Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  We also knew the importance of keeping the secret housed within the ISS Destiny Module exactly that: a secret. It was why I had organized a certain level of security clearance for Kat; so she could be protected under the NASA umbrella as family. I was so shocked and delighted to talk to her on the HAM radio, and in our many emails since, that I didn’t recognize at first that public association with me could also put her in danger, too, if the unscrupulous used her to get to me.

  And, I suppose keeping her safe was a good excuse to keep her close...

  I was lowered directly in front of the helicopter, and reached up to clasp the hand hanging down from the cockpit to pull me up into it.

  Our grasp secure, the hand squeezed mine with a warmth Kat’s had used to have when—

  Shocked, I looked up, my eyes widening.

  She was stunning. Waist length blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders as she leant down, her body still lithe, but now supporting the curves of a mature woman.

  Kat looked down at me, her eyes dancing and her smile warm, and squeezed my hand again. “You always knew how to dress to impress,” she said, finally.

  Confused, I looked down to see my flight garments in various stages of undress, and grinned. “I thought you were going to be waiting in Karaganda!”

  “I wanted to surprise you, and it turns out for security reasons it was better to have me tag along.” She shrugged. “Something about concentrating their security measures.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by a polite cough and the inescapable sound of someone clearing their throat.

  I turned around to see Sasha supported between two men, grinning shamelessly. “Well, I’m feeling a little under the weather”—he coughed again in an overly exaggerated manner—“and believe I should take the medical personal with me in the second helicopter.”

  Then he winked, completely destroying the effect.

  Kat laughed. “Spasibo.”

  He grinned, unrepentant. “You are welcome, Russian Kitty.”

  Kat returned her gaze back to me, the twinkle in her eye softening. “QRV?”

  My heart melted at her use of radio code. “I definitely am ready.” In more ways than one.

  She pulled me into the cockpit, another medical assistant helping me into my seat.

  I turned to thank the staff for their assistance, instructing them to close the door, and then focused my attention on Kat.

  She leant forward to help strap me in. “I just learnt this less than an hour ago, but I’m hopeless at these things.”

  Her hair smelt wonderful (oh god, how I was looking forward to taking my hair out of my braid and wash it in flowing water) and I couldn’t help but reach forward to touch that golden waterfall.

  She stilled, her breath catching.

  Did that mean she was reacting to my touch? Or reacting badly to my touch, and was not sure how to tell me?

  What if I screwed everything up, and lost our newly rediscovered friendship, too?

  I waited for a long moment before sliding my hand up to cup her face, tipping it up until she looked at me.

  “Ya Skuchau po tebe.” She said finally.

  I smiled, loving the way she reverted to Russian when she was more emotional. “And I have been missing you, for far too many years,” I replied.

  She studied me for a long time, as if internally grappling with something. Just when it reached the point where I was about to panic, her head darted forward and I felt her lips fall on mine.

  I gasped in surprise, and the kiss deepened, alternatingly tender and passionate.

  I tugged her closer, until she moved to sit beside me, her arm brushing my breast unintentionally; I moaned into her mouth.

  The kiss deepened, my lips opening to the onslaught of her tongue—ogon indeed—and she slid her hand up my neck to slide her slender fingers into the braid at the back of my head.

  There was a polite knock on the cockpit door, before it opened.

  We pulled apart, laughing in happiness.

  “Well, your brother was right, after all,” my Kitty-Kat teased, as she scooted closer to me on the seat and strapped herself in.

  I reached for her hand, lacing my fingers with hers as the pilot hopped into his seat and started the rotors. “Yes, you are right. I think we’re in for one hell of a ride.”

  Copyright © 2017, 2018 by Petronella Glover.

  Meghan Ewald was born and raised in northern California. She now makes her home in Texas with her husband, their two children and one very happy rescue dog. Meghan writes fiction in the wee hours of the morning before going to her full time job playing with NASA space suits. She loves good coffee, reading, working out and writing. When not writing fiction, Meghan blogs over at http://gettingthewordswrong.com/. She loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at gettingthewordswrong@gmail.com.

