A Rare Breed

by Mary Tate Engels

  "No, thanks," Brit muttered, wishing she could grab a nap on the flight to L.A. and knowing now that it would be delayed while they detoured by the canyon.

  "Hey, Frank buddy, thanks a hell-of-a-lot. I’ll make this worth your time and effort," Rudi promised.

  "Never mind about that," Frank said. "Let me see if I can change my flight plan and get clearance for this." Frank began making contact with the ground and soon gave them all a thumbs-up as they proceeded eastward.

  Brit didn't give the flight change a second thought. After all, how many times did anyone get a chance to view the Grand Canyon from a helicopter? This, too, would be one of those great experiences to tell Ana and Kelly.

  Less than thirty minutes later, there it was beneath them. The Grand Canyon. "Magnificent" was a mere word that provided an inadequate description. The vision before her took Brit's breath.

  Frank flipped the microphone on as he made a small circle over one corner of the huge abyss and his voice replaced the music. "This is a remote section of the canyon, folks, but you get the idea. That little silver ribbon down there is a tributary to the Colorado River, which is the main, big one through the canyon."

  "Awesome," Yolanda murmured. "Look at that! Like a giant scoop out of Rocky Road ice cream!"

  "Enjoy," Frank said and flipped the music back into their earphones.

  Brit tried to memorize the beauty beneath her so she could tell her friends in San Diego about every detail. Suddenly she noticed Frank's quick, jerky hand motions as he fiddled with the instruments.

  "What's wrong?" she asked spontaneously, and then realized he couldn't hear her. Vivaldi's "La Primavera" continued to swell in the earphones as if nothing were happening. But something definitely was wrong. Brit just didn't know what it was. She watched helplessly as Frank struggled with several flashing red lights on the panel.

  Brit tried to stay calm. But when the helicopter shuddered and began to dip and sway, her stomach made an abrupt flip-flop and fear knotted in her throat.

  Frank switched on the microphone. "Okay, folks, we've got a little problem with the fuel line. Acts like it's stopped up. If I can land her, I think I can fix it. Make sure your seat belts are fastened. Hang on, we're going down!"

  Both the Romeros jabbered excitedly at once. "Land? Where the hell are you landing? There's nothing out there! Are we going to crash? Oh, dear God, we're going down! I knew we shouldn't have-"

  Frank switched them off, and glorious music blared again. He pointed to a sandbar, indicating to Brit that he was aiming for it. The sides of the canyon slipped past as they headed down. For a minute or so, it appeared they would make it. But they were moving too fast — straight down—and Brit feared they were still too far from the tiny sandbar to land on it.

  Then they were spinning out of control, tilting, dropping fast toward the canyon floor. A clump of tall cottonwood trees loomed straight ahead, seeming to charge closer and closer. The copter hit the trees with a bone-jolting crash, rotor blades biting like scythes. Leaves and twigs hurtled past the windows and thwacked the fuselage as the craft slammed between two branches with a wrenching screech of metal. Brit felt herself hurled sideways. The copter caught, teetered, caught again, and came to rest on its side, Brit's door jammed, motor grinding, swaying slightly like a suspended tree house.

  As soon as they stopped moving, Frank jerked off Brit's headphones and began pushing her toward the door. "Out, get out! Quick! Climb out of here and run! Get away from the craft so it doesn't fall on you!"

  Pushing nervously on the door, finally kicking it open, Brit obeyed Frank. She could hear him yelling at the Romeros and their frantic, screaming responses.

  As Brit climbed out of the chopper and began crawling along a branch, she was vaguely aware of the nearby sounds of rushing water. Closer, and much more frightening, were the cracking and popping of metal all around her. She inched along the flimsy limb until it dipped under her weight and dumped her into a shallow stream. With Frank's warning to move echoing in her head, she crawled and scrambled through the water as fast as she could. Seconds later, the main body of the helicopter crashed to the streambed.

  Panting, Brit sprawled on the rocks near the shore and watched in horror as the helicopter began to break up and metal parts were washed away, rushing madly to God knows where. Brit lay there for a few minutes, trying to gather her senses and her breath. They had landed, no . . . they had crashed somewhere and now the helicopter was falling apart. Where was everyone? Were they safe? Was she all alone?

