by Amy Lane
And that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Preston laughed, freely and happily, finally convinced he’d gotten the joke.
THEY came in for a landing in the state of Nayarit, near a tiny town called Las Varas. The land in this area was mostly arable, and the climate was easing into the tropical weather of Jalisco. Just humid enough to drive Preston bugshit. When Preston asked why they weren’t landing in the state of Jalisco itself, Damien said there were a couple of reasons.
The first was that the area had just suffered an earthquake—most of the airports, even the private ones, were taken up with planes bringing supplies and aid to the population, and since he hadn’t been invited, he didn’t want to get in the way of rescue operations that had already been organized.
The second was that Glen had landed the helicopter on Buddy’s strip in Las Varas, and sure enough, they could see it to the side of the one hangar in the teeny, privately owned airport as they landed. Buddy owned the landing strip and knew pretty much everything that went on in his little corner of the world.
The third reason was that Glen’s satellite phone had indicated he’d been heading toward Jalisco, but over the mountains and inland—which, according to Damien, was a crazy goddamned thing to do.
“There’s nothing there!” he complained. “A couple of outlying towns and farmsteads before you hit the mountains. And some seriously shitty terrain. It’s a long goddamned way to get to Guadalajara or Lake Chapala is what it is, and I don’t know why he’d go there!”
“Well, maybe the person he was sent to fetch wanted to go there,” Preston said. “Glen’s not the only one who matters.”
Damien’s eyes went narrow, and he stared at Preston like he was trying to fathom if Preston meant something or not.
Preston stared back at him guilelessly, thinking that if Damien didn’t realize he was talking about both Damien and Glen, Damien was avoiding his point on purpose.
“Are you trying to make me crazy?” Damien asked with deep suspicion, and Preston thought about it.
“No. I don’t want you crazy. I want you to agree with me. They’re not the same thing, Damien.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Damien muttered, and then he picked up the radio and called in to Buddy at the control tower, and Preston didn’t get to ask him what he meant.
The plane touched down, not quite as smoothly as last time, but Damien was scowling and moving his mouth like he was practicing what he wanted to say to Preston at some time in the future. This cheered Preston greatly—it was almost like Damien’s old landings, where the plane fishtailed a little because Damien was so excited to get to where they were going so he could get up in the air again.
Once they landed, Preston and Preacher got out to do their thing, and Damien walked toward the squat little building with the twelve satellite dishes that served as the control tower.
“I’m going to talk to Buddy,” he muttered. “Don’t go far. And remember, Buddy keeps his horses in the west field, so maybe don’t wander over there.”
This was a private airfield. Preston had landed here with Glen and Damien before when they’d looked for that missing hiker who’d twisted his ankle in the mountains. He remembered, but he didn’t understand. The pastures he got—open pastureland made up 80 percent of his own land, with little copses of trees by the irrigation ditch and the buildings making up the other 20 percent, and it was the same here. The terrain was a little hotter and a little more humid than Napa, but that just meant the grass was slightly greener in the summer. This part of Nayarit sat at the base of the low range of mountains, and they stood, stark against the sky in the distance, but Preston wasn’t really interested in the view.
It wasn’t home; that’s all that mattered.
Also, there were the giant conundrums running all over the acreage that he would never understand.
Horses. Why anybody would want to keep horses.
“Let me run Preacher some,” he said, “then tell me where we need to put the supplies.”
The scorched grasses of the pastureland were rough on Preacher’s feet, so he stuck to the dirt road, but it was late in the day in the summer, so they didn’t run long. When he got back to the tower, he found Damien and Buddy at a desk in the corner. At the main desk, a guy in a sweat-soaked T-shirt worked the microphone in Spanish while he kept his eyes on the old-school electronic air maps.
