by Sylvie Kurtz
"Like Dolores." As Melinda handed him a glass of iced tea, their fingers touched, held, then separated with hesitation.
So civilized.
He wanted to scream.
Melinda took a sip from her glass. "She didn't seem like the type."
"They never do. A physical exam showed an unsutured cut healing across her palm and one on her upper thigh."
Melinda placed her glass on the small table beside her chair. "The Barbie, the message, the note—they were hers?" she asked, her eyes darkening to impossible depths.
"Yes." He cleared his throat. "She got the key to your house from Angie's kitchen."
"I still can't believe she would do all that." Melinda shivered.
"When she read the article in the paper, she was afraid you'd really seen something and wanted to scare you into silence."
"She did a good job." Melinda slid forward in her chair. "The knife in the plant?"
He flexed his fingers in an unconscious gesture of need. "Her, too. The blood on the hilt was from the meat department where she worked."
"That was a truly evil touch." Melinda shook her head. "She really had me thinking I'd killed Angie." She blew out a long breath. "The van?"
"Driven by one of Dolores's young male friends. She'd blackmailed him into doing her the favor."
"One of the men she was always trying to fix me up with." Melinda cocked her head, looking at his thigh with a saddened expression, and rubbed his healing would beneath his pants in an infinitely tender torture.
"It appears she'd found out something he didn't want his family to know and used it against him."
Melinda shook her head. "She was good at doing that. And the gunshot?"
"Dolores," he said hoarsely. "I recognized the rusty truck at your father's."
"What's going to happen to Carson Crews?"
"He's going to go live with his aunt in Oklahoma. The scouts who saw the season-highlights video we showed at the Fall Festival were impressed enough to want to him another look once his arm heals."
"I'm so glad."
"Yeah, the kid deserved something good in his life."
She took his glass and placed it next to hers. The condensation on the glass that had pooled in the hammock of his thumb dribbled onto his palm.
"So, Chief," she said as she climbed into his lap. His reaction was instant and strong. She wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled her body close. The hard peak of one breast grazed his uniform pocket. "I hear there's a cold front coming through tonight."
The feel of her, so close and so warm, tripped the rhythm of his heart into high gear. He wrapped his arms around her waist, buried his face in the blue-black silk of her hair, and inhaled the spring freshness of her scent. "Yeah, it's raining already and the temperature's dropping." Everywhere except his body. There, a raging inferno burned.
"I don't have flannel sheets." She nuzzled his neck, setting his pulse at a maddening gallop.
"You won't need any." He kissed her chin. "I'll keep you warm." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Very warm." His lips paused a breath away from hers. He looked straight into her deep, dark eyes. "Tonight and every night. If you'll have me."
Lightning struck close by. Thunder shook the small house. No haunted look crossed Melinda's eyes, only heated promise. And her seductive smile made him very hungry. She would never again fear September storms, and as long as she was in his arms, he'd have no more rainy days.
In the full bloom of her kiss, he heard her answer. "Tonight and every night."
The End
Broken Wings
by
Sylvie Kurtz
© 1996, 2011 by Sylvie Kurtz
One Last Chance...
That's all Colin Castle had to prove to his father that he wasn't a total failure. But something went terribly wrong in what should have been a routine outing in an antique plane, and the rugged pilot found himself contending with a slip in time—and a beautiful woman from yesterday who threatened to forever haunt his dreams.
One Final Hope...
That's all Liesl Erhardt had to make good on a promise to fulfill her murdered husband's dream. And the mysterious Colin with his miraculous plane was the answer to her prayers. But when he descended from the clouds like a Greek god, the barnstormer made her heart do a barrel roll. His strong pilot's hands could send her soaring to the heavens, but did she dare risk her heart to a gift from the skies?
Life may change, but it may fly not;
Hope may vanish, but can die not;
Truth be veiled, but still it burneth;
Love repulsed, but it returneth!
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley
Prologue
Schönberg, Texas, March 1944.