  In a few moments, Brit's worst fears were dispelled. She heard voices and spotted her traveling companions lurching across the stream toward her. There was something poignant about the sight of all three splashing, stumbling, helping each other, drenched and bedraggled—but safe— and it made Brit want to laugh hysterically or cry with relief.

  As if drawn by the same magnet, they gathered in a tight little circle, all talking at once. Half an hour ago, they were strangers. Now survival had made them kin.

  A loud popping noise turned their attention back to the crash scene. They watched helplessly as a large portion of the helicopter broke apart and floated away. At that moment, they knew their way out was gone.

  "Can't we salvage anything?" Yolanda cried, suddenly aware that they were losing everything they had brought along with the chopper.

  "Too dangerous to try." Frank's voice was dull with shock.

  "Hey, bud, we have some valuable things in our luggage!" Rudi gasped, lunging forward. "I have to get them!"

  Frank grabbed his arm. "Don't, please. I'm serious about it being too dangerous. The bird's falling apart. Anyway, I think we're too late."

  Yolanda pointed. "Look!"

  They all turned to watch their luggage plunge into the water, one bag after the other, as if they were on a conveyer belt that was supposed to dump them systematically into the river. They bobbed briefly, and then disappeared.

  Everyone was quiet for a few stunned minutes, observing a private, helpless vigil to their lost possessions.

  "Gucci . . ." Brit murmured, silently recalling how much her new bags had cost. And now they were gone.

  "You, at least, have your purse," Yolanda said bitterly. "Mine's feeding some damn fish right now!"

  Brit looked down and, sure enough, her purse was still strapped across her shoulder. She had her cash, a book, and breath mints. And what good were any of those to her right now?

  "There goes my camera!" Rudi yelled, cursing violently. "And my new leather jacket!"

  "And my new diamonds!" Yolanda whined. "I put them in my bags! Thousands of dollars are being washed downstream to feed some big mouth bass!" She clapped her hand over her mouth as if to quiet a scream.

  Brit realized that her entire brand new, expensive wardrobe that she'd bought with the first big check was floating down the river, too. She joined in the lament. "Oh no! My clothes! My Italian sandals! My Irish sweaters!"

  "Only one consolation, folks," Frank said in an irritatingly calm tone. "We're safe."

  "Do you know how much that camera plus all the attachments is worth?" Rudi demanded.

  "Well no, but I'd guess you folks are insured," Frank reminded them.

  "Insured? Who cares about that? Some things can't be replaced. How would you like a lawsuit the size of Montana?" Rudi threatened.

  "Frank's right, Rudi," Brit agreed in a tone meant to soothe him. "At least, we're not injured. It could have been much worse. We could have been ki—"

  "Yeah, Rudi," Yolanda interrupted sarcastically. "We can always buy more stuff. You’ll like that. You're so good at it."

  "I'm good at it? What about you?" Rudi snarled.

  "My job is making the money, remember? That's why we were headed for L.A. Yours is

  spending it. Or gambling it away."

  "You lost more at the roulette wheel than I did at everything combined!"

  "Now, folks . . ." Frank admonished. "Bickering won't help things."

  Brit
was suddenly aware of water swirling around her ankles and began moving toward shore. "Where are we, anyway?"

  "Somewhere in the bottom of the Grand Canyon." Frank followed her, glancing around with a bewildered expression. "Let's see now, we were flying over the far west corner."

  "Oh, great," Rudi muttered, cursing again. He and Yolanda helped each other to shore. "The pilot needs a compass. Meantime I've lost thousands of dollars of jewelry, camera equipment, and clothes."

  "Hey, what's that?" Frank pointed to an object bouncing in the river. He ran toward it, plunging into midstream without hesitation.

  "What do you see?" Yolanda stood on tiptoe and stretched her neck. "Somebody's luggage? Mine, I hope!"

  They watched with renewed optimism as Frank pulled something large from the water and hauled it toward them. "Look, folks! At least we still have the shrimp cocktail and champagne!" The bulky box proved to be the drink cooler, which Frank pulled to their sandy spot.

