by Kara Braden
“Is this thing even built to carry a passenger?” Ian asked with growing apprehension. He was trapped in the middle of nowhere, but even that was better than risking his life in a glorified toy plane.
The captain grinned and pulled open two doors on the side of the plane. Through the front one, Ian could see a seat; the back appeared to be a cargo compartment. “Guess we’ll find out. Hurry up and stow your gear. It’s almost four hundred miles back home, give or take. You probably don’t want to walk.”
“Four hundred—we’re already nowhere,” he protested.
She gave another short laugh and climbed up into the little aircraft. Her jacket rode up enough to show a black pistol holstered at her right hip. Ian stared. Having grown up in a military family, Ian was no stranger to guns but wondered what she needed it for. Out here, the only threats were boredom, snow, and bears.
“I don’t think this’ll all fit,” the steward told him, looking between the little cargo compartment and the suitcases. The whole plane rocked as the captain slammed her door closed.
Ian sighed and turned to regard his belongings critically. He’d gone from the clinic straight to the airport, so he’d asked his assistant to pack his bags. He had specified that he’d be gone at least three months, possibly as many as six, and that he’d be staying with “a friend,” which was all Preston had told him. That might have been a tactical error, as Preston would say.
“Right. Carry-on first, then garment bag,” he told the steward, who obligingly did as directed. Draped over the carry-on, the garment bag provided a clean surface. Ian knelt down slowly and carefully to unzip his suitcase. He found an array of dress shirts, ties, socks, and underwear, along with a full kit of toiletries.
“Just pile everything on top,” he finally said, getting back to his feet. He picked up his laptop bag.
“The suitcase won’t fit, though.”
“Keep it.” Ian took the money clip from his pocket and passed the steward an American twenty-dollar bill for the extra trouble.
“Thanks!”
Ian walked around to the other side of the plane and pulled open the door. He had to brace himself to climb up into the passenger seat. He couldn’t quite hide his grunt of effort as his back twinged in protest. The laptop bag barely fit into the space by his feet.
The captain looked at him but then twisted around to watch the steward start shoveling armloads of Ian’s clothing out of the suitcase and into the cargo compartment. Dark red-brown eyebrows shot up over her sunglasses.
Then she laughed. “Good call,” she said and turned to the instrument panel, grinning.
***
Twenty minutes later they were over the trees and away from civilization. Cecily was glad her passenger seemed content to stay quiet, though he obviously wasn’t admiring the view. Once they leveled off to cruising altitude, he took a cell phone out of his overcoat and started pressing buttons.
Cecily frowned as she glanced over, only then realizing she hadn’t seen another jacket in the luggage piled in back. The overcoat was nice for city wear, but he’d need something much warmer if he were going to make it through the winter. It was already snowy up at Pinelake.
“Fairchild said you’re staying—”
“I’m Fairchild. Ian Fairchild,” he interrupted. He turned and gave her a sharp, narrow-eyed look through his polarized designer sunglasses. Behind them, she could just make out eyes that were either blue or gray. “Consider it a reminder that you have yet to introduce yourself.”
Amused, she answered, “Cecily Knight. The other Fairchild said you were staying through the end of the year.”
Ian’s answer was a huff through flared nostrils as he turned his attention back to his cell phone. “Perhaps. This may not work out as my brother had planned.”
The thought of having an outsider in her space made her chest go tight, but she took a deep breath and concentrated on the sensitive flight controls. In fact, she realized that Ian was going to be the first person, other than Mags, to see the inside of her house since she’d had it built. She owed Preston Fairchild her life, and if it took an unwanted houseguest to clear that debt, so be it.
She snuck a look at her passenger, glad her sunglasses were the conventional type, with lenses that stayed dark. It didn’t help that the houseguest in question was absolutely gorgeous, just over six feet tall and lithe, with dark blond hair that framed his cheekbones and brushed over one eye. He kept lifting a gloved hand to push it back, but the hair fell right back down to touch his sunglasses. She had the mad urge to move one hand from the controls, strip off her glove, and touch the strands.
Instead, she turned away to concentrate on flying. The silence was surprisingly comfortable, broken only near the end of the first leg, when she keyed the mic. “Pinelake tower, this is Charlie Foxtrot X-ray Lima Niner, requesting weather report and landing clearance to refuel.”
“Charlie Lima Niner, this is Pinelake tower. Weather is cloudy with light snow, decent visibility. You are clear to land whenever you like. How was Little Prairie? Over.”
“The usual, Mark. Glad to be home. Should be wheels-down in twenty, with a passenger.”
“I’ll put up the coffee, Cecily. Pinelake tower out.”
She glanced over at Ian, who was staring at her so intently that she asked, “Something wrong?”
“Where exactly are we going?” he asked in that deep baritone of his. With a voice like that, she’d be content to listen to him read the phone book.
“Pinelake,” she answered, reminding herself that she was supposed to be piloting, not ogling her passenger. “The house is another forty minutes’ flying time north of the airfield.”
“You fly home. Don’t you have a car?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No roads up to my property. You can take a boat, if the draft is shallow enough, but I don’t enjoy rowing.” She resisted the urge to rub her shoulder and kept her hands on the controls instead. “The only other option is a quad or snowmobile.”