Dawn streaked the sky like an artist's palette with jags of red and purple. To the west billowing clouds raced toward the town while the lynch mob headed for the metal hangar near the grass landing strip. Lighted torches zigzagged across the diminishing dark with bright yellow snakes of fire. Feet slapped the craggy dirt road in disordered unison. Voices buzzed like stirred hornets with righteous justice.
Jakob Renke watched from the nearby road. He gripped the wooden fence post, and didn't loosen his hold even when a sliver of wood spiked through his skin. He'd started this. But in all his wild imaginings, he'd never dreamed of this ending when he'd started the rumor. Now it would be finished. And he could do nothing to stop it, not without betraying his guilt.
For the love of a woman, he'd betrayed his best friend.
That fact burrowed a nagging feeling of doubt deep in his conscience. It ate at him like a parasite, slowly, surely, steadily. He started forward, but it was too late. Kurt was the strong one, not him.
The angry mob tore open the hangar door. Metal ripped against metal. The rapid tattoo of their boots drummed on the hangar's concrete floor. As they moved in on their target, crashes of wanton destruction splintered the air. The torches trailed black tails of smoke in the lightening sky scorched his nostrils. He swallowed hard and gripped the fence post tighter.
Jakob couldn't move.
If he did, he'd suffer the same fate. Then Liesl would be left with nothing. This way, he could console her, fill the gap Kurt's loss would leave behind.
One day, she'd learn to love him, too.
The mob dragged a half-dressed man to the big post oak next to the hangar. Jakob closed his eyes, but the dark screen of his lids couldn't erase the bewildered look on Kurt's face, the fear in his eyes, the denial he couldn't speak.
"I vaz wrong," Jakob whispered, but still he couldn't move. His hold on the post tightened, driving the splinter deeper into the palm of his hand. He welcomed the pain.
"No! Leave him alone!" Liesl's frantic voice echoed in the dawn's cool breeze.
Jakob's eyes flew open. Liesl! What was she doing here? She was in danger. Anyone associated with Kurt was in danger.
She grabbed and pulled at the mob. They swatted her back like an insect. She yelped in pain, then charged at them again. As he raced to rescue her, Jakob's feet barely skimmed the sandy loam.
"Liesl!"
She turned and looked at him, tears of desperation streaking her face, her sleep-tousled hair matted in the wet trail on her cheeks. "Please, Jakob, do something!"
But it was too late, he couldn't do anything, except shield her from the horror. He grabbed her and pulled her toward him, holding her safe from the crowd's fury. He tried to spirit her in the opposite direction.
"Vee have to leave, Liesl."
"No! We have to help Kurt."
"If vee try, zey vill hang us also."
She looked at him with her big blue eyes rounded and her mouth opened in disbelief. Then she tried to push him away. He held on fast, smelling the scent of Kurt's musk wedded with hers on her skin, seeing the silver band on her ring finger glitter in the dawn's light. Dreadful understanding punched him in the stomach.
He'd made a terrible mistake.
She hated him. As she twisted
in his rigid arms, disgust was written plainly on her face.
She hated him.
He held her closer. She fought him.
She'd always hate him.
The knowledge burst like a bomb in Jakob's heart, killing it instantly. He couldn't stop the mob. Kurt would die for nothing.
Jakob had gambled, and had lost everything. She would never love him. He would never love again.
The mob threw a rope over a hanging branch. It held firm when they tested it. One man positioned his horse beneath the flapping noose. Two more forced Kurt on the gelding's back. Another slipped the noose around Kurt's neck. The torches' garish light stretched their shadows.
All the while Liesl's screams filled Jakob's ears. They reverberated through his bones, and etched themselves into his brain. He would hear them until the day he died.
Jakob's muscles shook from holding Liesl back. Her bare feet bruised his shins with their repeated blows. His wrists bled from the constant raking of her nails.
Too late. His fault. All for nothing.
