Becky Avella - Crash Landing

One way or another, it was clear Deanna wouldn’t escape this fire season unscathed. Even if she didn’t physically lose anything, seeing her neighbors suffering like this hurt enough.

Her grandmother’s voice cut through her thoughts, snapping her focus back on more immediate concerns.

“How long do you plan to make the king of Kinakane wait for you?” Gram whispered.

Deanna’s gaze landed on the tall, broad-shouldered man in the leather easy chair by the front door. Her landlord removed his Stetson and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, obviously impatient with her. Deanna’s stomach knotted. It wasn’t just the smoke that choked her. She was stalling, and Blake Ransford wasn’t the waiting kind of man.

Blake might not be an actual king, but he really did own most of Kinakane. He could be overbearing, but he was her mentor, always quick to bail her out whenever she needed it. Because he was seven years older than she was, it had never occurred to Deanna that Blake might want anything more from their friendship. But last night in an unguarded moment, he’d confessed that he wanted much more than she did.

Hot coffee sloshed over the edge of the mug she held, scalding the back of her hand. “Ouch!” She dropped the cup, sending a sticky river across the counter.

Deanna waved her hand to cool it. Who wanted this hot of coffee in July, anyway? She reached for a clean mug to remake Sharon’s drink, but Gram’s soft, wrinkled hand on her arm stopped her.

“When are you going to get it through your thick head that you don’t have to do this all by yourself? Get going already.”

Deanna glanced at Blake. His confession had come out of left field. She didn’t know how to feel about it, but if she let him, he could help her.

When she laid her head on her pillow each night, the word bankruptcy echoed through her mind, stealing any hope of sleep. Now there were rumors of next month’s big rodeo being canceled. The whole town needed those tourist dollars, but without them Deanna would be finished. If there was no Roundup, she’d have to close The Hangar.

Blake had promised to give her some advice over lunch. Lunch was harmless enough, right? She’d just have to be honest with him.

“Fine,” she huffed and surrendered her mug to Gram.

Blake stood. “Ready?”

How could she make him see she was in survival mode? Every bit of energy went into finding a way to provide for her and Gram. To keep from failing. If she said these things to him, he’d only offer her money. That’s not what she wanted. She wanted to prove to herself and everyone else that she could make it on her own.

Besides, wasn’t the fire threat enough stress? Were they supposed to go on a date right now and pretend that those fires weren’t marching toward them?

She started to speak, but the little bell above the front door jangled in alarm. All eyes turned to watch a dark-haired cowboy rush inside. At the sight of him, Deanna’s face flushed and an old pang of guilt tightened her chest.

“Sean?”

He strode toward her, passing Blake without a second glance. Deanna’s mouth dropped open. Nobody ignored Blake like that.

No one except Sean Loomis, apparently.

Dressed for work in a black T-shirt and Wranglers, Sean didn’t look as if he’d taken any time to spit-shine himself for town like Blake had done. It looked instead like he’d left straight from horseback. His boots were still dusty and his hair was flat on top where a baseball cap must have sat minutes earlier.

“I need to hire a pilot,” Sean demanded. “It’s an emergency.”

Deanna closed her gaping mouth and pushed away the old high school memories. That was history; this was business.

He ran a hand through his raven hair and cocked an eyebrow. “Can you help me?”

Blake stepped beside Deanna and put a possessive hand on her elbow. “Actually, we were just leaving.”

Sean balled his fists, his lips a straight, hard line. “I’m trying to save a horse, Deanna. I thought if anyone would understand that, it would be you. I’ll pay you cash. More if you come with me right now.”

Deanna pulled her elbow free from Blake’s grip. She’d known Sean Loomis her whole life—they’d been in the same schools since kindergarten, had competed in rodeo and 4-H together—but she’d never known him to be this assertive. He looked different, too. Was he taller?

It wasn’t just inches. His baby face had been replaced with a more chiseled version. The Native American features he’d inherited from his father were more recognizable than ever. How had she missed this change? She must have been blind, because this was not the skinny loner she remembered riding bareback around the rodeo grounds in high school. This was a man on a mission.

“I think she made it clear that she’s not going anywhere with you today, Loomis,” Blake said. “Have you looked at the sky out there? How could you think of going up in those conditions?”

“Where are we flying?” Deanna asked. The fires were far enough away for her to fly legally as long as she didn’t get in the way of the fire crews. This was her business, not Blake’s, and she didn’t appreciate his acting so territorial.

“My ranch.” Sean’s shoulders slumped. “He’s a new stallion—I haven’t even had time to name him yet. I had him in the stables and somehow he got loose. Could have been a cougar or bear chased him up into the timberline. I’m not sure, but I’ve got to find him before the fire gets to my place, and I’m running out of time. Can you help me or not?”

Blake stood up to his full height and faced her, his arms crossed. His eyes were cold, more navy blue now than cobalt. She and Sean hadn’t bowed down to the king’s wishes. Blake couldn’t be used to that.

Deanna gnawed on her bottom lip again.

“Gram?” she called over her shoulder. “Can you cover for me?”

“Sure,” Gram said.

“Wait!” Blake grabbed Deanna’s arm as she passed by him. “I thought we were going to lunch.”

Deanna avoided looking into his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a paying customer.”

Then she followed Sean out the door without looking back.

* * *

“Are you going to survive, cowboy?”

Sean exhaled and relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the door handle. He gritted his teeth. “I’m okay.”

Sweat rolled down his spine. Deanna had the pilot-side window pushed open as far as it would go, and a small fan attached to the dashboard whirred at the heat. None of it did any good. It was hotter in the cramped cockpit than it had been on the ground. Shouldn’t it be cooler in the clouds?

The blue-and-white Cessna dipped suddenly, and Sean’s stomach nose-dived along with it. He glared at Deanna.

“Sorry.” Her melodic laughter rang through his headset. “You’re looking a little green, Sean.”

He shifted in his seat and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. He was a rough-stock rider. It was common for him to ride a bull, a saddle bronc and a bareback bronc all in one night of rodeo. And during Roundup every year, he competed in the Ridge to River Run, riding a mustang straight down the side of a sharp hillside. He knew how to manage fear. But soaring through the air in a machine that felt less substantial than a breath-mint tin? That was a whole new experience.

“Can’t be worse than riding a bull, can it?”

He looked down at the rugged, high desert valley below him. “Just a lot farther to fall off.” He’d barely finished his sentence before they dropped elevation again. He sucked air through his teeth and glanced sideways, studying Deanna.

She was dressed in faded jeans and a cotton blouse. Practical but feminine. Just his style. But what was new? Hadn’t Deanna Jackson always been just his style? It was the fact that he obviously wasn’t her style that had kept them apart.