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  © 2017 Janice Mineer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2785-6

  Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., 2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017937048

  Cover design by Priscilla Chaves

  Cover design © 2017 by Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Edited and typeset by Hali Bird and Erica Myers

  ALSO BY JANICE MINEER

  Gingerbread from the Heart

  TO RANDY: HUSBAND, FRIEND, HERO—MY BRIGHT SUN.

  TO MY PARENTS, WHO GAVE ME A RICH PAST. TO MY DAUGHTER, STEPCHILDREN, AND GRANDCHILDREN, WITH GRATITUDE FOR THE PRESENT WE SHARE AND FOR THE HOPE OF A SWEET FUTURE TOGETHER.

  Prologue

  dc

  Some people create their own story, striking out in the midst of a wilderness of want and moving toward a brighter horizon. But for some people, their story is with them all along, and one day they just turn around and meet it face-to-face. For me, it was something like that. My story started early, like a small voice in the crowded room of my life. For me, it started with the dream, and grew.

  This dream haunted my sleep when I was just a girl and was recurring, drumming the pace that propelled me toward an unknown goal. I would wake up remembering everything in striking detail; everything, that is, except the man’s face. In the dream, I saw a broad, green field of grass, a green so intense it almost hurt my eyes. I could smell its sweet pungent scent. The air was still and cold—that bite that warns of snow. The sun was small and distant, weak in a hazy sky. Rows and rows of benches surrounded me. They were empty, but I felt as if hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching me. The man in the distance wore a ball cap. His dark auburn hair, threaded with silver, bristled from beneath it. He stood with his back to me, broad shouldered, hands on hips. When he turned toward me, I couldn’t see his face. It was shadowed—no, blurred—beneath the dark brim of his cap.

  He walked toward me. I wanted to go to him but my feet were riveted to the cold, hard ground. Then a powerful force pulled at my chest, drawing me forward, tearing at my legs. I reached a hand toward him. A cry caught in my throat as a bird flew overhead, calling again and again, its voice fading as it disappeared into the small bright spot of sun. A wind rose and as I woke, I realized it was only the sound of my deep, ragged breaths.

  And so, it followed me, this dream. It launched me on a journey. But I never imagined that the journey would nearly cost me my life.

  Chapter 1

  dc

  There was the occasional irate customer, face twisted in fury over a missed plane, and sometimes there was the crushed bag leaking strange fluid. And, of course, there were those times when an employee peacefully overslept, infusing panic into his team of overburdened coworkers. I expected most days at the Missoula Airport to hold a few surprises, but that particular day was one for the record books.

  I started with Delta as a ramp agent in Missoula almost eight years ago, spent a year working in Santa Fe, then transferred to LA where I worked my way up to customer service and then shift supervisor, overseeing everything from ticket sales to the endless lugging of bags into and out of the bowels of planes. A couple of months ago, I transferred back to Missoula—a smaller airport—where my duties as a supervisor were similar. I monitored employee workflow and even filled in at the ticket counter and on the ramp when we ran short of help.

  I had run the gambit of experiences in the industry, and I understood that it was my job to smooth out bumps, unruffle feathers, and help maintain everyone’s sanity. But nothing really prepared me for that morning.

  I had barely run my security badge through the scanner when I saw Brandon trotting in my direction, looking like he’d just had a close encounter with a hurricane.

  “Jenna, I’m glad you’re here.” He caught his breath and ran his long fingers through his bristly blond hair. “We have a problem. We’ve been called out to the tarmac by D gate. There’s a plane in trouble and they want us on hand in case passengers need help when they land. Well, we hope they actually will land,” he emphasized.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, quickening my pace. Even for Brandon, the anxious look on his lean face was unusual.

  “Computer,” Brandon puffed as we trotted along. “The computer on board says the landing gear is not locked in. The guys up in the tower can’t tell for sure, and of course, a 747 is a lot of plane to land on its belly.”

  I followed him through the green haze of the scheduling room, trying to keep up with his long strides. We took a shortcut through the baggage area, dodging luggage carts and skirting conveyer belts. The place was deserted, so I knew the drama overhead had drawn a crowd.

  Out on the tarmac, the autumn sun had turned unexpectedly fierce, and the smell of baking asphalt blended with the scent of jet fuel. In the distance, past the runway, the Bitterroot Mountains stood serene beneath a clear blue sky. The Clark Fork River ran along their feet beneath a long march of dark green fir trees. The peaceful scene did little to quiet the pounding of my heart.

  I shaded my eyes and scanned the sky, locating the plane high above us, droning in a smooth circle. A holding pattern can be a dangerous thing, I knew. An airplane with faulty landing gear flies overhead, sucking away the life force of its engines. Nerves jangle, the faithful pray. In the end, subject to the immutable laws of nature, the plane must descend, borne as it were on the mutually held breath of those in the air and those on the ground.