Gathering their spent torches, the mob cheered, then headed back up the dirt road. Their voices, singing "God Bless America," faded as they crested the hill, leaving behind an eerie silence punctuated only by Liesl's strangled cries.
"Please," she begged between sobs, but he couldn't move, couldn't let go.
The rope's morbid creak carried to them on the stiffening breeze.
"Please, Jakob..."
"I'm sorry, so sorry..."
He loosened his hold. She sniffed and moved away zombie-like toward Kurt's limp body. While she worked with fierce determination at the knotted rope on the tree trunk, tiny squeaks like those of a pained animal's gurgled in her throat.
Jakob put a hand over her bloody fingers and pushed them away. He rasped at the rough rope with a knife from his pocket. It was the least he could do for her.
Kurt's body crumpled to the ground. Liesl ran to him, and cradled his head in her lap. He opened his eyes once.
"Get help!" she cried. "Please, Jakob!"
But Jakob couldn't move.
"I love you, Liesl," Kurt croaked. "Forever."
Then he was gone.
Liesl pleaded with him, rocked him, stroking his hair, his cheek, his throat. She bargained with God, then stilled, waiting for a miracle. She didn't move when the clouds swelled, obliterating the sun. She didn't move when they burst into cold rain.
Jakob looked on, cemented helplessly into place.
As he watched Liesl's spirit die, as he watched her father and grandmother pry her from her lover's dead body, as he watched her extended family gather in a protective circle around her, Jakob knew he would spend the rest of his life looking for a way to fix his mistake.
Giving way to tears of shame, Jakob vowed, "If it takes forever, I vill find a vay."
Chapter 1
Traders Field, Texas, March 1996.
"CastleAir one taking off," Colin Castle informed the small airport's dispatcher. He pushed the throttle forward, feeling the airplane's engine surge to life. The excitement racing through his veins increased in direct proportion to the revving rpm needle.
He released the brakes and gave a whoop of pleasure as the 1948 replica airplane launched down the runway. She wanted to fly, but he kept her grounded. Today he would test his machine to its limits. He couldn't afford any mistakes. Not this time. He'd made too many of those already. Everything had to be perfect for the air show.
Ten influential investors would witness the CastleAir's unveiling at the Trinity Air Show in eight days. Five years of blood, sweat and tears would come to fruition then. And those who'd voiced their doubts would have to eat their words—including his father.
Don't get started on that line of thought. Everything has to be just right. Concentrate on the airplane, nothing else.
The joystick shuddered in his hand. The airplane demanded access to the air. Colin denied the plane's request, holding her in place. He was a good pilot—one of the best—but for this project to work, he needed to fly like the worst. If the airplane could hold up to the abuse of an over-confident, under-trained pilot, she could handle anything. Colin aimed to fly like the worst show-off, and prove he hadn't put his faith into a losing proposition this time.
The airplane groaned its protest. Colin relented, easing back the joystick. She sighed off the runway, and her ahhh of satisfaction echoed in Colin's heart, lightening it. His muscles unwound. His mask came off. Now it was just man and machine, muscles and metal, mind and matter. It was him alone in the vast blue sky.
He was free.
He never felt this way on the ground, weighed to the earth by gravity. He always had to be someone else—Jakob's serious partner, the show circuit's fearless fly boy, his father's worthless son. But the sky, that was something else altogether. There he could relax. He didn't have to pretend. He could be himself.
Colin urged the CastleAir into a steep ascent, heading straight for the observation tower. He flew closer and closer—close enough to see the dispatcher's eyes grow wide. As Colin passed over the tower with a foot to spare, Harry ducked. Colin roared with laughter. You'd think Harry would be used to this by now. He raised the gear, then veered left and headed into the clear blue sky to put the plane through its paces in a non-populated area west of Fort Worth.
"CastleAir one, zis is Traders base." The heavy German accent and the sharp, clipped tones left no doubt as to who stood at the other end of the microphone.
"What do you want, Jakob?" Colin sighed.
