MICK FIRED UP the Huey, the breaking dawn gave no indication that the weather wouldn’t be a repeat of the previous day. Streaks of purple, pink and gold edged out the deep gray of a rapidly fading night. And there was little, if any, wind.
The thrill of the promised flight lifted his spirits, even if he’d rather be flying a navy jet than this lumbering chopper. Wingman sat in his makeshift harness, one ear perked up. Mick grinned at the dog and could swear the mutt grinned back. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” Mick called. The dog raised his head and barked.
As he lifted off, Mick stopped admiring the breaking day and listened carefully for any sign of wobble in the rotors. He much preferred flying fixedwing planes like the Arrow or the Seneca. He’d bought the chopper at an auction to entice his sister back home to Montana from San Diego. She’d flown helicopters in the navy. But if he’d known she was going to meet Wylie Ames, fall in love, and marry the guy within a year of moving back, Mick might have passed on buying the Huey. Except that it’d come in handy on several occasions during his volunteer missions for Angel Fleet. He was getting so he could land the chopper just about anywhere except in heavily treed terrain. For as fast as Montana was being built up, there was still a lot of wilderness left, thank goodness. And like Marlee claimed, the Huey was a reliable workhorse.
He’d been in the air a little under an hour when he spotted the main ranger layout below. Mick had realized yesterday that the supplies he’d picked up for Trudy Morgenthal were mostly for the weekend ranger barbecue, or potluck, whatever they were calling it. He had cartons of paper cups, paper plates, napkins. Trudy had ordered staples to get them through a winter during which no one traveled easily in this part of Glacier Park except by snowshoes or snowmobile.
He landed near the park’s two smaller helicopters. Wingman got antsy waiting for the rotors to stop. Mick saw why. They were being greeted by the house dogs, a German shepherd and a good-size collie. Mick released his dog but attached a leash to his collar.
Trudy hurried down the path that led to the buildings. From her hand motions, Mick deduced that she intended to pen her dogs. He waited to open the door until she’d disappeared again.
“I know, buddy, you’re disappointed to lose playmates. But maybe those dogs aren’t as friendly as you. Come on. I’ll walk you into the woods to do your business. Then you’ll have to stay in the chopper while I unload Morgenthal’s order.”
Trudy reappeared about the time Mick returned to the clearing. “Where should I stack all the boxes?” he asked.
“My husband and sons and our other rangers are making sure all of the campers have left. They’ll be closing this end of the park and putting up chains across the entry roads until next season. Would it be a terrible imposition if I asked you to carry the paper goods to the canopy we’ve set up for the potluck? Put everything else on the porch. I don’t want you rein-juring your leg. Wylie told us about your surgery. In a way, that was his good fortune. Otherwise he wouldn’t have met your sister.”
“Wylie’s right. Marlee never would’ve taken over my cargo route if I hadn’t been laid up. It’s no problem moving your stuff, Trudy. I have a hand truck I can load boxes on.”
Trudy talked incessantly as Mick loaded up cartons and trucked them around. He would’ve told her he’d see her the next day, as he’d been invited to the potluck, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Phew, Wingman,” Mick said after he’d buckled himself back in his seat. “That woman could talk the ears off a mule. I suppose she gets lonely stuck out here with her husband out tending the park.”
He slipped on his earphones and promptly turned his thoughts to his next delivery. Mick wondered if he’d see Hana Egan this trip. A new kind of excitement rose in him, different from the thrill he got from flying. A month ago when he’d delivered the bulk of the winter supplies to Captain Martin, who lived year-round at the smoke jumpers’ camp, Mick had managed a few words with Hana. She wasn’t real talkative, and sometimes he had to cajole information out of her. She’d said she’d be going home to California soon.
As he rose above the stand of timber marking the northernmost park entrance, Mick considered how little he knew about Hana. He knew he was drawn by her red-gold curls that snapped to life when she stood bareheaded in the sun. He liked the freckles dusted across her nose. Mick probably thought too much about kissing her shapely mouth, since odds of that happening weren’t high. He’d never seen her wear lipstick. Of all her attributes, Mick found Hana’s eyes to be her most arresting feature. Given her coloring, a person might expect her to have blue or green eyes, but hers were…gold. Whiskey gold. He’d spoken with her enough to decide that her eyes reflected her every emotion.
Time passed quickly. The smoke jumpers’ camp sat halfway between the ranger station and his sister’s house. The place looked pretty deserted. He recognized Leonard Martin’s battered Ford diesel truck, and the assistant’s slightly newer SUV. The Jeep belonged to Jess Hargitay. As a rule, smoke jumpers flew in from various camps during times of fire. But Jess drove in. This station was the seasonal home to maybe six men and women. And the season was at an end, Mick lamented as he landed.
Heck, maybe he’d find out where Hana lived in California. He’d been thinking of island vacations, but California had plenty of white sandy beaches.
He repeated the process he’d gone through at the ranger station. He let the rotors stop fully before he leashed Wingman and the two of them climbed out.
“Hi, Mick.”
Hana Egan’s sweet voice had him spinning too fast on his fancy titanium hip. Mick felt a deep pain buckle his newly healed muscles. A blistering swear word escaped before he could check himself. He dropped Wingman’s leash when he was forced to grab the upright strut on the landing skid to keep from toppling.
The petite woman was quick on her feet. She scooped up the fleeing dog’s leather leash. “I didn’t mean to surprise you, Mick. Are you okay?” Those whiskey gold eyes Mick had so recently been thinking about turned dusky with concern.
“I’m fine,” he growled. The last thing he wanted was for Hana to judge him a lesser man than Jess Hargitay, who was swaggering toward them. Smoke jumpers tended to be agile, tough and have a penchant for danger.
“You don’t act fine,” she said. “Why can’t men ever admit to any shortcomings?”
He tried to discreetly knead the kink out of the long muscle that ran down his thigh. He hadn’t limped in a month, but he limped now as he crossed the space between them and relieved her of Wingman’s leash. “I wouldn’t touch that comment with rubber gloves, Hana. Suffice it to say, must be a guy thing. But I can’t answer for all men.” He looped the dog’s leash through a cross tube at the rear of the landing skid. “I probably need to ask Jess where he wants me to stack his supplies.” Still smarting from her words—and the cramp in his leg—Mick lowered his chin in dismissal and started to walk around her.
“Hold on.” She touched his hand, then abruptly pulled back. “I saw you dropping down to land, and I hurried over here to catch you before anyone else butts in. I wanted to tell you goodbye, Mick.”
“You’re taking off for home today, then?” He halted in his tracks and idly rubbed at his hand, still feeling the rasp of her surprisingly callused palm. Although, considering the job she did, Mick didn’t know why he’d be shocked to find her hand wasn’t nearly as soft as it looked.
“As soon as six of us finish climbing Mt. St. Nicholas, we’ll split up and go our separate ways.”
