Nadia Nichols - A Soldier's Pledge

“How much?”

“Hundred bucks.”

She took another sip of stale, bitter coffee. It was no better than the first. “Walt, that’s your second joke of the morning. You’re on a real roll.”

“Hundred fifty.”

“Two hundred fifty and a week off, paid, or I’m going back to bed and you can fly him out there yourself.”

Walt hesitated. “Hundred fifty and two days off if we get the heavy rains they’re predicting tonight. If not, you’ll have to keep flying the jumpers. I don’t have any other pilots right now, you know that, and you also know we need the money.”

Cameron tugged on the brim of her Gore-Tex ball cap and sighed in defeat. Walt’s expression instantly brightened. “Good. I’ve already loaded supplies that you can drop over to Frazier Lake after you get the Lone Ranger situated.”

“That’s wasn’t part of the bargain.”

“Mitch’s plane was overloaded with smoke jumpers. He didn’t have room for any provisions. Those jumpers have to eat, and you can swing over there easy as pie on the way home.”

“Easy as pie. Right.” She attempted another swallow of coffee and looked out the grimy window. The sky was brightening as the wind shifted and pushed the smoke to the west. The old red-and-white de Havilland Beaver tied to the dock rocked gently on small river swells. Cameron thought about the past four months, moving up here after an ugly divorce, living in a battered old house trailer two miles from the airstrip, flying as much as she could because when she was flying she could outrun her past, and if she flew fast enough and far enough, who knew? She might catch a glimpse of the future, and maybe it would look good.

“What’s the Lone Ranger’s name?” she asked.

* * *

THE WONDERFUL THING about the red-and-white Beaver, tail number DHC279, was the tremendous amount of noise it generated in midflight, that great big Wasp engine roaring away, metal rattling, wind whistling through all the cracks. The noise made conversation impossible, which suited Cameron right down to the ground. She had no desire to make small talk with clients when flying them to their destinations. She hid behind her sunglasses and liked to be alone with her thoughts. She never tired of studying the landscape, the rivers and lakes, the mountains and valleys, the wilderness that appeared so pristine, so untouched by human hands. This wild landscape was a balm to her spirit. She liked to daydream about building a cabin in this valley, or maybe that one, down where those two small rivers converged...or that next valley wasn’t bad, either; it had a natural meadow that would make a good garden spot.

And hey, was that a wolf down there? No, two wolves, trotting along the riverbank. The spotting of wildlife from the air never ceased to thrill her.

Her passenger made no attempt at conversation but seemed equally content to watch the world slip beneath the plane’s wings. The forest fire’s destruction was visible west toward the park. Thick plumes of smoke nearly obliterated the dark bank of clouds advancing from the south. If this front brought the promised rain, two intense weeks of flying smoke jumpers in and out of the park would come to a welcome end.

The plane touched down on the lake just past nine thirty after a one-and-a-half-hour flight. Cameron taxied toward the shore, cut the engine, popped her door open and climbed down onto the pontoon. When the bottom shallowed up, she lowered herself carefully into the water, well aware of how slippery the smooth stones could be underfoot. Bracing her heels, she caught hold of the wing rope to pivot the plane. A second rope hitched to the pontoon acted as a tether, and she hauled the back of the floats toward shore.

Her passenger opened the side door and climbed onto the pontoon, hauled his pack out of the door behind him, slung his rifle case over his shoulder and closed the door. He waded ashore with his pack and rifle case, and leaned both against a big round rock near the shore’s edge. She hadn’t noticed his limp when he was getting into the plane back at the village. She’d been too busy prepping the plane. He straightened, turned to look at her and took off his sunglasses. Good-looking man. Well built. Short military-style haircut. Squint lines at the corners of clear hazel eyes that had seen too much, maybe. Strong features. Early to mid-thirties. But there was something about him that made her uneasy. Not many chose to be dropped off alone in such a remote spot, with so little gear.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Cameron replied, hiding behind her shades. “My boss says you’re planning to follow this river out to the Mackenzie?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s rough going through there. Wild country. Going solo’s pretty risky, and what you’re carrying for gear isn’t much.”

“It’ll get me there.”

“Did you hurt your leg jumping out of the plane?”

“No,” he said.

The wind gusted, and the plane tugged at the tether rope like a balky horse. Cameron tugged back. “This is grizzly country. They can hang along the rivers like brown bears this time of year, and they can be territorial.”

He leaned against the rock, half sitting, and folded his arms across his chest.

“We’re the intruders here,” she continued. “A brown or grizzly will bluff charge. If you get into a Mexican standoff and the bear charges, wait until he crosses the point of no return. Chances are if you stand your ground he’ll stop twenty, thirty feet out or better. No need to shoot him. Of course, if it’s a sow with cubs, all bets are off.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

She felt a twinge of annoyance. Most guys enjoyed talking to her. Most guys actually came on to her. Something about young women pilots really got them all hot and horny. This one spoke politely, but she had the definite impression he just wanted her to go away. “Most people who get flown into this lake want to fish for char or canoe down the Wolf, or both. It’s a beautiful stretch of river. Not too many people know about it.” Why was she trying to make conversation with a man who didn’t want to talk? He’d brought a weapon. Clearly he understood about the bears. “What’s your contingency plan if you get into trouble, say you break your leg or something?”

“I have a GPS transmitter. When I reach the Mackenzie, I’ll request your flying service to pick me up.”

“You really think you can make that distance in eight days?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in case you don’t, we fly year-round. If you signal us six months from now, we’ll pick you up, and if you get into any trouble, I guess you know how to hit an SOS button.” Cameron flushed from the effort of anchoring the plane and making awkward conversation. “Well, it’s your party. I’ll leave you to it. Have a nice hike.”

She unfastened the tether from the pontoon, wrapped it neatly, climbed back into the cockpit, slammed her door harder than necessary, put on her safety harness and fired up the old Beaver. She taxied slowly back out into the lake, taking her time and casting frequent frowns toward the shore, where the man still leaned against the large smooth rock, watching her depart. This remote lake was large and deep enough to make a good place for floatplanes to drop clients, though not many came up here. Most wanted to be flown to the Nahanni, or to Norman Wells. Cameron had never been to this lake before, though she’d dropped adventurers at other lakes with their gear and canoes. Cheerful adventurers, too. Totally the opposite of the taciturn Lone Ranger.

His name was Jack Parker, and he hailed from a place called Bear Butte, Montana, according to the contact information left at the plane base. After the Beaver lifted off the surface of the lake, she banked around for one last glimpse of him sitting on the rock beside his rifle and pack. He lifted his arm in a slow wave, and she dipped one wing in reply. She felt uneasy leaving him there, a loner with an untold story, and wondered if the world would ever see him again.