Jakob Renke worked metal with the skill and artistry of a master, and without his help this project would never have taken off, but lately, he'd been absurdly agitated over the plane's well-being. As if Jakob's future was at stake, not Colin's.
"Come back and land zis instant."
"Can't, got work to do." Colin adjusted the power for a steady climb.
"Vee agreed. No foolishness."
"We agreed. I'm not fooling around." Colin circled the area of patched brown and spring-green pastures, checking for other air traffic and looking for a promising field should the need arise. Fields as familiar to him as every nut and bolt of his airplane, as familiar as a part of his own body. A hawk floated to his left, catching a thermal to higher altitude. Colin joined him.
"Vat do you call zis stunt?"
Colin could imagine Jakob's beet-red face with the temple veins raised and throbbing. The guy definitely needed to loosen up. "I call it the seventeen-year-old-boy-showing-off-for-his-girlfriend take-off."
"Vee are not selling to boys! Vee are trying to attract grown investors."
"Ever heard of a mid-life crisis?"
"You are going to ruin everything vit your crazy flying. Vat good is it to us if the airplane is crashed?"
The radio crackled in the silence that followed.
"I'm coming in." Colin reversed his position with a Cuban roll and headed back toward the airport. If they were going to have a fight, they wouldn't do it over the airwaves.
He greased his landing and parked the airplane in its spot next to the Vintage Air Factory hangar. He and Jakob reached the hangar door at the same time, but neither spoke until they stood inside Jakob's workshop.
This hangar had served as Colin's home for the past five years. He slept on a cot in the back room, and lived and breathed this project every waking hour. He knew the contents of every plastic bin hanging on the wall. He knew the name and function of every scrap of metal carefully catalogued on the shelves, of every tool in the shop. He'd memorized every blue line on the plans spread over the slanted board beside the workbench.
With the public's renewed interest in history and flying museums, and a growing shortage of old planes left to be salvaged, Colin came up with the idea of building replicas—old planes from old plans with new parts.
His father had told him his plan was doomed to failure—like all of his previous schemes. Then, when he'd been looking for investors, he'd met Jakob by accident at an air show in
California. Jakob put up the money to build the first plane. With their combined skills, they managed to pull the project together and come up with an improved version on an old classic, the 1948 CastleAir Special Edition. When Jakob suggested this particular model, the idea intrigued Colin because the airplane shared his last name. He took it as a good omen.
Now in the wings, plans to build a Grumman F3F biplane and a Messerschmitt Me262 jet fighter waited for the right investors. Their reality hung in a successful unveiling in eight days' time at the Trinity Air Show. Colin's personal success hung on a ten-minute flight that would either make him or break him. He didn't appreciate Jakob's lack of faith at this late hour.
"Vat vere you trying to do?" Jakob asked.
A shock of stiff white hair surrounded a round face with accusing round eyes and round glasses. There was nothing round about the rest of Jakob's body. It appeared solid and wiry from the perpetual motion of eighteen hours plus of work every day for the past five years. The frustrated activity of a man laden with guilt, Colin often thought, and he'd never felt this assumption more clearly than he did now. For the first time since they'd met, he wondered at Jakob's motives. Maybe more than workmanship attracted Jakob to this project. But what? They rarely spoke of anything except the CastleAir and the odd diatribe on the physics of time.
A curl of uncertainty unfurled deep in Colin's stomach, but he ignored it. He flung his leather jacket over Jakob's cluttered workbench. "I was making sure an idiot would be safe flying our plane."
"Idiot? Vere is your head? Zese are professionals."
Colin was right. The purple veins above Jakob's temples did stand out and throb against his angry red skin. "Professionals my foot." Colin paced away from Jakob, then spun back. "Professional lawyers and doctors, maybe. But not professional pilots. These are weekend pilots with barely a hundred hours of flight time logged in their books. They hardly know an aileron from an attitude. I want to be sure our airplane is forgiving enough to see them safely to the ground should they get in over their heads."