“I know it doesn’t look like it,” Buddy was saying, mopping his brow with a battered bandana, “but it’s rush hour up there. Every recreational pilot at El Chapala wants an excuse to bring supplies and be a hero, but none of them have the balls to land in a field that doesn’t have a full concrete runway.” Buddy was probably in his fifties, but his hair was a salt-and-pepper froth peeping out from under his wide-brimmed fisherman hat, and his skin was tanned so leathery it was hard to tell if he was originally fair skinned or bronze. It didn’t matter—his opinions of the rich ex-pats who gathered by Lake Chapala was obviously not elevated.
“Well, we actually have supplies,” Damien replied. “Glen told us to bring them, but he didn’t tell us where. Do you have any idea where he was going?”
Buddy took off his hat and scratched the bald crown of his head, his smile showing a couple of missing teeth and some goodwill. “Well, I don’t know where Glen thought he was going, but that kid he was chasing down was planning to go here.”
He stabbed a stubby finger at a spot on the map so small Damien had to move a big polished glass magnifier over it. “Agujero en la Roca,” he read, frowning. “Hole in the Rock? Is that even a town?”
Buddy grimaced. “Well, yes and no. I mean, there’s people there, and a church, and one of the best bakeries in Nayarit or Jalisco, but I’m not sure if you’d call it a town.”
“God, it’s overland up the mountains. I don’t even think the road goes that way. Do you think I could take the chopper?”
Buddy shook his head. “You could, but you’d need help spotting a place to land it. Frankly, once you hit the tree line, you could fly over a couple of places like la Roca and miss them. You can come up the other side of the mountains, but you’d have to go through Guadalajara, and they’re a wasp nest right now, with rescue workers and earthquake damage. Besides, all the emergency vehicles are in Guadalajara for that exact reason.”
“Well, how did Glen go there?” Damien said, looking at Preston like he was looking for help.
Preston shrugged. He had no idea either.
“Well, Glen took a motorcycle up the mountain trail to head the kid off—you remember he kept that little two-stroke in the garage? But the kid bought a half-dead horse from some asshole in town who thinks you can keep a horse on a quarter acre of property. So I’m not sure how far the kid got, but that was yesterday morning, and I haven’t heard from either of them.”
“We heard from them this morning,” Damien muttered. “Glen said to bring supplies. Dammit, there’s got to be a place to land the chopper.”
Buddy shrugged. “I wouldn’t count on it. Is the thing prepped for evac?”
Damien rolled his eyes. “Does it look like the Black Hawk?”
Preston knew that an air-to-ground evacuation was a tricky business that included carabiners and equipment belts and lifts. He’d seen Damien fly a helicopter while Glen lowered a basket so they could strap a found hiker into the basket and fly him to safety. But an injured person needed care, and setting the basket down gently required people on the other end to guide it down and usually on top of a gurney. There was very little at this tiny airfield that indicated Damien could just fly the chopper two hundred miles and lower a rope.
“We can’t go two hundred miles through the mountains on horseback,” Damien muttered. “That would take three days minimum—longer if we didn’t want to beat the hell out of the horses. And we’d need three horses at least to carry the gear.”
“Naw, one extra horse. I’ve got an all-terrain travois, built it myself. And we can trailer the horses the fi
rst two-thirds of the way up the trail. If nothing else, we might pass your brother and that kid out on the road.”
“What in the fuck was that kid doing, anyway?” Damien muttered.
“Well, he seemed pretty upset about the town. I gathered he knew somebody there, and there’d been some damage, but there was a lot of him and Glen shouting at each other, and then Glen woke up yesterday morning and the kid had taken off.”
Damien’s eyes popped open. “I’m assuming Glen packed bungee cord, rope, and handcuffs for when they caught up with each other.” Their client was paying a lot to make sure Cash Harper got home.
“I’m pretty sure he was packing a tranq gun, truth to tell,” Buddy said, cackling. “I tell you what, I have never seen Glen Echo so stirred up. That kid’s giving him hell or I can’t read signs.” He smiled genially at Preston and added, “And I can read signs.”