  Something about the sight of Frank struggling to salvage that sturdy but cheap, in comparison to what they'd just lost, red and white cooler triggered Rudi's rage. Without warning, he leaped at Frank and wrestled him to the ground. The two of them rolled together, grunting, and grappling like slapstick comedians in an old movie.

  Brit and Yolanda screamed at the two men to stop, but they continued wrestling ineptly.

  "Damn fool—" Rudi muttered along with a barrage of curses.

  "Crazy jackass — " Frank mumbled, trying to get the upper hand.

  Finally Rudi, being much larger and stronger, rolled to the top and, straddling Frank, pulled back his arm to punch the hapless pilot. Brit yelled again and lunged forward, latching onto Rudi's giant arm, screaming for him to stop. She felt him try to shake her free, felt her whole body tremble as he used his roaring strength to loosen her grip and free himself from her.

  She was whipped around like a rag doll and then a different male voice bellowed, "Hey, stop! Stop that!" But there was no stopping. Rudi was a raging bull and continued trying to box poor Frank, who lay pressed to the ground. Brit held onto his arm, making the fight impossible and infuriating Rudi further. Suddenly, there was a loud smack, a low groan, and Rudi tumbled backward. Brit, still attached to his arm, went with him.

  Briefly stunned by the impact, Brit finally managed to sit up and prop herself on Rudi's huge form, which lay still beside her. Yes, there he was. She hadn't imagined another man. There actually was someone who had interfered with the fight. He had long dark hair and intense dark eyes and he hovered close to her face.

  "You all right?" His voice rumbled low in his throat as his hands framed her shoulders and held her firmly for a moment.

  "I'm fine," she lied. Brit thought she must be dreaming that a handsome stranger with dark hair to his shoulders appeared out of nowhere.

  As soon as she claimed she was all right, he moved and she could hear him talking to Frank. Yolanda sat close, cradling her husband's massive head in her lap, murmuring, "Oh, Rudi-Tudi baby, speak to me. Are you all right? Oh, come on, baby . . ." Gone was the quarrelsome attitude that had kept them bickering for the whole trip. Now she was full of smothering affection.

  Brit pushed herself to her feet, trying to put things into perspective. Maybe she had fallen asleep on the flight and would wake up any minute and find herself safe and sound and nearing L.A.X.

  "You sure you're all right, miss?" A hand touched her shoulder. "You look a little dazed."

  Brit lifted her face and brushed her blond hair back. She stared at the most handsome man she could ever imagine in her wildest dream. "Who are you?"

  "Jake Landry. I was working about half a mile from here when I heard the crash."

  Yes, she thought. She was dreaming. Dreaming about her great-grandmother Bonnie's story.

  There stood a tall Indian with dark hair to his shoulders and dressed only in a breechcloth. He was certainly magnificent.

  The difference was that this man named Jake wore a faded chambray shirt and frayed Levi's and looked quite contemporary. His shiny jet hair was short on the sides and slightly longer in back. He had the high cheekbones and chiseled features of a Native American. And he was absolutely magnificent.

  "Did you say you work near here?" A flood of hope swept over Brit. Perhaps they were near some habitation, more people, and a way out. They could be rescued soon!

  "I'm digging over there—" He gestured behind them.

  "Digging? For gold?" Her eyes grew larger.

  "Hardly." He chuckled and shook his head. The dark straight hair moved like silk tassels around his face. "Digging a ruin."

  "A what?"

  "It's an Indian ruin or cliff dwelling where Indians lived nearly a thousand years ago. There are several sites hidden in the canyon walls that are full of antique treasures. I'm documenting them."

  "You mean like . . . archeology?" Brit's voice fell along with her hopes. This man wasn't here to rescue them. He had other interests.

  "Exactly like archeology." His dark eyes gleamed when he mentioned eight-hundred-year- old pots and baskets no one had touched for hundreds of years.

  Rudi groaned and the stranger named Jake Landry started toward him. Brit quickly stepped forward. "Tell me, Jake. Are you . . . alone. Or is there a team of you down here working?"

  "No team. I'm alone." He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and tucked it into her hand. "If there's any ice in that cooler, put a piece in here for that one." He nodded toward Frank. "He's going to have a doozie of a shiner."

  Brit felt a surge of energy as the man's hand wrapped around hers. She recalled Bonnie's first reaction to her lover.