Instead of answering, he turned his attention back to his cell phone. “I’m not going to get any signal out here, am I?”
“Not out here.”
***
If Little Prairie had been tiny, Pinelake was surreal. The lake itself was pretty enough, surrounded by deep green pine trees dusted with snow. A small cluster of buildings stretched into the trees away from where a dock jutted out into the lake. It took seconds to follow a gravel road through the town, if it could be called that, to the airfield.
The runway was nothing but a gravel strip next to a flimsy-looking mobile home. “Where’s the tower?” Ian asked.
Cecily laughed briefly. “No tower here, unless you count hunting stands.”
After a landing that jolted every bone in Ian’s body, she circled the plane at the end of the runway and drove toward an open-sided hangar. Three small planes and a helicopter were parked underneath. All four looked sturdier than her aircraft, and he wondered what it would cost to buy one for the duration of his stay. Not that he knew how to fly.
And then, there was the snow.
Snow in the part of Virginia where he’d grown up was a rare occurrence. An inch of snow could shut down the whole DC metro area. Snow here was thick and steady and blindingly white even with the heavy cloud cover that turned day into dusk. Ian shivered as he watched it build up on the windscreen; the chill outside would be knife-sharp and biting. Uncomfortably, he recalled family vacations in Europe, back when he and Preston had a proper family, before they’d all gone their separate ways. He thought of fires and warm blankets and playing chess with Preston and their younger sister, Amelia.
Cecily stopped the plane and waved at a man walking toward them through the snow. He was obviously insane, wearing a parka zipped only halfway up, hood down, with a radio microphone clipped to the front pocket. Snow dusted his graying brown hair and
beard. Like Cecily, he wore sunglasses, and he was carrying two paper cups in his gloved hands.
“You need to get out, stretch your legs?” she asked as she turned off the plane’s engine.
Ian almost said yes, because he felt as though he’d been trapped in a coffin, but he wasn’t certain his back would stand the strain of climbing out of the plane and back inside. “Thank you, but no.”
“Suit yourself.” Cecily exited the aircraft in a blast of cold air as the man walked up to her door. “Mark, Ian. Ian, Mark.”
“Welcome to Pinelake,” Mark said, reaching across Cecily’s seat to offer Ian the other paper cup.
“Thanks,” he said gratefully, taking it. With a nod, Mark closed the door, though the icy air lingered.
Ian sipped and found the cup held vile-tasting coffee laced with artificial creamer, but it was still hot, and right now he’d drink diesel fuel if it would help him warm up. Even his spine felt cold.
Eight interminable minutes passed while Cecily and Mark stood outside, refueling the plane. Ian had finished the coffee by the time Cecily got back into the pilot’s seat and started the engine. Cold air blasted through the vents. The cabin began to warm up too slowly for Ian’s liking.
“You all right?” she asked as she started her instrument check.
“Fine,” he lied. The plane jolted forward, making Ian flinch from the pain that shot through his back, though he turned away from Cecily to hide his wince.
Once she’d steered the plane around the other parked aircraft to the end of the runway, she keyed her mic and asked for permission to take off. Ian didn’t hear the response, but a moment later, the plane accelerated toward the not-so-distant trees. At what felt like the last moment, the plane slowly swept up into the sky.
“We’re almost home,” she said, sounding relieved.
He glanced at her, noting the way her posture had relaxed. The tight lines at the corners of her mouth had all but disappeared, and he revised his estimate of her age downward by five years. Her sudden ease was curious, though. She’d been self-confident and comfortable dealing with the baggage handler at Little Prairie and with Mark, but she had apparently maintained a level of tension. Defensiveness. Was she relaxed at the thought of going home, as most people would be, or was it something else?
Whatever the answer, Ian would probably have it figured out soon enough. More than his skills at logic and rhetoric, his ability to read people made him a top-notch criminal defense attorney. At first glance, he might’ve thought Cecily Knight to be a recluse, but his instincts told him there was more to her than a desire to live a simple life in isolation. And given the crushing boredom that probably awaited him at their final destination, he was glad to have a mystery to solve—especially one so attractive.
***
Cecily’s property had been in the family for generations, a remnant of an old mineral claim her great-grandfather had staked. At various times, it had been used for gold panning, hunting, and fishing, but it hadn’t actually been developed until her father had retired from his medical practice just after she’d enlisted in the Marine Corps. He’d built a small dock for the shallow motorboat he used to take upriver from Pinelake and had cleared land for a cabin he’d never managed to build.
When she’d moved to Pinelake, she’d gotten rid of the boat and demolished the dock. She’d let the cleared land go wild and instead hired an architect and building crew to construct her small cabin on higher ground set far back in the trees. She’d also had them clear land for a short dirt airstrip and a shed that served as a hangar and garage.
The cabin itself had four habitable rooms, a small attic, and a basement that allowed access to the pipes for repairs. It was built of tightly chinked logs, double-pane windows, and a sturdy stone roof meant to withstand the weight of thick, wet snow. Her team of hired engineers had designed a redundant system for power and heating: a bank of batteries charged by diesel and propane generator systems. The fuel tanks for the generator and the propane heating system were safely stored in a shed well away from the house.