Preston smiled back, thinking Damien must have told Buddy what they’d been talking about on the flight out. “I’m being perfectly reasonable.” He was certain of it.
“I’m sure you are, boy. And it’s about goddamned time.”
“You’re both insane,” Damien muttered. “So will we be ready to move in an hour?”
Buddy shook his head. “Did you or did you not see that storm front following you in?”
Damien swore. “It looked like a doozy too.”
“Our Doppler says it’s clearing out tomorrow morning. Give it an hour, to make sure the flooding in the road’s gone down and any mudslides have had their say. I’ll have the horse trailer ready around eightish.”
“You got a cot in the hangar?” Damien asked, looking at Preston unhappily.
“No.” Buddy rolled his eyes. “There’s a perfectly good hotel not five miles down the road. I’ll take you once I get Miguel situated. He needs a good hour break to let his brain stop buzzing with all that chatter. You fellas unload the supplies into the hangar and gather your stuff. Meet me at the truck after Miguel’s break and you can rest up. Tomorrow’s gonna be a doozy of a day.”
“Horses,” Preston said, his disappointment in life’s workings acute. “It’s really gotta be horses?”
“Sorry, man,” Damien said sincerely. “But don’t worry. I know one end from another.”
Buddy snickered. “You should. You act like the ass end often enough.”
Damien scowled at him. “How long have you been married? Because you can’t be paying her enough to stick with that shit.”
Buddy chortled. “You think you’re so smart. Wait until I bring you dinner. Martha adores you, but she doesn’t let anyone talk shit about me.”
“I have no idea why.”
Buddy just laughed some more and sent Damien and Preston to take care of the plane.
Secret Nights
MARTHA came by right after they’d finished unloading and refueling the Cessna, and Damien embraced her happily. As beautiful as her husband was homely, Martha was still comfortably middle-aged, with enough softness on her body to make hugging her a joy.
Damien’s words about his parents had been the truest things he’d said in a while—his mother was all sharp angles and cheekbones, and his father was hard muscle with zero compromise. Hugging women like Martha and Belinda gave him back something from his childhood that he apparently had missed.
She brought with her a plate of beans, rice, and corn tortillas—simple but filling and tasty—and Preston and Damien were grateful beyond words.
“So awesome not having to find a place to eat,” Damien said, wiping his mouth as they ate standing up. “Thank you.”
“Well, you’re going to need your rest,” Martha said in slightly accented English. Damien spoke English, Spanish, French, some Farsi, and some Japanese, but it always took him a little while of listening to people speak before he adapted to the regional differences in a language versus the perfect schoolroom intonations. Talking to Martha tonight would help him talk to perfect strangers in their native tongue in the morning.
“How bad is the damage, have you heard?” Damien knew that if they were taking Buddy’s horses, they would be strong and sure-footed Arabian crosses. Buddy bred for endurance and temperament—they might not be the most beautiful creatures in the world, but they would get a rider where he needed to go.
“Reports of rock slides almost all the way across the mountains,” Martha told him. “The mountains aren’t that high up, but it still makes for difficult going. And with the storm washing in tonight, it’s going to be even more dangerous—the mountains are soft here, and flash floods happen. It might take you more than just tomorrow. I see bedrolls there. Did you bring a tent too?”
Damien shook his head. “No room, not if we’re bringing supplies to the village—and for us. I’ve been caught out with no supplies before. Don’t want to do that again.”
He’d meant for Martha to laugh, but she only looked concerned. “That was rough,” she said softly. “Glen told us how close a thing it was—how very lucky you and your friends were.”
“Luck only got us so far,” Damien said frankly. “If Tevyn and Mallory hadn’t been resourceful, I would have died up there. They spent an entire day boiling snow so they could keep a poultice going. I would have gone into sepsis without it.”
Preston gasped, and Damien glanced at him, surprised to see his eyes as big as saucers.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Preston said. “You talk a lot about them saving your life, but you never tell me how.”
