SKY HIGH
JENNIFER MCARDLE
Sky High
Copyright © 2015 Jennifer McArdle
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Cover design by Jennifer McArdle.
Cover photographs: “Float Plane Takes Off” by MountainHardcore/Shutterstock; “View of the Water of the Turnagain Arm Near Hope Alaska in Soft Evening Light with Bright Blue Skies” by M. Cornelius/Shutterstock; “Magenta Coloured Fireweed” by MountainHardcore/Shutterstock; “Red Silk Banner Collection Isolated on White Background” by Elena Schweitzer/Shutterstock.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.
Table of Contents
SKY HIGH
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Other Titles
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Chapter 1
The thrum of the propeller beat out a rapid rhythm that, combined with the roar of the motor, was deafeningly loud in the cockpit. But the noise, dampened by the headset Mason wore, was the sweetest sound in the world as far as he was concerned. For Mason, flying was as much a part of his life as breathing. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do, and now he had a chance to build his life around it.
And he had his own plane.
It was a far cry from the larger, more advanced aircraft Mason had spent the past few years flying. In comparison, the deHavilland Beaver was a dinosaur. The interior was rudimentary and well-worn. The two seats in the cockpit were narrow and hard, and there were only a handful of instruments to guide him in flight. But the fuselage was good-sized, with room for a few passengers and cargo. Compared to a Super Cub, preferred by some bush pilots, the Beaver was downright spacious. From propeller to tail, it was nearly 30 feet long. With a little maintenance and some upgrades, the plane would be perfect for building a small business in a remote bush community.
Checking the gauges, Mason reached up and turned a small knob overhead. He didn’t turn it much. A minor adjustment was all it needed, he decided, turning his attention back to the aging instrument panel.
The air was cold at 8,000 feet, cold enough for it to seep through the thin skin of the single-engine aircraft as easily as water through a sieve. But the chill didn’t bother Mason. He liked the frosty bite of the air at this altitude, as well as the fact that he could feel it.
Behind Mason, lay a sleeping Saint Bernard. She didn’t mind the cold, either.
Remembering she was there with him, Mason reached down and lightly patted Bernie’s head. Content, her head rested between the two seats of the cockpit, as close as she could get to her human companion. She was a 125-pound hulk of muscle and fur, snoring so loud Mason could occasionally hear it over the hum of the prop engine. With each exhale, her jowls jiggled as the air forced its way out. Her feet twitched and her lips curled up in a snarl. She was dreaming, chasing something.
The two were still getting to know one another and, even though he sometimes forgot she was around, Mason was realizing he enjoyed having a pet. He found it comforting to have company on a flight, even if it was only a sleeping dog he’d inherited from his brother.
Bernie slept so soundly, she didn’t even notice the attention. Mason patted her one more time and returned his hand to the controls. He had a long ride ahead of him.
The trip down from Anchorage was lengthy, no matter what route he took. Thankfully, Mason had the option of flying in. The alternative would have been a 750-mile drive from Anchorage to Haines, by way of Canada. It would have involved two border crossings – a minor inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless. And in Haines, he would have had to board the Alaska Marine Highway for at least two ferry rides, covering more than 180 miles through the islands of Southeast Alaska.
It would have taken him days to get there if he hadn’t gotten lucky and found a good deal on a plane. Sure, it was an old bird, built more than half a century ago, but it was solid and reliable.
Still, even by air, the trip would take some time. It was a 500 mile flight in a cramped cockpit with little legroom for Mason’s six-foot-two frame. Not the most comfortable ride, especially for long distances.
Shortly past the half-way mark, Mason made a stop in Yakutat to refuel and stretch his legs. For a plane of its size, the Beaver had a good fuel range, but not enough to make the trip non-stop from Anchorage to Heron. He’d been in the air for almost three hours when he touched down in Monti Bay, a safe haven from the rolling seas of the Gulf of Alaska.
The dog appreciated the stop. As soon as Mason opened the door, she bounded out of the plane, ran up the dock, and found a grassy area nearby.
Mason enjoyed the stop, too. It gave him a chance to stretch his legs and finish the half-eaten sandwich sitting on the dash of the cockpit.
He took his time refueling and then checking the plane over to see how well she was holding up. He’d flown her a few times, but this was the first real trip, and Mason was satisfied with how well she handled. More than satisfied, really. It was a great little plane.
He glanced over at the grassy area. Bernie was still there, sniffing around. Something on the ground smelled especially good, so she decided to take the smell with her. Dropping to the ground, she rolled over on to her back and rubbed her fur into the grass, absorbing the odor into her coat. Then she jumped back up and began sniffing some more, making sure she covered all of the old scents with her own.
Seeing she was content, Mason let her be for the moment. He suspected all those interesting scents would keep Bernie busy while he walked over to the convenience store to get a cup of coffee. He was right. When he returned, Bernie was exactly where he’d left her.
