Night falls early in the mountains. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling again. Different room, same worries. Silas's number glows on my phone. I almost call him, just to hear that voice. But I can't drag him in. He's too good, too clean.
Morning brings resolve. I drive to the airstrip, inquire about Rick. Stable, but no lessons soon. Panic rises. How do I train without him? They won't care about excuses.
Another text: "Find a way."
I sit in my car, head on the wheel. Tears come then, hot and fast. For Dad, for the mess I'm in, for the man on the mountain I wish I could run to. But running to Silas means endangering him too. These people don't play fair.
So I wipe my face, start the engine. Time to find another instructor. Or learn on my own.
Whatever it takes.
The week ticks down. I practice ground school, reading manuals borrowed from the airstrip office. Simulations on my phone app. It's not enough, but it's something.
By day four, exhaustion sets in. Dreams mix the plane with Dad's hospital room, Silas's face watching. I wake sweating, reaching for a hand that's not there.
Day six, a breakthrough: another instructor, part-time, agrees to sessions. Older guy, gruff but knowledgeable. We fly twice, short hops. My skills sharpen.
The final text arrives: "Tomorrow. Coordinates incoming. Goods at airstrip at dawn."
My heart pounds. This is it.
I pack a bag, just in case. Stare at Silas's number again. Delete it? No. Keep it, a lifeline I might need.
Dawn breaks cold. I drive to the airstrip, nerves electric. A crate waits by a hangar, unmarked. I load it into the small Cessna, hands steady despite the fear. The engine roars to life. Wheels lift off.
North to the border.
For Dad.
But Silas lingers in my thoughts, that good-looking sheriff with his protective growl. If I make it back, maybe...
No. Focus.
The plane climbs, the mountains falling away the higher I go.
One run. Then another. Until it's done.
Or until it breaks me.
CHAPTER 6
Silas
The cabin feels too quiet without her in it. I pace the living room, boots thumping against the hardwood, coffee gone cold in the mug I haven't touched since breakfast. It's been fourteen days since I dropped Hannah at her car by the airstrip, watching her drive away with that forced smile, and every hour since has twisted something tighter in my gut. She said she was fine. Said she'd handle it. But the way her eyes darted, the tremble in her fingers when she took my number, it all screams trouble deeper than a bad breakup.
I tried giving her space. Told myself she needs room to breathe after the crash, after whatever she's carrying. Respect her privacy, Silas. Don't be the overbearing sheriff who bulldozes in. But the worry won't quit. It's a slow burn, constant, making sleep impossible. I sit in the armchair by the window, staring at the dark pines outside, replaying every moment: her collapsing into my arms on the tarmac, the haunted look when she whispered about an ex, the way she relaxed against me in the truck like I was the only safe place left.
Something's wrong. More than wrong. And I'm done pretending otherwise.
I grab my keys and head to the lodge. The men are there most evenings, gathered around the fire or the long table in the kitchen, swapping stories or planning the next week's work. Tonight the air smells like pine resin and stew. Rafe's at the head, stirring a pot. Harper stands next to him. Gavin leans against the counter, arms crossed with Kayley by his side. Eli's nursing a beer, Harlan’s flipping cards in a half-hearted solitaire game. Wyatt and Chase sit near the fire, Boyd and Rhett on the couch, talking low about fence repairs. Emma and Fiona sit with both the babies (Aidan and Poppy) on a blanket near the fire.
They look up when I walk in. No need to explain; they read faces better than most.
"Silas," Rafe says, voice even. "Coffee's fresh."
I wave it off. "Need to talk about Hannah."
Chairs shift. Attention sharpens. I drop into the empty spot at the table, elbows on the wood.