The moose swung his head, dark eyes fixed on them. One hoof stamped the snow.
Orlando’s sharp bark cut through the air.
The moose lurched forward.
“Run!”
Harley high-stepped it, plowing through the drifts, and Topher and Jericho gave the plane a hard push just as she reached the lake’s edge.
“C’mon!C’mon!” Jericho couldn’t stop himself—he threw himself at Harley, grabbing her arm, yanking her toward the plane.
Orlando barked again, circling in front of the charging moose, buying them precious seconds.
Harley scrambled into the aircraft, behind Topher.
“Orlando, come!” Jericho shouted.
The dog turned and sprinted toward him, hard. He jumped and Jericho caught him in his arms, turned and trundled him into the plane.
“Jericho, get in! Get.In!” Harley reached for him, catching his dog, cradling him.
Winter had started the prop, the bird jerking and Jericho threw himself at the open door, just as the moose’s antlers caught the Cessna’s wing. The attack turned them.
“Hang on!” Winter pushed the prop forward and the machine shuddered. Jericho fought the door, shut it. The moose bellowed, his breath clouding the frigid air.
Snow sprayed in crystalline arcs as the skis fought the drifts. “Come on, baby. Come on,” Winter said, glancing out the window.
They broke free of the tug of snow, picked up speed. Themoose’s hooves threw up snow as it charged behind them. They skimmed over the snowy lake and Jericho leaned forward in his seat, as if urging the plane into the sky.
It worked.Really. The plane lifted, snow dusting off it, rising into the blue and clearing the trees at the far end by a few feet.
He leaned back, breathing hard.
Topher, in the copilot seat, glanced back, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Then he grinned.
Right?
Harley’s laugh held an edge of hysteria. “Did that really just happen?”
“Gotta love Alaska,” Jericho said, and only then realized he was holding her hand.
She, in the meantime, had an arm around his dog, who had nestled his head into her lap.
Oh brother.
Below, the moose stood in their tracks, growing smaller as they rose. The cabin became a Lincoln Log home nestled in white. Beyond, the mountains stretched jagged and forbidding, their peaks catching the morning, the sun turning them to flame.
“The storm’s completely cleared,” Harley said, pressing close to the window. For a moment, she was fifteen, her face lit with the same look she’d given him the first time he took her flying. Oh, he’d fallen for her then. Or maybe it had been earlier, much earlier. Let’s say twelve, when he’d rescued her from some bullies at school.
Maybe she hadn’t needed to be rescued, really. Just his excuse, but even then, she lit him on fire—and not just with desire but with hope and purpose and ... identity. She made him ... him.
Maybe his dog had it right. Something about Harley grounded him. Made Jericho remember who he used to be.
Or wanted to be.
“You don’t always haveto rescue everyone.”
Maybe not. Maybe he was just supposed to rescueoneperson.