  The ramp crew stood, clumped behind the fire trucks and emergency staff, shifting nervously, talking in whispers as we joined them.

  “Everyone ready?” I asked. My throat was dry and tight.

  A few nodded, concern evident in their eyes. Beside me, Brandon coughed nervously and swallowed hard. After only a year on the job, I hoped he knew what ready meant. I hoped we all did. Hours of training in a small, dim room, fighting to keep your eyes open, trying to concentrate on the long list of facts thrown at you by a bored trainer. Filling out test papers, checking the little boxes. I hoped that translated into action if we needed it.

  I was chewing my well-worn nails when I heard a voice behind me. “Well, this will be interesting.”

  It was Mark, the Delta airport station manager. He stood quietly at my shoulder, arms folded. The man had an energy that emanated from his muscular frame. There was a youthfulness about him that belied the gray at his temples. He was a natural leader whose sense of humor got us through a hundred tensions every day. I was glad he had arrived.

  I shrugged my shoulders and raised sweaty palms. �
�I guess all we can do now is wait.”

  “Everyone in place?” Mark asked, looking around.

  “We’ve followed the drill. Everyone’s here.”

  I stared into the sky again, my brows furrowed with anxiety. I tried to keep myself from envisioning the plane pounding into the tarmac on its belly, a fan of fiery sparks in its wake. I shook my head against the picture of the plane’s wings sheared from its silver body, fragments of metal ringing into the air and scattering across the asphalt.

  I fought the urge to close my eyes and watched anxiously as the jet eased its way down lower, then lower still until wheels touched asphalt as tenderly as a lover’s kiss. The landing gear was holding. The plane slowed, turned gracefully and made its way to the ramp door. The crew gave a collective sigh of relief.

  “Well, just another boring day at the airport,” Mark said dryly. The radio on his belt squawked. Pulling it to his mouth, he stepped away, glancing up at the tower and shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare.

  I shook the tension from my hands and turned to my team. “OK people, back to work. Let’s give those folks our famous, heartfelt, Montana welcome. Maybe they will forget their morning of sheer terror.”

  The door of the airplane opened and carts rolled into place as we sprang into action. I worked with the crew, greeting passengers and helping them with their luggage. Some of the travelers seemed distressed, others relieved. A couple of guys in ball caps laughed off their nervousness. An old lady clutched her bag and straightened her sweater. When all of them had passed through the door toward the waiting room area, I left the ramp crew to finish up their work.

  Walking toward the supervisor’s office, my ID badge swinging in rhythm to my stride, my thoughts slowly settled into place like dry leaves after a gust of autumn wind. I was grateful no one I knew personally had been on the flight. Today was, thankfully, a Tuesday, not a Wednesday. Derek usually flew in on a Wednesday from California to oversee the office of Waitman and Waitman in Missoula, a division of the company he worked for in LA.

  Derek. Now there’s an enigma. We met at a party in Los Angeles last year. He glowed in the dim light, the center star in that small universe. I was flattered when I caught his attention. We spent weeks together, strolling along the beaches, dining at local upscale restaurants, and hanging out with his circle of friends.

  I had relied on him there in California when I felt out of place and alone. He made it so easy for me to be in his social circles, easy to be at his elbow. He always knew the right things to say. But something was lacking, and before I left LA, there was a strange fading away of what we had together and a disjointed goodbye.

  Then a month ago, he had called—out of the blue. I had just pulled into my driveway when my cell rang. I took the call, heard his voice, and suddenly there he was in full color. Images of him played out on the front of my garage door like a sixty-inch big screen TV. Derek at the beach, his bronze arm around a boogey board. Derek pulling off his sunglasses and stepping out of his silver Corvette convertible. Derek across the table, a breeze ruffling his blond hair, an icy drink in his hand. The visions that danced over the hood of my car simultaneously filled me with hope and dread. It was a page in my life I had not expected to revisit.

  What were the odds he would come here? And yet, less than a week after he called, there he was, right in my own town. A fluke I thought. A classic twist of fate.

  The Missoula branch of his company was a small one, but also, as it turns out, a perfect place for him to do some ladder climbing, an opportunity he snatched up quickly like a misplaced punt in a play-off game. For the last several years, he had advanced adeptly through his judicial use of brains and charm. He had a ready smile, but those light blue eyes had the unsettling effect of never resting long in any one place. I was never sure I had his full attention.

  I hoped he had chosen Missoula so he could be near me. He had indicated as much, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. Wasn’t even sure why I wasn’t sure.

  I walked into the supervisor’s office and looked at the tattered calendar on the wall over my small desk. It was only about a month since Derek had first flown in to see me in Missoula, but the more time we spent together, the more I was starting to realize something. We were just like that jet, droning out its lifeblood two hundred feet above the airport. We were making the same circular pattern over what I knew could be a meaningful destination of our own. It’s tough to orchestrate a touch down, I thought, when the landing gear cannot be trusted. I brushed the hair from my eyes in an effort to sweep the thoughts away.

