Table of Contents
Flying Home
Copyright
Praise for T. R. McClure
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Flying Home
The Flower Basket
by
T. R. McClure
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Flying Home: The Flower Basket
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by T. R. McClure
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debby Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2012
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-300-9
Published in the United States of America
Praise for T. R. McClure
“For those who still love a good romantic story, this is it! FLYING HOME brings us the best of T. R. McClure in this inspiring novel.”
~Jean Foltz, Reader
Dedication
…to my husband,
for his constant encouragement
Chapter One
The little high-wing aircraft flew like a dream. Easy to handle and maneuver, Colleen McLachlan’s latest toy droned steadily over the flat agricultural region of central California.
If she sprouted angel wings and a halo, she couldn’t be any closer to heaven than she was right now. California’s bright December sun and endless blue sky surrounded her and her latest toy, a perky red-and-yellow 1957 vintage airplane.
“Yahoo!” Alone in the four-seater aircraft, she punched the air with her fist and yelled at the top of her lungs. She flicked the blue plastic wings hanging from the ignition key with her forefinger. After a career with the United States Air Force, former Master Sergeant Colleen McLachlan was finally in complete control of her destiny.
For the first time in twenty-five years, freedom beckoned—freedom to let her long hair hang loose around her face, freedom to set her own schedule, freedom to be late, freedom to sleep in, freedom to live wherever she wanted. “Bo-o-rn free,” she sang out in a rich alto.
Colleen tipped the control wheel a hair to the left to stay on course. Filed early that morning, the flight plan listed Almendra, California, the home of younger sister Bobbi, as her immediate destination. Just two weeks earlier, the doctor placed Bobbi on complete bed rest as she awaited the birth of her second child. Having missed the birth of her niece, Colleen wanted to help with her sister’s second baby any way she could. So Almendra it was…for now.
But after that, who knew? She might consider the paralegal position with her brother-in-law’s law firm. First, she wanted to get a feel for the area. After living all over the world, Colleen was determined her new home would be someplace special. She just hadn’t figured out where quite yet.
Colleen brought her attention back to the business of flying and scanned the instruments in the cockpit. Her singing trailed off. Fifteen years of flying taught her to be prepared for anything.
The plane had passed inspection with flying colors, but with a fifty-plus-year-old aircraft anything could happen.
She surveyed the control panel. The fuel gauge, topped off before she left San Diego, hovered just above the three quarters mark. Apparently, the fuel tank didn’t leak—a good sign the old plane was in good condition.
Altimeter showed three thousand feet. With the elevation below her at one hundred feet or less, she wouldn’t fly into a mountain unless she veered east toward the Sierras. The compass indicated a heading of north-northeast. Time to watch for landmarks.
As she prepared for the course adjustment, the familiar adrenaline rush kicked in and she couldn’t help but grin. She loved dead-reckoning flying. So many pilots—and drivers—relied on GPS that if their instruments failed, the people couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag. Colleen flew like the barn-storming pilots of old—she located landmarks on the aeronautical map, found them on the ground, and adjusted course accordingly.
She glanced out the side window at the meandering river far below. The water sparkled in the rays of the setting sun. Nearby, a herd of cattle grazed peacefully in a fenced pasture.
Spreading the aeronautical map across the control wheel, she smoothed out the sharp creases. The paper rustled beneath her palm. Trailing an index finger across the map, she squinted as she searched for the blue line indicating the San Joaquin River. A bridge was the landmark for the next heading adjustment.
Her new reading glasses lay on the passenger seat where she tossed them before takeoff. As she propped the tortoise-shell frames on the end of her nose, she frowned. Only after the map came into focus did she find the parallel lines indicating the bridge over the river. At that point, she would adjust her heading directly north. Less than an hour of flying time would bring her to Mineta Airport, the small airport near her sister’s home. A phone call to Rob, and she would be comfortably ensconced on Bobbi’s king size bed, trading stories and eating butter pecan ice cream by the time the evening news ended. She straightened, tossed her glasses on the seat beside her, and peered into the distance.
Robert and Roberta Roberts. What were the odds? They should change their names.
Surveying the surrounding airspace, she craned her neck to look above and to the sides of the plane. No aircraft in view, but at the sight of an unexpected development to the east, toward the snow-covered Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, her euphoria dissolved.
“Gosh darn it.” She wrapped her fingers tighter around the control wheel. Tendrils of gray mist crept down through the foothills and into California’s Central Valley. Bits and pieces of the picturesque countryside disappeared under a white blanket of fog. At the same time, intermittent drops of rain pelted the windshield. Behind her, the California sunshine and puffy white clouds disappeared.
