Bianca lifted her boarding pass. “Well.”
Adam pushed away from the window. “Well.”
She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him again. “I love our life,” she said. The words were simple, but they carried a quiet certainty.
Adam smiled. “Me too.”
She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
He took over, going deep, and then pausing to let her breathe.
When she pulled back, she grinned. “See you soon, cowboy.”
Adam nodded toward the gate. “Go catch your plane.”
“I will. I love you.”
He kissed her again. “I love you, too. Come home soon.”
“You are home.” Her eyes darkened. “I never figured that out before. That it’s people and not a place.” She smiled. “You’remy home.”
Yeah. That was exactly right.
More Montana Maverickstories are coming early next year! For now, have you checked out the Knife’s Edge, Alaska books? The first book is called Dead of Winter.
Here’s chapter 1:
A brutal sun cut across the icy Alaskan landscape with a defiant glare, brightening instead of warming the frozen runway outside. Mountains rose all around, their jagged peaks rocky through the barren snow, an invitation from Mother Nature to challenge her and lose.
FBI Special Agent Ophelia Spilazi rubbed her arms through her leather jacket, safely ensconced in the warming hut. The silent, empty, lonely warming hut that truly didn’t provide warmth. A wooden bench ran alongside one wall, the only furniture in the rickety structure. Icicles hung from the eavesoutside, several long enough to touch the ground, while the meager sun warmed them, making the ice sparkle like diamonds.
The sheer isolation of the area was both intriguing and ominous.
A low hum pierced the thundering silence outside, and her breath quickened in natural response. She craned her neck to see out the frozen, crud-covered window to the unreal blue sky, her shoulders tensing even more as a dot of a plane dipped over the nearest mountain and dropped fast to land.
She blinked.
The small plane hit hard, bounced several times, and skidded back and forth before lurching to a drunken halt to the right of the so-called runway.
The plane shuddered and the engine silenced, the machine looking miniature against the wild mountains that served as a backdrop. Her stomach lurched. She wanted to take another Valium, but she had to at least appear professional to these nomads who chose to live in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
The pilot jumped out, and she stopped breathing at her first sight of him. Wavy black hair framed a hard-cut face, scruff covered his rugged jaw, and aviator glasses shielded his eyes. His ancestry was difficult to gauge, but his features were native and strong. Possibly some Inuit or Indigenous American heritage. He had to be well over six feet tall, muscular and oddly graceful—even with a slight limp.
She zeroed in on his left leg. He favored it slightly but didn’t allow it to shorten his stride.
Interesting.
He wore a heavy leather jacket, jeans, and dark boots, his shielded gaze having a punch of power, even through the dingy window.
She swallowed, grateful that sunglasses hid her eyes, which had to be wide and full of doubt after witnessing that excruciating landing on the ice. The man approaching her wasn’t anything close to the old, grizzly, and bearded pilot who’d brought her from Anchorage, the one who had said—repeatedly—that she was nuts to keep going west with a late but devastating winter coming. She’d imagined someone similar picking her up today.
This guy was beyond imagination.
He pulled open the door and paused, instant heat rippling from him. “Special Agent Spilazi?” That voice. A slow, deep roll that contrasted with the stark beauty around them.
“Call me Ophelia.” She held out a hand, still feeling off-balance. She was tall for a woman, very, but he towered over her.
His dark eyebrows rose, and he shook with her after a brief pause that almost went on too long. His hand was warm, big, and gentle, the shake to the point. “Your title suits you better.”