With the Beaver refueled, Mason called Bernie back. At the sound of his voice, she picked her head up and looked at him, but then stuck her nose back to the ground.
“Come on,” he said, more forcefully. This time, Bernie obeyed, but only because it was her own choice. She trotted back toward him at a relaxed pace. But when Mason opened the door to the plane, she plopped down onto the ground, refusing to climb back up into the cabin.
Mason looked at her sternly and grabbed her by the collar. With one foot on the dock and one on the pontoon of the plane, he picked the dog up and hoisted her into the cabin – not an easy feat with such a large dog, especially standing on a floating pontoon. Of course, Bernie fought him every step of the way. Once she was back inside, though, she went straight to her spot in the middle of the cabin and settled in for another long ride. She’d only been with Mason for a few weeks, but she already knew the drill.
A few minutes later, Mason climbed back into the pilot’s seat. Another 150 miles to go. At cruising speed, it would take a little more than an hour to reach Heron. It was a town most people had never heard of, tucked into
the shoreline of a deep inlet on an island along the outer edges of the Inside Passage. It was where Mason grew up.
Ten years. That’s how long he’d been gone.
Mason was 17 years old when his parents uprooted him and his younger brother, practically dragged them to Anchorage. Neither of them wanted to leave, but their mom and pop said they needed a change of pace. There were job opportunities, they said, and better schools for the boys. Mason knew there was more to it. Much more.
Coming from a town of 150 people, the realities of city living were difficult on Mason. Suddenly, he was surrounded by more than 250,000 people. It was a crime-filled city where neighbors didn’t care about each other, where it seemed like everyone was out for themselves.
At school, Mason felt more alone than he ever had in his life. There were so many other students, a sea of unfamiliar faces. Not sure what else to do, and with absolutely no friends, he immersed himself in his studies.
After high school, Mason joined the Air Force. It was what his pop expected, so that’s what Mason did. He became a pilot. He did one tour overseas, flying supplies in and out of the war zone. He loved flying, but he hated fighting. So as soon as he could, he got out.
At the time, he’d thought about moving back to Heron, but his family was in the city. So, he returned to Anchorage.
His mom and pop still lived in the two-bedroom bungalow they’d been renting for the past nine years, still working the same old jobs and playing cards every Friday night with another couple their age. His brother, on the other hand, was holed up in a small apartment above a bar near downtown.
While Mason was gone, he quickly learned, Dalton had changed. His brother, once an adventurous kid in line for a baseball scholarship, had turned into a petty thief and sometimes drug dealer who dabbled a little too deeply into the merchandise. It was a shock to the system to see Dalton in such a state, and Mason had to admit, he didn’t handle it well. Not well at all.
That’s why he was going back to Heron.
It wouldn’t be much longer now, he thought as the plane followed the coast of the Gulf of Alaska, heading southeast.
To his left, tall mountains rose up from the seashore, casting a jagged shadow across the coastline. Ancient glaciers, dirty white mixed with a shimmering pale blue, cut gashes between the mountains forming the western edges of Glacier Bay National Park.
To his right, there was nothing but ocean. Skies the color of a robin’s egg blended at the horizon with the deeper sapphire blue of the water, the change so subtle it was difficult to distinguish where the water ended and the sky began.
Mason glanced down at the GPS device mounted on the dash. He was right on track. His flight plan had taken him southeast from Anchorage to Yakutat, and now he was heading almost due south. Cross Sound lie directly ahead, a primary channel used by commercial fishing vessels to access the gulf. Beyond the sound was Chichagof Island… and Heron.
Heron wasn’t much by most people’s standards, but it was pure heaven as far as Mason was concerned. A group of extremely determined individuals founded the town more than a hundred years earlier on the edge of a harsh wilderness. It was close enough to the Gulf of Alaska to build an economy based on fishing, yet tucked deep enough into the inlet to protect the town from the rough seas and harsh weather. Heron never grew to more than a couple hundred inhabitants and the economic aspirations of those early settlers was never fully realized. But through the years, the good and the bad, the townspeople persevered. As a result, the town became a tight-knit community, where neighbors helped neighbors and everyone was a friend. If ever there was a time in Mason’s life when he needed friends and community, it was now.
With Cross Sound behind him, Mason followed the inlet south until he spotted the town nestled along the eastern shore. It sat under the shadow of a tall mountain, almost impossibly squeezed in between the steep mountain ridges and the tidal flats.
From the air, it looked exactly the same as he remembered it. The General Store, the largest building in town, sat on the northern edge of town. A string of houses and mom-and-pop lodges extended south along the tidal flats. Mason couldn’t believe ten years had passed since he’d last seen the waters of the inlet and the quaint little houses that hovered over the water, connected to each other by a long, wide boardwalk. Nothing had changed, except the houses looked more weather-worn.