Although she’d planned to leave San Diego Airport no later than noon, Captain Rogers, a colleague from her Florida days, insisted on buying her lunch to talk over old times. She couldn’t say no. If not for him, she wouldn’t have found the little plane now purring along above the California countryside. “Remember the time we had to evacuate the base because of the hurricane?” he’d say and he would be off on another story. Consequently, she got a later start than planned. Now the twin issues of a setting sun and cooling temperatures ahead presented a problem.
Fellow pilots’ comments about ground fog, especially in this area of California, echoed through her mind. Shuddering at the thought, she knew she didn’t want to be caught above it. Her piloting skills were good, but not even she could land on a cloud.
Up ahead, she made out the roof of a covered bridge over the river. The planned heading adjustment took her directly into the approaching fog. As she pondered
the problem, she took a deep, cleansing breath and blew out the air slowly between pursed lips.
Her destination airport lay on the other side of the blanket of fog creeping across the valley. The radio crackled as a commuter pilot announced downwind for a nearby regional airport. She checked the map and located the airport at the base of the Sierra Nevada foothills…no doubt already overtaken by the approaching fog. Her hopes sank. Only instrument-rated planes could land under such poor visibility, and then only if the ceiling permitted it. One of the drawbacks of flying like a barnstormer was a bare-bones instrument panel.
Colleen glanced over her shoulder at the rapidly disappearing sunshine and bit her lip as she considered her options. Turn around and head back the direction she came, a waste of three hours of flying time, or…
She scanned the ground below, where meandering streams, farms and ranches, cattle and horses created beautiful but unfamiliar countryside. Twice before she’d visited her sister in Almendra, both times flying commercial into San Jose International.
“Well-ell.” While her fingers did a tap dance on the control wheel, Colleen surveyed the ground. “I guess that leaves me just one option.” Settling more comfortably into the red vinyl seat, she adjusted the seatbelt snug against her shoulder. With a deep breath, she gripped the throttle, pulled back smoothly, and watched the airspeed indicator drop.
“Let’s see how this bird lands.” She tapped a rudder pedal, expertly tilted the control wheel, and settled into a slow turning descent toward the beautiful countryside below.
****
As a boy, Matthew Berk followed his father to the orchard every day. He learned how to prune, and shake, and harvest—all jobs necessary to keep an almond grove in business. As a man, he pruned suckers and snipped dead branches without a second thought. He pushed back the hood of his yellow slicker and surveyed the last tree in the row.
Two rows over, his father whistled a cheerful tune.
At the sound, Matt’s lips curved up. He knew no one as content with his life’s work as his father. The man whistled sunup to sundown…usually rock and roll songs from the sixties, but at least he was still around to whistle.
As his thoughts wandered back to October, when his father had surgery for a heart blockage, Matt grimaced. Afterward, Matt and his mother tried in vain to keep Stan confined to the house. Finally, after Matt took a leave of absence from Almond Valley College and after much grumbling on Stan’s part, his father agreed to the eight weeks of rest.
Over the winter, a slow time on the ranch, Stan helped a few hours each day. Matt didn’t regret the leave of absence—the only way to convince his father to slow down—but by fall, he hoped to resume his teaching duties.
Between the two of them, the pruning progressed. In their yellow slickers, they stayed dry in the slight drizzle.
Matt brushed damp hair back off his forehead and removed his rain-splattered glasses for the third time. Wiping my glasses is all I get done out here. Maybe I should try contacts. He unsnapped his rain slicker and tugged a soft cloth from his back jeans pocket. Never needed them in the classroom but out here…it’s a whole other story. As he surveyed the last almond tree in the row, he dried the wire rims, careful not to scratch the lens. Two dead branches toward the top and a multitude of suckers off the lower branches, and he would be finished for the day. A blur of yellow he knew to be his father moved around the last tree two rows over.
He replaced the glasses, tucked the cloth in his back pocket, and glanced at the diver’s watch on his left wrist. The rain had only moved in during the last hour, not bad for central California in early December.
One more tree. With a spurt of energy, Matt picked up the ladder and positioned the legs carefully in the slick soil beneath the tree. Tossing the pruning shears onto the grass strip between the rows of trees, he pulled the hand clippers from his back pocket and climbed to the third step of the ladder. Snap—a dead branch toppled to the ground. Snap. Matt’s cheek burned as the second branch caught him on the way down. He swiped at his cheek and saw a smear of blood on the back of his hand.
Son of a— A picture of his mother and her wagging finger popped into his head—gun, he amended. The rich smell of wet soil surrounded him as he studied the remaining suckers. He breathed deeply, his lungs filling with the fresh, damp air.
In the distance, the soft drone of an engine broke the stillness. Matt tilted his head in an effort to determine the source of the noise. Must be Manuel working on the shaking machines in the equipment shed.
Returning his attention to the trees, he realized with a deep sense of satisfaction that the freshly trimmed grove looked good. Really good. He snipped a tiny twig. Through the bare branches of the tree, Matt’s gaze narrowed as he scrutinized the two acres of trees they had trimmed.