  My cell phone buzzed and I opened to the text message. It was Angela.

  “Shower changed to Rebecca’s house! Saturday morning! Don’t forget! I need you there!” Let’s see. Four exclamation points. The closer we got to the wedding day, the more excited and nervous my cousin grew. I was afraid she’d spontaneously combust before she walked down the aisle.

  Another buzz. I had missed a call. My cousin Jack’s wife, Elizabeth, had left a message. Why did this thing just fail to ring half the time? It was like a cosmic shift would randomly slam my phone service into docile incompetence. I grabbed a clipboard of papers for the next flight and jogged up the steps toward Gate B. I dodged three guys with satchels of fishing poles while listening to Elizabeth’s message.

  “Hi, Jenna. It’s me again,” Elizabeth’s voice was stressed, unusual for her. “Please add three packages of pink—that’s bright pink, not baby pink—paper plates to the list of stuff I asked you to bring down from Missoula for the shower. And please consider our offer about the blind date. It wouldn’t kill you, you know, to consider your options. Jack’s friend is …” her baby screamed in the background, “… and I think you would get along. I know you have been seeing what’s-his-name but …” baby again. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. See you Saturday.”

  I shook my head. As much as I loved Elizabeth, letting a relative pick your boyfriend is like letting your mailman choose your underwear.

  Another buzz. I felt like the queen bee in a hive of electronic insects. A text from Derek this time.

  “Not flying in. Bringing up the Vette. See you Wed. noon.”

  My walkie-talkie rasped at my side. “Hey, Jenna, can you lend us a hand at the desk? We can’t find Mike.”

  I pushed the button. “On my way.”

  I arrived at the service desk, my mind spinning in several directions like mud off a tire. Shower and paper plates, Derek and lunch, and where in the Sam Hill was Mike?

  I spent an hour helping to whittle down a long line of passengers, who edged slowly toward the desk, nudging their bags along the floor, clutching tickets in their hands. But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about … landing gear.

  Chapter 2

  dc

  I ducked into a restroom at the airport to freshen up before lunch with Derek. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror. I smoothed the tangles from my thick auburn hair but had less success smoothing the wrinkles from my brow. Stop biting your lip, I ordered myself. It will be fine, just another lunch date with Derek. I wondered why I was losing my appetite.

  I checked my watch, noting when I had to be back. I would have enough time to go out for lunch. I had a rotating schedule, which I liked. It gave me freedom and flexibility to be with family and friends. When I was off, there was another supervisor overseeing activities and carrying out any specific tasks Mark needed done.

  I crossed the brick walkway, past the gift shop where tourists were cheerfully selecting huckleberry chocolates and T-shirts stenciled with dancing moose printed on the front. I paused for a moment at the door to the parking lot and looked out into the thin autumn sunlight. There he was, waiting by his silver convertible idling at the curb. He leaned casually against the fender, his tie loosened, hands in the pockets of his Dockers.

  “Who the heck is that?”

  I turned to see Britney beside me, eyes wide.

  “My history. Maybe my future.” I sighed. “Mayb
e my nemesis.”

  “He’s gorgeous,” Britney crooned.

  I took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Derek caught my eye, glanced away, then turned back with that dazzling smile of his.

  “Hey, baby. You look great.”

  I smiled, nervously adjusting the collar of my jacket. “Hi.” He leaned down from his six-foot-four inches and kissed me.

  “How was the trip up?” I asked.

  “Nice. Long. Too many bugs.” He scraped a tiny speck off of his windshield. “What happened to the no speed limit deal in Montana anyway?”

  “They changed that a few years ago, quite a while ago, actually.”

  “Too bad. Kind of a waste of 460 horsepower. How was work?”

  “Fine. Actually, kind of crazy. One of my people didn’t show up. Again. A fishing pole got stuck in the luggage conveyer belt. We had to get security to haul a woman off a plane because she was throwing peanuts at the flight attendant.”

  “Peanuts stuck in the conveyer belt. Huh,” he said, gazing off toward a woman struggling to stack several suitcases on a cart.

  “No, a fishing pole got stuck in the conveyer belt.”

  “Well, I’m pretty hungry,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He opened the car door and I slid onto the black leather seat. The carpet was immaculate. I wondered if I should have taken my shoes off. Sam Smith sang on the XM radio.

  Once in the driver’s seat, Derek slipped on his Oakley sunglasses.

  “I saw a place on my way over I’d like to try,” he said. “Steak and seafood. You up for seafood?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled away and maneuvered out to the highway, deftly working the eight-speed paddle shift.

  “It’s good to see you, Jenna.” He flashed me his brilliant smile again, then focused on the road, gliding the Vette around a dump truck laboring up a grade.

  “Remember Jesse?” he asked.