The sight brought an instant smile to his face. It was the only place he’d ever considered home. All the time he’d spent in the Air Force dreaming of going home, the thought of his parents’ house in Anchorage never once entered his mind. It was always Heron. Always this little town by the sea. A town where there were no roads, where homes had docks instead of driveways, where the primary mode of transportation was either a skiff or a person’s own two feet.
Before the plane began its descent, the dog instinctively awoke. She had a knack for that. Whether they were driving down the road or flying cross country, she seemed to know when the trip was coming to a close.
Rolling over onto her side, she languorously stretched her legs and yawned. Then she stood up and rested her heavy head on Mason’s shoulder, sniffing at his ear to make sure she had his attention. Even though she couldn’t speak, Mason understood her. She was tired of flying, ready for the flight to be over.
Mason reached up and patted her head, rubbing behind her ear. She pushed forward and lightly licked his earlobe, asking for the ride to please be finished.
“Not much longer now, girl.”
As if she understood, Bernie sat down and turned to look out the window. She let out a loud sigh and glanced back at Mason, still skeptical.
A few minutes later, they descended toward the water. The pontoons on the bottom of the plane touched down north of town, skidding along the choppy surface until the plane began to slow. The waves slapped against the pontoons while the current of the inlet carried them along. They coasted past several buildings, before turning toward the shore.
Their destination was a small floating dock tucked between the marina and The General Store. Another float plane, a yellow one with a thick black stripe down the side, was already moored to the dock. On the pilot’s door the name Gus was painted in black script. Underneath, in larger block letters, were the words Heron Air-Taxi Service.
Mason steered the plane toward the opposite side of the dock and let it drift the rest of the way. When he felt the pontoons lightly bump the edge of the dock, he cut the engine. Then he turned the latch on the door and swung it open.
A cool breeze wafted across the inlet, bringing with it the scent of fish and salt water. The temperature was perfect. Mid-40s. Exactly the way an October afternoon should feel. Dried, fallen leaves rustled as they blew across the floating wooden platform. Soft waves lapped at the pontoons, gently pushing them against the old tires lining the edge of the dock.
Gus stood there, waiting for Mason as he stepped down out of the plane. He closed the door behind him, locking rambunctious Bernie inside for the time being.
“Look at you.” Gus grinned. “All grown up,” he added, grabbing Mason’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. He was a squat man with a red face, a balding head, and a friendly smile. Mason didn’t remember him being quite so pudgy, but then again, a lot of years had passed.
Gus craned his neck around, looking past Mason at the plane.
“Bring anyone with you? A wife? A family?”
“Not exactly.” Mason turned, then, and opened the door to the cabin of the plane. “Come on, Bernie.”
The dog leaped down onto the dock, her tail wagging so ferociously her butt wiggled in unison. She saw Gus right away. In her excitement, she jumped up and pressed her huge paws onto his chest. Before he knew what was happening, a big wet tongue lashed out at his face, covering him in slobber.
“Down.” Mason’s voice was strong, commanding. But Bernie didn’t care. She slapped another kiss on Gus as he laughed.
“Sorry,” Mason said, grabbing the dog by the collar
and pulling her off the older man. Bernie struggled for a few seconds, determined to slather more kisses on the stranger, but she quickly forgot about Gus when she spotted another dog. In an instant, she took off. Her tongue hung out the side of her mouth, flapping up and down as she ran after the other dog. “We’re still working on the whole obedience thing. I guess Dalton never taught her anything. She thinks she’s in charge.”
“By the looks of it, she’s right,” Gus said. Then, more sympathetically, he added, “I sure was sorry to hear about Dalton.”
How many times had Mason heard that, now? Two months had passed since Dalton’s death. In those two months, almost everyone he knew had said those exact words or a minor variation of them. Each time, he still didn’t know how to reply.
“Thanks,” he said, for lack of a better response.
Then Mason looked away. He turned and grabbed a duffel bag off the plane so Gus wouldn’t see the pain in his eyes. No matter how long it had been, no matter how many people had told him it wasn’t his fault, Mason still couldn’t get over the role he’d played in his brother’s death.
If only Mason had been there for Dalton to keep him on the right path. But he wasn’t. He was thousands of miles away, barely keeping in touch with his family. Then, when he finally returned to Anchorage and realized what Dalton had become, it had disgusted him. Mason couldn’t figure out how two brothers, with the same upbringing, could turn out so different.
Mason could still remember the stench in the apartment when he’d gone to check on Dalton. Urine, smoke, and something else he couldn’t identify. The odor overwhelmed his senses, but the sight of Dalton absolutely revolted him.
He’d only gone there because his mother asked him to. Otherwise, Mason wouldn’t have bothered. But he did as he was told and brought over some food – a pie and leftover fried chicken.
He found Dalton well into a three-day binge. Mason saw the state Dalton was in, but he didn’t do anything about it. He simply walked away, disgusted at the addict his brother had become.
Sky High (Alaskan Frontier Romance Book 2) Page 1
