“And how high was that horse you rode in on?”
“At least ten feet tall.” I should have treated the dog and brought her here, and then relayed Harry’s claim to the ITC and let them take over. I overstepped boundaries, allowing my anger to cloud my judgment. And if what Tyler told me is true, and he is rescuing—and treating—a wandering old dog that will be of little use to him, then maybe he isn’t so bad after all.
“Did you at least apologize to him?”
I give Dad a look.
“You know, sometimes you have too much of your old man’s pride. I wish you’d taken more after your mother.”
“Mom would have told him off.” Especially if he displayed that smug smile.
“Probably.” He scratches his chin in thought. “But you’ll likely be crossing paths with him at the checkpoint when he rolls in with his team, so maybe you should consider going out there and smoothing the waters. It’s better to be on good terms than the ones you left on.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t settle well with me. “Just the thought of going back out there makes my blood pressure spike.”
Dad gets that twinkle in his eye. “Hey, well, if you have to go to the doctor about that, make sure you bring a red crayon.”
I groan, my voice monotone as I deliver his corny punch line, “So she can draw my blood?”
He chuckles. “I guess I’ve told you that one already, huh?”
*
“Suck it up, Marie.” I take a deep, calming breath as my truck comes to a sliding stop at the end of the driveway. The sky is murky with no mountain range in sight. Today’s forecast is calling for upward of eleven inches of snow beginning this afternoon, but already, large flakes float through the air.
I spent the entire night and morning mentally preparing myself to face Tyler Brady again, but the farm gate blocks any hope of passage, a new chain hanging from the post.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” It’s a relief, though, because it means I don’t have to face him in person.
I slide out of the driver’s seat, the handwritten note that took me four attempts held tight in my mitten so as not to blow away with the breeze. It was a “just in case the gate is closed” letter, but also a way of sorting through my thoughts before I said them out loud. I’m not sure if any of those thoughts could be called an apology, exactly. More like a truce, with mention of how healthy his sled dogs looked while running yesterday. Either way, it’s the right thing to do. I’ll feel better after delivering this small olive branch.
My hand is on the door to the mailbox when I spot a new sign mounted on a tree just below the bright yellow No Trespassing warning—a large rectangular piece of plywood with fluorescent orange spray-painted letters that reads, “No Crusaders.”
“Oh, you child.” My cheeks burn as I march back to my truck, the note crumpled in my fist. I toss it to the floor of my passenger seat, throw my truck in drive, and pull away.
CHAPTER FOUR
March
The evergreen branches sag beneath the layer of freshly fallen snow as I coast up the driveway. Jonah’s hangar looms on my left, but Archie, his orange-and-white Piper, is already on the private airstrip, waiting for takeoff.
Jonah crouches in front, inspecting one of the skis. He’s wearing navy arctic overalls to keep his lower half warm while his parka hangs over the open cockpit door.
My heart squeezes as it does every time I see him, in that split second before I take a deep breath and remind myself that it wasn’t meant to be, that I’m happy for him.
Thankfully, as the months go by and reality settles in, the sadness isn’t so much a deep ache as a dull and lingering disappointment. I’m waiting for the day that fades, too. That’s when I’ll feel like I’ve truly moved on.
I hop out of my truck and holler, “Wishing you were back in Hawaii yet?” I’ve only seen him once and briefly, right when he and Calla returned a month ago. The deep golden tan he was sporting is long gone, leaving him with his typical olive complexion.
“When I can be flying bales of straw and pork belly around Alaska instead? You kidding me?”
I laugh as my boots sink into the snow. He meets me halfway, enveloping me against his broad, warm chest and a soft flannel shirt that smells like Irish Spring soap. His stylish beard could use a trim, but it’s nowhere near the blond bush of pre-Calla days. Sometimes I miss it.
“How the hell did you rope me into doing this again, Marie?”
I savor his warmth for only a second—he runs hotter than the average human—and then I pull away, hyperaware that anything longer might be construed as beyond friendly on my part. “Because it’s winter, you’re bored, and frankly, it’s really easy to rope you into anything to do with flying.”