K. Weiland - Storming

He put his hat back on and pulled the front brim down. “You mind what I said, miss. You decide you need help going home—or maybe just finding a decent job around here—you let me know.”

She nodded, but kept her gaze resolutely forward and refused to look Hitch in the eye.

Griff passed her and walked over to Hitch and Walter.

Hitch’s tongue itched with a demand to know what exactly Griff thought he was up to—riding in here on his white horse and acting like Jael needed saving. But he swallowed it back.

“Come for a ride?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Then what? Trying to lure away my wing walker?”

Griff was breathing a little harder than he needed to be. Every muscle in his body was tight. “You think she’s like you, but she’s not. She doesn’t belong out here, and you know it.”

That depended on what Griff meant by “out here.” She had seemed a lot more comfortable at Nan’s farm, with all the kids around, then she did here at camp, hawking rides. But Griff hadn’t seen her in the air. Hitch had.

“She can make her own decisions, I reckon,” he said.

A muscle in Griff’s jaw hopped. He held Hitch’s gaze for so long it started to feel like one of the staring contests they’d had as boys to decide who got the apple with fewer worms.

All right, so Griff was still mad. More than that, he was determined to be mad, as if that was going to finally teach Hitch some important lesson. He looked about ready to pop, like if he didn’t say what he really had to say—if he didn’t just take an honest swing at Hitch and get it over with—he might explode right here and now.

But he didn’t say and he didn’t swing.

What he did do was finally look at Walter. “Does Nan know you’re out here?” His voice softened a bit.

Walter froze. He darted a glance between Hitch and Griff, then gave his head a tiny shake.

“Didn’t think so. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

The boy’s joy filtered out of him and puddled at his feet.

It was partially Hitch’s fault. He probably should have sent the kid home right from the start, before he could get found out. But what was wrong with letting him have one perfect day?

Griff laid a hand on Walter’s shoulders and started to guide him away.

Walter stopped short and turned back to Hitch. He stuck out his hand in what could only be a heartfelt thank-you.

Hitch dropped to one knee and gave the hand a firm shake. “Tell you what. Why don’t you take Taos along with you, play with him for the rest of the day. Jael can bring him back out tomorrow for the show. Or maybe you can talk your whole family into coming.”

Some of the joy sprang back. Walter nodded and patted both thighs to call Taos. The dog leapt after him without even a glance at Hitch.

That guilty look burned a little deeper in Griff’s face, and he clenched his jaw harder. But he didn’t look any more prepared to tell the boy no than Hitch had been earlier.

Griff pointed Walter toward his motorcar, then turned back to Hitch. “Nan doesn’t want him out here.”

Hitch shrugged as he stood up. “All right.”

Griff held his gaze for another second or two, then nodded and started after Walter.

And that was that. No mention of their chat the other day. No grin and slap on the shoulder. No indication anything had changed in the slightest. Hitch watched until they reached the car.

Doggone his stiff-necked, stubborn brother anyway. Yeah, Hitch had messed up—and he was sorry for it. But they couldn’t go on like this forever. If Griff couldn’t find it in himself to forgive him within the next couple of days, then, depending on how things went with Campbell, it could be another nine years before they saw each other again.

Hitch huffed and turned to find Jael.

She had hightailed it over to one of Livingstone’s red-white-and-blue planes and was crouched beneath the engine, picking up tools—Earl’s tools from the looks of them. She must have borrowed them. The pilot wasn’t in sight. She kept her head down and refused to look at Hitch as he ambled over.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Her head remained resolutely bent. Tawny strands of loose hair slipped past her ears and covered a little of the heat still on her cheeks. “The matter with me is nothing.”

“Sure, it is.” Had she been as embarrassed as all that by Griff’s questions about what she was doing out here with Hitch? He pocketed his hands and leaned back against the fuselage. “Griff get to you, did he?”

“No.”

Or maybe that clean-cut appeal of his was working on her. “C’mon. I know he’s charming.” He put on a grin. “It runs in the family.”

She glared. “He likes to be bossing of people. That is also running in your family.” She rolled the tools into a strip of canvas and stood up, nose in the air.

He couldn’t help a laugh. “Wait. Wait, I’m sorry.” He took her elbow and pulled her back. “Listen, there’s something I want to ask you.”

She shrugged him off but stayed put.

“Your pendant. Walter said something, and I got to thinking about it. There’s more to it than what you did with the lightning, isn’t there? You said that was just something you and Nestor were experimenting with. So what’s it really do? Am I just imagining things, or is there some sort of connection between it and Schturming ?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Maybe there’s some way you can use it to find Schturming_—or even guide _Schturming back to you. Is there?”

She cocked her head, thinking. Then slowly, her eyes narrowed and her face got even redder. “You are thinking again that I am stupid.”

“What? No, I’m not.”

“Then you have all seriousness in asking me to pull more lightning onto my head?”

“Yes, more lightning.” He kept a straight face. “We Groundsmen believe women as ornery as you must be hit by lightning at least once a week.”

She gave him a deadpan stare, then turned and walked off.

He laughed again. “Oh, c’mon, you know I didn’t mean it. I’m trying to help you get home.”

“And to help yourself to impress Bonney Livingstone.”

He followed. “Ye-es, that sure wouldn’t hurt anything. How about we ask Earl about it? Maybe he’ll know a way to jimmy the magnetic waves or whatever it runs on.”

She kept right on going.

Was this about him, about Griff, or about the pendant? None of it seemed quite worth all this cold-shouldering and hoity-toitying, however amusing.

When a woman was upset for no good reason, the only thing you could do was either get mad right back—or laugh and let her be mad on her own until she got over it. And, anyway, she was so downright cute stomping around like this, it was hard not to laugh. Poking a badger with a stick was never a good idea, but it was irresistible sometimes.

He jogged to get in front of her, then turned around and walked backwards. “Is this because I made you hold that sign—or because of what Griff said about you and me?”

“It is both maybe. Now go away.”

“Not until you come talk to Earl.”

“No.”

“Tsk. You leave me no alternative, kiddo.” He caught her waist with one arm and swiped her right off her feet.

She uttered a squeal and squirmed. “Put me down, you grubiy chelovek ! You are rudest man I have knowledge for!”

He lugged her, bent over in the crook of his arm like a naughty kid. “Considering you know that Zlo guy, that seems like pretty bad company.”

“You are bad! Now, put me down! Put me down !”

He shook his head. “First, you have to take back this grubby chel-vek stuff.”