  IN SEARCH OF A PEACEFUL LIFE

  by Meghan Ewald

  Samuel Moss fled back to the Siskiyou mountains in a remote region of northern California after The Great War, not feeling like the sharp-shooting war hero the medals on his chest proclaimed him to be. But his return did bring life back to his father, Daniel.

  When Samuel saw his father for the first time, he shot a questioning look at Charles, his older brother. Charles’s own smile was tight and there were lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there when Samuel had left for the war. His father’s smile looked the same on the right, but the left was slack and frozen, and his once-strong legs looked like two sticks covered by the thick brown blanket over his lap.

  Daniel hugged Samuel around the neck with his good right arm, Samuel bending awkwardly over the wheel chair.

  “It’s good to have you back, boy,” Daniel said. His ruined mouth slurred the words. Samuel breathed in his father’s wood and flannel scent and shut his eyes against the burn of tears.

  After a supper of thin stew, and Daniel was seen to his bed, Charles and Samuel settled into the twin rocking chairs on the front porch, each with his own mug of coffee. They talked of this and that. The sun set and crickets chirped in the dark before the conversation circled back around to what was really on Samuel’s mind.

  He sipped his coffee. “How long has he been this way?”

  Charles sighed. “Since the last stroke. I guess it’s been three years now.” Charles looked into his cup and swirled his coffee.

  “Your letter said he had a stroke. You didn’t say how bad it was.” Samuel gripped his mug to keep the anger from his voice.

  Charles sighed, and said, “What was I supposed to tell you, Sam? You were off trying not to get shot. Did you want to hear the worst of it? When I had to feed him? When I had to put him in a diaper and clean him like a baby? You had your fight. I had mine.”

  “You should have told me.”

  Charles nodded slowly. “Maybe I should have. You couldn’t have done nothin’, but maybe I should have. But you’re here now. And I’m glad to have another hand bringing in money.” Charles shot him a look from the corner of his eye, and a slow smile curled his lips. “I ran into Patwin Super yesterday. You remember his daughter Elizabeth, don’t you?”

  Samuel grunted noncommittally.

  “She asked about you.”

  “She’s probably married with a couple of kids now.”

  “Nope.” Samuel heard the grin in Charles’ voice. “She’s been waiting for you to come home, Sam.”

  “It’ll never work, and you know it. Karuk’s don’t like their girls marrying white boys. We’re trouble, remember?”

  “Patwin always liked you.”

  “He always liked Dad. They’ve been friends for years.”

  Charles pushed himself out of the rocking chair and poured the rest of his coffee over the porch railing. “Well, just so you know, she asked after you. I’m going to go check on Dad and go to bed.”

  Samuel rocked and listened to the familiar night sounds of home. He thought of Elizabeth until the moon rose high overhead.
/>   Though Samuel left the War, the War did not leave him. He drank too much, got into too many fights. One night, deep in the heat of July, he fought the wrong person.

  Josie Butler, a local girl working as a singer in a smoky bar, had tried to put off the advances of Henry Douglas. The son of a wealthy rancher, Abel Douglas, Henry had been a mean kid when they were growing up, always pushing around smaller children. Samuel had been one of those smaller children. Not much had changed—Henry was just bigger now.

  He watched Josie push Henry’s groping hand away as she swayed between tables, saw the Deputy Sherriff’s badge flash as Henry laughed. Anger pulsed in Samuel’s temples. He’d despised men like Henry in the war. They hurt people, sometimes got them killed when their true cowardice was exposed.

  Swallowing the rest of his whiskey, he pushed away from the table. He tapped Henry on the shoulder.

  “We have something to talk about. Outside.”

  “I ain’t got shit to say to you,” Henry said, and turned back to his uniformed companions.

  “Well, I have something to say to you,” Samuel said. He grabbed Henry’s collar and hauled him out back.

