He turned at the end of the field and caught a flash of movement at the edge of his lights.
“Did you see that? I saw him.” Kaylie jumped back in her seat.
“Saw him.” Cort gritted his teeth as he launched the plane, knowing he had only one chance to get them the hell out of there. If he had to abort and circle around again, someone would be waiting for them.
Kaylie gripped the seat tightly as the plane bounced over the rough ground. They weren’t quite going fast enough to take off, but the end of field was rapidly approaching…Then they caught air. They both heaved a sigh of relief as the plane lifted off, and he called Max at the control tower to report their findings.
His buddy took the news grimly. He told Cort that no one would be able to get in there until the storm settled, which it looked like might happen by morning, but that he’d call the authorities immediately.
Cort nodded and signed off, grinding his jaw at the realization that the bastard would be long gone by morning. If Cort had followed his instincts and left Kaylie behind originally, he might have had the guy at gunpoint already….
He glared at Kaylie, and his irritation vanished instantly when he saw how destroyed she was. She was hunched over, her arms wrapped around her stomach, and she was moaning softly. He swore under his breath, wishing he had words to comfort her, but knowing he didn’t.
“Kaylie—”
Then there was a loud crack, and the plane lurched and started fighting him. He checked the gauges, trying to figure out what had just gone wrong.
And then he saw blood on his dash.
Kaylie followed his glance and made a small noise of distress. “He was in here.”
“Sure was.”
She whipped around to inspect into the back of the plane, and he barely resisted the urge to do the same.
“I checked back there,” he said. “He’s not in here.”
Kaylie turned on Cort’s flashlight and shone it back there anyway. “Why would he get in the plane and then get out?”
Cort had a grim realization. “He wanted to know who was flying this plane.”
Kaylie jerked her gaze to him. “Why?”
“So he could know who to go after if we saw too much.”
“Oh, God.” Her face went white. “You think he’ll come after us?”
Cort was still trying to concentrate on keeping the plane above the tops of the trees. Something was seriously off with the Cessna, and he didn’t know what. “Me. He’d have no way of tracking you.” Cort glanced over at Kaylie and saw her shoot him a look that said she wasn’t buying it. He didn’t either.
If the killer wanted to find her, he would.
The plane lurched again, and Cort realized the killer wouldn’t even be a factor if he didn’t get the plane on the ground soon.
“Cort?”
He gave her a calm smile. “Just a little turbulence,” he lied easily. “But I’m not risking going all the way back to the airport.”
He could see her pulse hammering in her throat, and her voice was shaky. “Where are we going to land, then? On a field or something?”
He banked the plane, well aware that the stress was going to snap her composure unless he did something to bring her back. A panicking passenger was the last thing he needed, and he wasn’t in the mood to crack an elbow to her head and knock her out, as he’d done to the last drunk hunter who’d gone berserk in his cockpit.
“I’m taking you to my place.” Knowing she needed a distraction, he glanced over at her and let his gaze sweep blatantly over her chest. “I gotta warn you, though. I only have one bed.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you insane? How can you possibly be thinking of sex right now?”
He shrugged lightly, fighting hard to keep the plane level. “I’m just saying.”
From the look she gave him, he knew he’d succeeded in distracting her.
She wasn’t thinking about blood right now. But the shock would hit later. It always did.
And he’d told the truth. He did have only one bed.
By the time Cort taxied his plane into his heated hangar, he was seriously worried about Kaylie. She hadn’t moved or spoken in over an hour.
He shut the plane off and turned to her. “Hey,” he whispered, touching her shoulder. “You with me?”
Kaylie shook her head and pulled his emergency blanket tighter around her.
He unhooked her harness, frowning when he felt how much she was shaking. “We’re here. Safe.”
She finally opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression blank with numb shock. “Sara—”
“Sara would want you to take care of yourself.” He thumbed a strand of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.
“But—”
“Inside. You need food.” He tugged her out of the seat and lowered her to the ground. Three planes were inside the pristine hanger, but the plane favored by Cort’s business partner wasn’t in residence, which meant Luke was out on a run somewhere.
The office would be closed down at this hour, as it usually was. The gal they hired for bookings and billing only worked a few hours a week, leaving the operation pretty much in Cort’s and Luke’s hands, the way they both liked it.
The way it had been when Cort’s parents had run it.
Cort tucked the blanket more securely around Kaylie’s shoulders. Her hands were ice cold, her eyes were haunted, and blood was still smeared over her hands and face. He retrieved her bags from the back and slung them over his shoulders.
Once he was loaded up, he set his hand on her back to guide her past the planes toward the door at the back. He tried to think of something to get her mind off the images he knew were haunting her. “I have to warn you, my housecleaner hasn’t come in lately, so the place is a mess.”
She blinked at him. “You have a housecleaner?”
“Yeah. She comes about once every six years. Or longer. Can’t really remember.” He opened the door. “Ready?”
She took one look out at the driving snow and pulled herself together. She tugged her hood up and shoved her hands into her pockets. “I hate this kind of weather,” she muttered.
