Pamela Britton - The Texan's Twins

“Please don’t kill me.” The words just sort of popped out. “I have two little girls who really need their mother.”

They were slowly rising above the earth, the metal building they’d just been inside shrinking like a piece of plastic in the oven.

“Hey, relax.”

“I just don’t think it was very smart of me to trust a man who’s known for never following through on much of anything in life.”

“Excuse me?”

It helped to take her mind off things to keep talking, even if she was pretty sure he might not like what he was about to hear. “There was the race-car thing.”

He turned the nose of the helicopter. They shot forward. She reached for a bar on the door, but there was no bar on the door. This wasn’t a car. This was a helicopter and apparently there was no need for something to hang on to according to the manufacturers.

“The car-racing thing was a dare. Someone claimed he had a faster car than mine. I proved him wrong.”

“By building your own drag car.”

“It was a stock car, way different than the big-ended, fat-tired things you see on TV.”

“And then there was the stint as a writer.”

“Where did you hear about that?”

They were at least a mile above the airport, cars shrinking to the size of pill bugs, highways looking like the veins of a leaf spreading in all directions, and buildings resembling Lego blocks. Off in the periphery, the greens and golds and sometimes the blue of rural Dallas County stretched as far as the eye could see.

“The energy business is a small world. People talk.”

They were picking up speed—Jasmine reminded herself that she’d asked for a little excitement. Still, it was one thing to ask, another to experience his version of excitement firsthand.

“First of all, it was cowboy poetry, which isn’t the same thing as trying to be a writer, and I was actually pretty good at it.”

You haven’t flown since before having Brooke and Gwen.

Was that it? Was she suddenly aware of her own mortality now that she’d given birth?

Keep talking.

“Okay, and how about trophy fishing?”

“That I still like to do.”

“My point being you never seem to settle down and do one thing at a time.” She swallowed back her agitation. “Which means you’re never going to excel at anything you do.”

“Ouch.”

“Except rodeo. You seem to have stuck with that.”

“And to think, I actually felt sorry for you a little while ago.”

“I’m just worried your lack of commitment might mean you’re not the best helicopter pilot in the world.”

“That worry I can dispel right now.”

“Oh, yeah? How?”

“Remember when I asked you if you wanted the Disney or the vanilla version?”

“Yeah?”

“Here’s the Disney.”

“Oh, damn—”

Her stomach lurched. It actually felt as if it flew out of her body and landed somewhere in the vicinity of her toes. In reality, it was the helicopter that dropped, but it might as well have been her stomach. She screamed, or she thought she did. Her terror might have been solely confined to the inside of her head.

“Hang on.”

She almost yelled there was nothing to hang on to, but she was too busy trying to catch her breath. They were headed for a patch of green, one with a ribbon of blue in the center of it. A river. She had no idea which one it was, only that they were headed right for it, the helicopter dropping lower and lower and lower.

“Jet!” But it wasn’t exactly a squeal of terror. Even to her own ears she could hear the laughter.

They never even got close to the water, not really, but it felt like it as Jet maneuvered the helicopter forward. Below she caught a glimpse of two startled fishermen.

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