Numbers tumbled around his head as he figured the profit margin for the year. Barring unforeseen disasters, the production this year looked promising. He snipped a sucker protruding from the main trunk directly in front of him, and then a series of water spouts on a main branch. He grinned in anticipation of preparing lectures for his eager agri-business students. The young students soaked up the knowledge of agricultural business like new sponges.
The hum of the engine grew louder. Matt twisted around as well as he could while perched on the ladder. “Please don’t tell me you’re test driving equipment in the orchard,” he muttered. He noticed his footprints where they stood out in the soft soil as he had worked down the row. Even the ladder had created two identical ruts where it stood. The thousand pound shaking machine…he didn’t even want to think about it. Looking around, Matt saw no one except his father gathering his tools together at the edge of the lane. He shook his head and turned back to the tree.
One more sucker protruded from the top of the main trunk—if he stretched, he could reach it and the work day would be over. Matt reached out with his left arm, gripped an adjacent branch with his right, and teetered on the top step of the ladder. With a slow curl, he squeezed the clippers.
A sudden blast of air struck him between the shoulder blades, while at the same time something roared past on the lane. As his weight shifted to the left and the ladder slipped on the wet bark of the tree, his heart jumped into his chest. “Hey!” Matt grabbed for the trunk and managed only a fistful of air. He fell spread-eagled toward the ground, catching a glimpse of red and yellow before he landed face down in the slick soil beneath the tree.
The sudden roar gave way to silence.
Matt eased himself to a sitting position and shook out the sudden stab of pain in his left wrist. Groaning, he looked around. The ladder lay behind him. His glasses slid off his damp face, landing lens down in the wet dirt. With a grunt, he put one muddy hand on a knee and pushed, rescuing his glasses in the process. He remembered his father gathering his tools at the edge of the grove and his heart seized.
“Dad?” Matt rushed onto the lane, glasses dangling from his fingers, and fell to one knee as he slipped in the damp soil. Twenty feet away stood his father, his back to him.
“Dad, did you…” He looked past his father and the words died in his throat. I must be dreaming. He trotted up next to his father.
Stanford Berk dragged his gaze from the apparition in the middle of the lane and looked his son up and down, one bushy eyebrow quirked.
“The ladder slipped.” Matt responded to his father’s unspoken question.
Stan, the hood still over his head and slicker snapped shut, remained as dry and clean as when they started. “You know…” his father rubbed his whiskered chin with his thumb and forefinger, “…just when you think it’s going to be a quiet day, something comes along to liven things up.” He chuckled and hurried off.
Liven things up, my foot. Matt looked down the lane at the blurry outline of a red-and-yellow, high-wing aircraft. As he watched, the propeller rotated slowly to a stop.
An airplane…in the middle of his ranch.
A small airplane granted, but an airplane? How
in the world did an airplane land smack dab in the middle of the Berk Family Almond Grove?
Matt clenched his muddy hands into fists, then loosened his grip, and shook out his hands. Five minutes earlier, he’d been almost finished with chores. At this time of day, his mother’s cooking beckoned, followed by an evening with a recent publication on California agriculture.
“Just what I need,” Matt muttered. He took a deep breath of exhaust-tainted air, coughed, and trotted off after the older man. As he approached the small high-wing, he saw the passenger-side door fly open. Even without his glasses, Matt knew immediately the jean-clad rear-end exiting the cockpit did not belong to a man.
The woman jumped off the wing and spun, her auburn pony tail flying. “Hi fellas, you don’t mind my dropping in, do you?” Her teeth flashed with a wide grin. Her green eyes sparkled with excitement.
Matt’s jaw dropped open. The woman was easily as tall as he was—not a common occurrence, at six foot. Her oval face sported a healthy tan, as if she had just flown in from Mexico. Suspicion itching over his scalp, he pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. She could be a drug runner and landed at their little farm to throw off law enforcement.
Without responding, Matt walked over to the open door and looked inside. Nothing but a pair of glasses, an open map, and a small suitcase behind the pilot’s seat. He turned and found himself eye to sparkly eye with the female pilot.
“Looking for something?” She tilted her head and a stray wisp of hair rested at the corner of her mouth.
Matt searched for a witty reply but his brain neurons had ceased firing. He resisted the urge to brush away the wisp of hair. His nostrils quivered as a sweet smell drifted by. The tanned, sparkly-eyed woman with the flashing smile had rendered him speechless. He drew in a shaky breath.
Professor Matthew Berk—a man who lectured to hundreds of students, who spoke at agriculture board meetings without a qualm, who was surrounded by young beautiful coeds—could not find the words to respond to the lanky female pilot dressed casually in jeans and sneakers.
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