Cort wrapped his arm around her shoulder, tucking her against him as they stepped outside. He nodded with satisfaction when she burrowed into his side. “It’ll clear up by morning. Just a late spring storm.” Despite the whiteout, Cort unerringly guided her the short distance to the house he’d inherited after his parents had burned up in the crash in Devil’s Pass seventeen years ago, almost to the day.
Cort followed Kaylie inside as she stumbled over the entryway. He kicked the door shut, then strode across the uneven wood floor and dropped her bags in his room. “You can stay in here. Bathroom has hot water. High luxury for these parts.”
But when he turned back, Kaylie hadn’t followed. She was standing in the middle of the common room, staring at the only picture on his wall: Mount McKinley in a light fog at dawn, as seen from two thousand feet.
“Sara painted that,” she said quietly. “She never shows her paintings to anyone.”
Cort walked over to Kaylie and stood beside her while he studied the picture. He hadn’t noticed it in a long time. “Yeah, I made Sara sell it to me.” He wasn’t into art, but when he’d seen it at Jackson’s two years ago, he’d had to have it.
Cort remembered now why he’d needed it so badly. In this picture, Sara had painted freedom and joy. The feeling of absolute bliss and complete abandonment of responsibility had been so vivid for Cort—exactly what he’d been trying to attain for so long. Sara had caught it in this picture in a way he’d never been able to in real life.
Kaylie looked at Cort, her forehead furrowed faintly. “You couldn’t have forced her to sell it to you. She must have wanted you to have it.”
“Yeah, to get me out of her hair.”
“No.” Kaylie cocked her head, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. “She must have really liked you.”
“Yeah, I guess.�
�� Cort shifted uncomfortably and gestured toward his bedroom, not sure it was the best thing, for Kaylie to be focusing on Sara right now. “Your stuff’s in there.” He brushed his hand over her cheek. “You might want to wash up.”
“Really?” Kaylie touched the crusted blood, and she sighed with weariness. “A shower would be great.”
Cort stepped aside as she walked into his room, aware that she was too quiet. Shock would hit soon. He caught her arm and forced her to look at him. The moment he had her attention, he softened his touch and ran his hand up and down her arm. “Take a hot shower and clean up. Put on something warm and then come out and eat. I’ll defrost some chili.”
She looked down at his fingers touching her, and a tremor ran through her body. Then she pulled away, her face still haggard and pale. “Are you always this bossy?”
He grinned. “Actually, this is me being considerate. Ask my business partner, Luke, about me ordering him around.”
Kaylie rolled her eyes and walked past him into the bedroom. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
Cort leaned on the doorjamb and folded his arms over his chest. He refused to move when she tried to close the door on him.
She rested her cheek on the edge of the door and stared at him. “What now?”
He brushed the tip of his finger over the dark circles beneath her eyes, and she closed her eyes for a moment, as if drinking in his touch. He knew the feeling. The craving to haul her against him and lose himself in her was killing him. But he forced himself to drop his hand. “You okay? Want me to stay?”
“No, I’m fine.” She managed a trembly smile that made his gut churn for its sheer courage. Her cheekbones were high, her skin flawless, and there was a strength in Kaylie Fletcher that drew him to her. Strong, sexy as hell, and with an attitude.
His type of woman…
Shit.
It didn’t matter that she was all wrong for him. She wasn’t getting out from under his skin until he had her.
“I just need a minute,” she said, interrupting the dangerous path of his thoughts. “Of privacy.”
“Yell if you need anything.” He pulled back and let her shut the door. Now was not the time. But instead of walking away, he leaned his head against the door, listening.
For a moment, there was no sound, and then he heard the floor creak as she walked across the room. He heard the sound of her zipper and knew she was doing what he’d instructed her to do. Kaylie was okay for now.
With a groan, Cort levered himself off the door and walked into his kitchen. He stood in the doorway for a minute. The reality of what had happened to Jackson was finally hitting him, now that Kaylie wasn’t front and center to distract him. He closed his eyes and balled his fists, fighting against the swell of grief. The memories. The feeling of loss so great it ripped at his gut and flayed him raw. Not again. Not fucking again.
He didn’t move for almost ten minutes, using every shred of discipline he’d learned from years of flying. It took far too long, but he finally pulled his shit back together.
Under control again, Cort grabbed his hunting knife from above the woodstove and walked over to his front door.
For a moment, he simply stared at the two names carved above the frame.
PEGGY MCCLAINE HUFF MCCLAINE
Cort had been fourteen when he’d carved their names. Too short to reach, he’d stood on a stool, carving for hours until his shaking hands had gotten it done.
His throat tightened, and for a second the letters blurred. In the seventeen years since, plenty of people he’d known had died. But his parents were the only two names above that door.
Except for one more. Carved eight years ago. Small letters in the corner.
SIMON
Barely visible, unless Cort looked for it—which he never did. But he knew it was there. Every minute of every day, he was aware of the name of his son carved in that wood.
Fuck.
Cort lifted the knife and slammed it into the pine. A wood chip splintered off and hit his hand.