  We stared, surprise in both our faces. Our eyes met. . .

  Jake quickly moved away, and Brit fumbled as she tucked the handkerchief around a handful of ice and went to Frank. His eye was already beginning to swell.

  With a sideways glance, Brit watched as the tall stranger knelt beside a groaning, groggy Rudi. "Hey, you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  Rudi mumbled something unintelligible, then seemed to wake fully and cursed a blue streak.

  "Sorry, bud." Jake offered his hand and pulled Rudi to a sitting position.

  "Sorry?" Yolanda was furious. "You jackass! You knocked my husband all the way over here! You could have hurt him badly. What the hell's wrong with you?"

  "Look, lady," Jake said between thinned lips. "I don't know exactly what's going on here, but your husband was beating up that man over there. And he's bigger. I didn't see either of you women able to stop it. Somebody had to do something."

  "It was a guy thing." Yolanda pouted defensively.

  "No, it was a stupid fight, as most of them are. Now, why don't you get some ice for your husband, and we can talk about your situation."

  Finally they gathered around the stranger, Brit and Frank on one side of him and Yolanda and Rudi on the other. As he spoke, Brit was reminded of Bonnie's description of her Indian lover.

  I knew immediately that he was a rare breed of a man.

  "Let's exchange names as a reasonable beginning. I'm Jake Landry, and I teach at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. I'm down here working on a research project."

  "I'm Frank Scofeld, the pilot of this shipwreck. And these folks are my passengers." Frank held the iced handkerchief on his eye and gestured for the rest to introduce themselves.

  "I'm Yolanda. And this man you knocked around is my husband, Rudi Romero."

  Rudi spoke up. "She's the comedian on TV, Yolanda." Rubbing his jaw, he grumbled, "Damn, this hurts. You pack a wallop."

  Jake shook their hands. "I don't watch much TV, but it's nice to meet you. Sorry about the punch, Rudi." He turned a curious expression to Brit.

  "I'm Brit Bailey." She felt caught in the strange power of his dark gaze.

  "Are you with them?" Jake asked.

  "Me?" She shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no. I'm, uh, traveling alone. We just happened to charter the same flight to L.A."

  "If you
were heading for L.A., how did you get so far off track?"

  Rudi stepped forward. "We were trying to show Yolanda the Grand Canyon."

  "Yeah," Yolanda added scornfully. "And here it is!"

  "Engine trouble," Frank inserted. "I was trying to land on this sandbar when we hit the trees."

  "Probably a good thing." Jake shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You're lucky to get out alive."

  She smiled up at him. "And lucky you found us."

  "But we're not lucky to have lost valuable luggage and clothes and jewels," Yolanda reminded everyone.

  "My camp's not far away." Jake walked around and gave everyone a rudimentary inspection. "If you're ready for a little hike, there's some food left, maybe not enough for a feast, but enough to share."

  "We have shrimp and champagne in the cooler," Frank offered.

  Everyone was silent for a moment, balancing the incongruity of shrimp and champagne with their predicament.

  Jake looked at Rudi, then at Frank. "Okay, guys, listen up. No more fighting, you hear? Whatever is going on between you two will have to stop. Agreed?"

  After a moment's hesitation, and encouragement from Brit and Yolanda, both men nodded stubbornly.

  "How the hell do we get out of here?" Yolanda asked.

  Jake rubbed his chin. "I'm supposed to receive a food drop tomorrow. I’ll notify the pilot that we need a rescue and he can go for help."

  "What are you talking about?" Yolanda demanded, hands on hips. Her jumpsuit was torn and wet and she looked like she'd been in a fight, herself.

  "Well," Jake explained slowly. "There's a pilot who flies over regularly and drops food once or twice a week."

  "How long have you been down here?"

  "Almost a month."

  "Whoa!" Yolanda exclaimed, making a mug for the others. "I’ll bet your wife loves this summer vacation."

  "No wife. Just work," he said.

  "That's it? No more contact with the outside world?"

  Jake nodded, tight-lipped.

  "What about a shortwave radio? Can't you just call someone?"

  "A shortwave is too heavy. I didn't want to bother with it. Figured I wouldn't need it."