“City boy, aren’t you?” she asked sympathetically. Her first couple of years out here, the snow had intimidated her. Winter had been absolutely terrifying, in fact, but she’d survived—thrived, even.
Huddled in his chic wool overcoat, gloved hands tucked under his arms, Ian let out a breath that showed faintly despite the best efforts of the plane’s heater. “You could say that,” he muttered.
She nodded her understanding and taxied the plane as close to the house as she could get. Preston had said his brother had been injured. He seemed fine now, except for a little stiffness to his gait, but there was no sense in risking a fall. Dress shoes didn’t mix with snow.
“Go on in,” she said as she engaged the wheel brakes. “I’ll carry your stuff.”
He looked at her directly, catching her gaze for a long, silent moment. In the twilight, his glasses had finally gone completely transparent, and she saw his eyes were the silver-blue of the bright winter sky at midday. She regretted putting her own sunglasses up on top of her head, feeling exposed under his sharp gaze.
“Thank you,” he said and fumbled with his safety harness. His fingers were clumsy beneath his gloves.
Sympathetic, she reached over, pressed the catch, and then tugged the straps to retract them. He nodded in thanks and let himself out into the cold, shivering. “Go on in,” she told him and looked back at the clothes that had shifted during flight. She’d need to get a bag for them, so she hopped out and went around the plane, grinning to herself. At least he hadn’t put up a fuss about losing his suitcase back at Little Prairie.
Despite her invitation to get inside out of the cold, he was waiting for her on the back porch. She gave him a curious look and pushed the kitchen door open, gesturing him inside.
“You don’t lock your door?”
“A polite visitor will knock. Anyone else would just break a window if they couldn’t get in through a door. Do you know what a bitch it is to get new windows out here?” Cecily answered, not mentioning that she welcomed anyone to try, as long as she was home. And if she wasn’t home, she really didn’t care. Her few valuables were in the bedroom safe, and it would take explosives to open it without the proper combination.
The door led into the kitchen and dining area that filled the back part of the cabin. A tiny table, currently with just one chair, sat by the back door. To the left was a small, well-appointed kitchen. Beyond the pantry, a door led to the bathroom, which also let out into the bedroom in the front corner of the cabin. A living room filled the rest of the front half of the cabin.
Taking pity on her guest, Cecily stomped her feet to clear off the snow and then went right to the potbellied stove. She stripped off her gloves, pocketed them, and then knelt down to build up the fire. She’d banked it before leaving.
“Where’s the light?”
“Oh. Sorry,” she apologized, getting to her feet to retrieve the oil lantern hanging on a hook over the sink. She lit the wick and put the lamp on the kitchen table where Ian sat, watching her.
“Don’t you have electricity?” he asked, sounding worried.
“I do. I try to minimize using fuel to run the generators,” she explained as she went back to the fire. The stove was more efficient, putting out almost enough heat to fill the whole cabin. She’d had the architect put fireplaces in the bedroom and living room, though. Even after all these years of living out here, she loved curling up under blankets in front of a crackling fire.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you doing this?”
“Which ‘this’?” she asked, coaxing the fire in the stove to life.
She heard the scrape of the glass oil lamp on the table. “Allowing me to stay here. You’re not one of Preston’s soldiers.”
She froze, swallowing against the lump that lodged in her throat. She wasn’t anyon
e’s soldier anymore. “No. I’m not.”
Ian made a thoughtful, quiet sound, accepting her nonanswer without question. Instead, he asked, “What’s there to do around here?”
She shrugged and rose, closing the stove door. “Whatever you want.” She went to the back door and picked up her empty frame pack. “Do you fish?”
“Do I—no.”
She snorted. “Why are you here then?” she asked, shouldering the pack.
“What did Preston tell you?” he countered.
The evasive answer made her turn to study his face. He was even more attractive in the soft lamplight than he’d been in direct sunlight, but there was something stiff and defensive in his expression.
When Preston Fairchild had called her two days earlier, he’d tried to elaborate about the reasons behind the favor he needed from her. He’d said his brother had been in an accident and needed to get away after a series of back surgeries had led to a problem with painkillers. The whole thing felt like an invasion of this unknown brother’s privacy, so she’d interrupted to ask if the brother was a security risk. When Preston assured her that he wasn’t, she’d agreed to let him stay and cut the conversation short.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asked. “You’re a grown man. Stay as long as you want, and do whatever you’d like.”
Ian went very quiet and still, and the controlled mask slipped, revealing a vulnerable expression of surprise that made her wonder if she’d said the wrong thing. “My brother must be a very good friend of yours,” he finally said.
Cecily thought about the desert, about a man who was smart enough to follow an impossible trail of clues and determined enough to risk everything rescuing soldiers who weren’t even his own. She remembered the pain and blood and screams. Her men. Her enemies. Herself.
“You can put on a kettle of water if you want something hot to drink,” she said, rather than answering. She went to the back door and pushed it open. Cold air gusted inside. “I’ll get your stuff.”
