeshore Chronicles [10] Candlelight Christmas by Susan Wiggs Page A

and buried by several feet of snow. Pedals churning, he climbed and descended, sweat and dust mingling on his forearms. The hour they’d allotted themselves before the meeting went by quickly, and they reluctantly concluded the ride at the resort’s main lodge.
    “Awesome,” said Jeff, brushing the dust off his shorts. “Excellent way to start the day.”
    “I thought you’d like it. There’s going to be a lot more going on up here in the off-season next year.” Logan unclasped his helmet and sucked down half a bottle of water. He used the rest of the water and a hand towel to get the sweat and grime off his face.
    The resort’s owner walked down from the on-site residence, a big, rambling place that had been the original lodge in the 1950s and had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast and owner’s lodgings.
    Logan already knew that if they made a deal, he’d be selling his house in town and moving to the residence. It was huge, way too much house for him, but it made sense to be on-site, especially when he was in the process of taking over.
    In jeans and a plaid shirt, and a graying beard that needed a trim, Karsten Berger looked like one of the workmen. “You guys are crazy,” he said, indicating the bikes.
    “Mountain-biking kicks ass,” said Adam. “You ought to try it sometime.”
    “I just might, at that. The lodge is open if you need more water or something to eat.”
    Just then, a shiny black vehicle turned off the road into the parking lot and came to a stop in front of the lodge.
    “Holy crap,” murmured Adam, watching Al exit the sleek black Escalade, his bespoke suit catching dust from the wind blowing across the parking lot. “You never told me your father was Darth Vader.”
    “Yeah, he’s kind of got that whole evil empire thing down pat.” When Logan was a kid, he used to greet his father with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.
    Now Al O’Donnell arrived at the resort like the pontiff making a papal visit. He traveled with a small entourage—the driver of his sleek black SUV, his personal assistant, a humorless stick figure of a woman named Miss Teasdale, and two others who looked like bodyguards but were more likely in charge of guarding Al’s wealth.
    “Thanks for coming, Dad,” Logan said. “This is Karsten Berger. His family has owned Saddle Mountain since 1949.”
    “Nice to meet you,” said Karsten.
    “That’s a hell of a long time to keep a business in the family.”
    Karsten chuckled. “Some would say I’m a slow learner. Should have ditched the place decades ago.”
    “So why are you ditching it now?”
    Logan had explained the situation to his father numerous times over the phone. But his father didn’t believe Logan should make a financial move without checking out every angle—repeatedly. Saddle Mountain had been teetering on the brink of closure for several years. Karsten was ready to retire, and hadn’t put as much money into the place as he probably should have. He’d told Logan he had interest from a big corporation that was in the real estate development business. The downside was that the developer would simply do a cookie-cutter rehabilitation, creating mediocre ski terrain in order to drive condo sales.
    The alternative was for someone local to take over the resort and focus on its best and most unique assets. That was where Logan came in.
    “I’m older than these hills you see around us,” said Karsten. “None of my kids or grandkids wants to take it on.”
    “I know what that’s like,” said Al. “You spend your life building something to last, but there’s nobody to carry on.”
    “Hell, Dad, why be subtle when you can make your point with a sledgehammer?” asked Logan. He was already starting to regret inviting his father up for the day. “Tell you what. Let’s take a look around.”
    It was a cozy resort complex designed like an old Tyrolean place in the Alps of Austria. The centerpiece was the big brown-and-orange