Damien shrugged. “Well, besides building a fire and keeping the wound clean and me hydrated, they also took me with them when they decided to go down the mountain. I mean they dragged me across the snow until we decided to try that airplane wing as a sled.”
“They’re very good friends,” Martha said soothingly. She looked at Preston. “Did you doubt it?”
Preston shook his head, his eyes staying low, and Damien wondered what he was thinking.
Martha winked at Damien and took his napkin from him, then collected Preston’s. “You two are done?”
“Yes, Martha,” Preston said, eyes still downcast. “Thank you.”
“I think Buddy is going to take you to the hotel. Preston, can you and Preacher ride in the truck bed?”
Preston’s head came up, and he flashed a relieved smile at her. “Oh, yes. As long as you don’t go too fast, Preacher will be so happy not to get inside a vehicle again today.” Preston didn’t do great in the heat—his body wasn’t great at self-regulation, and since Buddy’s truck didn’t have air-conditioning, it would be cooler in the back. Damien also knew that the whooshing of the air in the back of the truck actually calmed him down if he got overstimulated.
Martha laughed delightedly and left, taking what was left of the meal to Buddy and telling them to grab their duffel and get into the truck while she went.
“What was that look?” Damien asked. “When I was talking about being on the mountain.”
“You don’t give me any details,” Preston muttered. “You keep telling me they saved your life, but you don’t tell me how they actually saved your life. I didn’t know Tevyn almost died getting the first aid kit until today. I certainly didn’t know they cooked your leg until the fever broke.”
Damien shrugged. “I wasn’t really conscious for a lot of that,” he admitted. “I was sort of in and out. But the doctors said it saved my life. But why does it matter? I don’t get the grudge you’ve been carrying against Mal and Tevyn anyway. They didn’t desert me—they left me with you and your brother.”
“I wanted to be the one to save you,” Preston said, his scowl suggesting this was something he hadn’t wanted to admit. “And I couldn’t. I don’t have much to give you, but saving you, that would have been something.”
Damien frowned, trying to follow his logic. “But Preston, you weren’t going to be up on that mountain. We can’t be there all the time for each other. You spend entire weeks away on training missions with your dogs. Sometimes you just have to let the ot
her person out of your sight and hope!”
“But you… you smile for them. For both of them. Since the crash, they’re the only ones you smile for!”
Oh. Damien grimaced. “Mallory’s still afraid to fly,” he said, searching in his head for words. “It just… I felt like less of a loser. I had less to live up to, I guess. You and your brother, you… you expect me to be brave.”
“You’re always brave,” Preston said staunchly.
“Not with you.” It was a hard admission to make, and he wasn’t sure what he expected. Preston opened his mouth and then shut it again, and just when Damien thought the conversation was over, Preston finally found words.
“God, I wish it could have been me up there.”
“I’m so glad it wasn’t.” Damien closed his eyes. “If the infection hadn’t killed me, worrying about you would have. Besides, you were down on the bottom of the mountain looking for us, and you will never know how much that meant to me, to hear your voice when I was still strapped to the back of that sled.”
“I was so worried,” Preston said, holding out his hand and whistling for Preacher to jump into the pickup bed. Preacher actually backed up to get a running jump, and then sailed over the side of the pickup, no tailgate necessary. “Good boy, Preacher. Such a good boy. So smart.” Preston clicked his tongue, which was apparently Preacher’s notice that he could lick Preston’s face. One, two, three licks, and then Preston clicked again and Preacher went back to nuzzling. Damien was always so impressed—Preston and his dogs could practically read each other’s minds.
“I didn’t mean to make you worry.” Damien’s voice dropped, and for a moment he was mesmerized. Preston’s angelic face, for once relaxed and at peace, captured him. No scowling, no hyper-focused glare, no eyes in the distance. Just Preston, open and happy and soft.
Preston glanced at him and tilted his head. “What? What is that look?”
Damien swallowed against a sudden dryness in his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasped.
