Hannah
The Cessna's engine drones steady beneath me, a constant vibration that travels up through the seat and into my bones. I keep my hands tight on the yoke, eyes flicking between the altimeter and the horizon ahead. Snow-capped peaks stretch out below, sharp and unforgiving, while the border lies somewhere in the haze to the north. The crate sits strapped in the cargo hold behind me, heavy and silent, its contents unknown but heavy enough to shift the plane's balance just a little. I told myself I would not think about it. Just fly. Drop it where the coordinates say. Get the confirmation text that Dad's next payment cleared. Simple.
But nothing feels simple at ten thousand feet with the wind buffeting the wings and my stomach knotted so tight I can barely swallow. The cockpit smells of old leather and fuel, the same as every lesson with Rick. I keep expecting him to call out corrections from the right seat, but the space stays empty. Just me. Alone with the guilt and the fear that has become my constant companion these last months.
I check the GPS again. Twenty minutes to the drop point. After that I turn south, land back at Timber Creek before anyone notices the detour. No one has to know. Dad stays safe. The treatments continue. I repeat it like a mantra, but the words taste sour. I picture his face in the hospital room, thin and smiling through the pain, telling me how proud he is that I found work up here. He has no idea the work means this. Smuggling whatever waits in that crate across an invisible line in the sky.
A crackle cuts through the headset. Static first, then a voice I recognize instantly. Low. Gravel-rough. The one that wrapped around me on the tarmac and made the whole world stop shaking.
"Hannah. This is Sheriff Silas James. Turn the plane around."
My breath catches hard in my throat. The yoke jerks in my grip before I steady it. He cannot be on this frequency. The airstrip controller must have patched him through. My pulse spikes so fast the instrument panel blurs for a second. How does he know? I left him standing by his truck days ago with nothing but a half-truth about an ex. He should be back on the mountain, not here in my headset while I’m breaking the law at cruising speed.
I swallow twice before I can answer. "Silas. I can’t do that."
The radio hisses again. "You can. And you will. Bring her back to Timber Creek. Now."
Fear floods me, cold and sharp, the same kind that hit when Rick slumped over mid-flight. My palms slick against the controls. I do not want him here. Not in this. He’s good and steady and protective in a way that makes my chest ache, but dragging him into blackmail and crates and border crossings will only ruin him. The people holding Dad's life have reach. They warned me.No outside help. No cops. If they find out a sheriff is involved, the payments stop and worse things start.
"Please," I say into the mic, voice cracking despite my effort. "Go back to Haven 7. Forget you heard this. I’m handling it."
His reply comes faster, firmer. "You do not want to do this, Hannah. Whatever is in that hold, whatever they promised you, it’snotworth it. You’re breaking the law. Federal law. Turn around before you cross that line."
Tears prick my eyes so suddenly I blink hard against them. He knows. The cargo. The route. Everything. How? The fear turns to panic, a tight band around my ribs. I glance at the fuel gauge, at the mountains rolling beneath me, at the empty right seat where Rick should be. I’m so close to the drop. One hour more and Dad gets another month of medicine. One hour more and I stay trapped in this cycle.
"How do you know?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
The radio stays quiet a beat too long. When Silas speaks again his tone has softened, but the command underneath remains. "I know about your father. The cancer. The bills that started getting paid the same week you showed up for flying lessons. I know someone is using him to force your hand. Blackmail. That is what this is, right?"
The tears spill over then. Hot tracks down my cheeks, blurring the windshield. I cannot wipe them away without letting go of the yoke, so I let them fall. He dug. Of course he did. That protective streak I saw the first night, the way he carried me to his bed and sat guard in the chair, it runs deep. He saw the cracks I tried to hide and went looking for the truth. Part of me feels relief so strong it hurts. Another part wants to scream athim to stop, to stay safe on his mountain with the other men who build fences and drink coffee and never touch the kind of darkness I’m flying through right now.
"I cannot drag you into this," I whisper, forgetting for a moment that the mic is live. "You do not understand. They will hurt him. They already have the doctors on some list. One missed payment and the treatments stop. He’s all I have left." My voice cracks on the last word.
Silas's voice fills the cockpit again, steady as the day he talked me down from the sky. "Too late for that, Hannah. I’m already in it. You walked into my town, into my arms, and I do not walk away from people who need protecting. Not when I know the score. Turn the plane around. Come back to Timber Creek. Land safe. I’ll meet you on the ground and we’ll figure the rest together. Your father stays safe. You stay safe. No more solo runs. No more crates."
I shake my head even though he can’t see it. The plane banks slightly with the motion and I correct it automatically, muscle memory from all those lessons. The border is close now. I can almost feel it pulling at me like a current. If I keep going, the drop happens and the cycle continues. If I turn, everything changes. Dad could lose the care he needs. Or Silas could make good on his promise and actually help. The choice sits heavy in my chest, two futures splitting right down the middle of this cockpit.
I think of his hands on my waist the day I stepped off the plane, solid and sure. The breakfast he cooked while worry creased his brow. The way he watched me sleep from that chair, giving up his own bed without a second thought. He is the first person in months who looked at me and saw something worth saving,not just a tool for someone else's scheme. Trusting him feels terrifying. But flying north alone feels worse.
Another sob escapes. "I’m scared, Silas. So scared. If I come back and they find out..."
"They will not touch you or your father again," he says, voice dropping to that low growl I remember from the tarmac. "You have my word. And the word of every man at Haven 7. We protect our own. You became ours the minute I caught you on that runway. Turn around, Hannah. I’m right here waiting."
The fear doesn’t vanish. It sits there, heavy and real, pressing against my ribs. But beneath it something else stirs. Hope, small and fragile, the kind I thought had burned out weeks ago. I glance at the instruments one last time. Heading north. Fuel good. Cargo secure. Then I ease the yoke left, watching the compass swing.
The plane banks gently, nose coming around to the south. The mountains tilt in the windshield and then straighten as I level out. The crate shifts behind me with the change in direction, a reminder of what I’m leaving behind. I don’t know what happens when I land. I don’t know how Silas plans to fix the mess that has owned me for months. But I know his voice on the radio feels like an anchor in turbulence, the same way his arms felt when my knees gave out.
"Okay," I say into the mic, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve. "I’m turning back. Heading for Timber Creek."
"Good girl." The relief in his tone is unmistakable, warm enough to cut through the chill in the cockpit. "I’ll be on the ground when you touch down. Stay steady on the radio with me thewhole way. Talk me through your altitude, your heading. We do this together."
I exhale long and shaky. The fear is still there, coiled tight, but it no longer feels like the only thing in the plane with me. Silas is here now, in my ear, guiding me home the same way he guided me to the runway once before. I check the instruments again, adjust the throttle, and settle into the new course.
The mountains roll beneath me once more, this time carrying me south instead of north. Back toward the small airfield, back toward the man who refused to let me fly into whatever waited on the other side. I don’t know what comes next. Arrest? Questions? Some plan only he and the men at Haven 7 can pull off. But for the first time since the blackmail started, I’m not carrying it alone.
Tears keep falling, quiet now, as the plane hums steadily onward. I picture Silas standing on the tarmac, boots planted wide, eyes scanning the sky for my silhouette. Waiting. Ready. I let that image anchor me while the miles tick down.
"I’m at eight thousand feet," I report, voice steadier than I feel. "Heading one eight zero. Winds light from the west."