His vision blurred again, and he began to carve Jackson’s name.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mason Fletcher was going to lose his leg.
He’d been in this kind of pain before, and he knew it wasn’t good.
Especially when he was so fucking cold his hands were numb and his insides felt like they were going to shake themselves to pieces.
He was still lying on dirt, just as he had been the last time he was conscious. Cold, hard dirt. Grinding into his face.
But this time, his mind was alert, not the blurred fog he’d been in the last several times he was conscious.
Willing strength into his body, Mason rolled onto his back. The bones in his shoulder slid around, eliciting a groan he couldn’t suppress. Broken. Definitely.
The place was pitch-black. He couldn’t see a damn thing.
Last time he’d woken up, he had a vague memory of a sliver of light visible beneath an ill-fitting slab of wood pulling door duty. Now it was dark. May in northern Alaska meant about eighteen hours of functional daylight, so the darkness didn’t tell Mason much, besides that he was seriously screwed.
Which he’d already figured out.
What he hadn’t figured out was where the hell he was, and how he’d gotten there.
He thought for a minute, trying to determine the most recent clear memory he had: A header down the side of a mountain…The shouts of his dad…The screams of his mother and his girlfriend, Kristina.
His parents. Too old to climb, he’d told them jokingly before this trip. Joking, but also half serious. Knowing he’d never be able to stop them from doing it, but too aware of the number of hard years they’d subjected themselves to. In their fifties, they weren’t too old to climb. But they were too young to die.
Mason had gone on this climb with them not for himself, but to be their anchor, just in case.
And he’d brought Kristina. After dating for six months, Mason had finally been ready for her to meet his parents. He’d told her he’d keep her safe, even though she wasn’t an experienced climber.
And he’d failed.
Kristina.
Fuck.
Mason’s head began to throb, but he kept replaying that fall in his head. What the hell had happened to everyone else? The last thing Mason remembered was the anchor rope snapping. He recalled catapulting down the side of a snowy crevasse and shielding his head as he bounced off rocks. Hearing the screams of the climbing party. He didn’t remember landing. Had no memory of what had happened to the rest of the crew.
How the hell had he gone from the side of a mountain to sprawled on the floor in some ramshackle hut? And where was everyone else?
Shit.
He had to get out before they came back.
Mason had been in this kind of position before, stranded on a mountain. Hurt. He knew how to conserve his strength, saving it up so he could do the impossible: whatever it took to survive.
So he lay there. Willing his broken body to respond. Concentrating on nothing but the image of standing. He visualized walking to the door. Opening the damn thing and getting the hell out.
Eventually, his muscles began to tingle, and he felt them kick in, responding to his orders.
Mason took a deep breath, then rolled onto his stomach again, gritting his teeth against the pain. Sweat broke out on his brow. At least one broken rib. Jesus, he’d forgotten how much they hurt.
On the count of three.
One. He palmed his hands on the ground beneath his shoulders.
Two. Toes anchored in the dirt.
Three. He shoved himself to his knees, a roar of agony filling the air.
Triumph singing through his veins, Mason dropped his head, fighting against the dizziness as he prepared for the final assault. One more second and he’d be on his feet, and—
The door slammed open, and a bright light blinded him.
Mason swore and ducked his head, closing his eyes to save his vision. “Turn
off the light,” he ordered.
“You’re alive.” It was a male voice Mason didn’t recognize.
Not that it meant anything.
This guy could have been sent to represent the others. The flashlight didn’t budge from Mason’s face, rendering him essentially blind. “Where’s everyone else in my party?”
The light wavered, and Mason heard footsteps nearing. He tensed, skin prickling on the back of his neck. His muscles bunched, and he kept his head averted from the light, waiting for his chance….
A boot slammed into his side, and Mason bellowed with agony. He dropped to the ground as his hand went to his side, trying to protect his broken rib.
“I like you better in the dirt.”
Fighting to stay conscious, Mason stiffened when the man crouched beside him. There was a familiar cadence to the man’s voice. Not from Seattle…Mason had encountered him more recently. Someone from Alaska…
Shit. Had he been tracked ever since arriving?
Mason remembered his captor’s voice mixed with the screams of his climbing team. This man had been there when they’d fallen. “Did you kill them?”
“Why do you care?” The man sounded pissed. “You fucking blew it. I had it set up perfectly. But you broke protocol.” He shined the light directly into Mason’s eyes. “You fucked it up, and the wrong people died.”
Kristina. His mother. His father. The others, seven strangers, in the climbing party. “Who died?” A deep, dark fury unlike anything he’d ever felt boiled in his veins. “You son of a b—”
“Shut up.” The man slammed him in the chest, and Mason gasped for breath as he collapsed again.
“Who are you?” Mason wheezed. “Who are you working with?”
The man glanced up, a thin smile on his face, as he held up Mason’s driver’s license. “Same last name as Alice. Husband?”
“Alice?” Mason realized his captor must have gone through his wallet. “Alice is my mother, and if you hurt her—”
“Mother?” The man studied the license again, then stiffened. “Jesus, it was you. You’re the reason.”
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