  A broken nose convinced Henry to leave for the night. After closing, Josie expressed her gratitude in the bedroom upstairs.

  Ten days later, Samuel set his pitchfork against the barn door and armed sweat off his forehead. The sound of booted feet thumped across the beamed floor and he looked up. Samuel’s greeting died on his lips. He recognized the grim set of the rancher’s face. Samuel straightened to his full height, steeling himself.

  “Afternoon, sir,” Samuel said.

  “Samuel.” The gray haired rancher nodded in greeting. He made a show of inspecting his barn. “You’ve done good work here, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Samuel heard the ‘but’ coming.

  “Yes, a good job,” the rancher repeated. Samuel waited as his employer looked around. Finally, it came. “Listen, son, I’m going to have to let you go.”

  Samuel thought, there’s the first boot. Three jobs in ten days. Samuel forced himself to exhale slowly.

  “Sir, might I ask why?” Samuel kept his voice carefully modulated. He knew why. He wanted to see if this man would say it aloud. The other two would not.

  The rancher stuck his hands in his pockets and scuffed his boots. “Times are hard, son.” He did not look Samuel in the eye when he said it.

  “Right,” Samuel said. He spat tobacco juice onto the neat floor. “Times are hard.”

  The rancher flushed. “Listen here, you ought to keep clear of the Douglas’s. They’ll make nothing but trouble for you.”

  There’s the second. Samuel did not argue. The first two firings had shown him arguing changed nothing. It only prolonged the moment. Instead, he collected his meager earnings, converted them to whiskey and poured them down his throat back at the bar.

  “My brother could help,” Josie said. She pulled a battered chair up to his table and sat down. The bar was quiet, only a few die-hards nursing drinks in the corner. A gramophone played ragtime softly from a small table near the stage.

  Samuel narrowed his eyes. “Help what?”

  Josie rolled her eyes. “You got fired again today, right?” Samuel felt his eyebrows climb. He opened his mouth to say something, protest maybe, but she cut him off. “Everyone knows the Douglas’s have it in for you ever since you whipped Henry Douglas. You’re not going to keep a job around here if they can stop it.”

  Samuel wanted to argue, tell her everything was fine. But the lie wouldn’t come. He knew how much influence the Douglas family had. He tipped his tumbler to his lips and relished the burn of the whiskey.

  “How can your brother help?”

  Josie lowered her voice. “My brother dabbles in a small scale...operation.”

  Samuel heard the pause and frowned. “What do you mean ‘operation’?”

  Josie leaned over the table giving Samuel a healthy view of cleavage. She smelled of cigarettes and perfume. She whispered into his ear. “Rum.”

  Samuel sat up straight and looked over his shoulder. The bartender polished glasses and watched them from behind the bar. Josie grabbed his hand and said, “Smile now, and look at me like I just said I was going to make your night.”

  Samuel forced a smile and leaned in, attempting to ignore the bartender’s eyes watching him. He tried to let go of Josie’s hand, but she held tight. “Rum running is illegal.”

  “What’s worse? The law or starving?”

  Samuel sat back, pulling his hand out of hers, and considered his options. As he saw it, he didn’t have any. “How small an operation?”

  Josie pulled her chair around the table and sat next to him. She leaned on his shoulder and whispered more into his ear. He breathed in the scent of her. Not entirely unpleasant, he decided. We must look like two lovers.

  The bartender went back to minding his own business.

  When she’d told him all he needed to know, Samuel shrugged.

  “A man has to eat,” he said, and knocked back the remaining inch of alcohol.

  The jail door rattled shut. So much for Rum bringing good fortune, Samuel thought bitterly.

  He lay back on the hard bed and put his arm over his eyes. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. A sneering deputy would either be along with a tray of slop or they wouldn’t. Unshed tears burned his eyes and he pressed his arm down harder. What right did he have to be hungry when he was worrying his father into an early grave? He thought back to a simpler time, and Elizabeth’s brown eyes flashed in his mind. He pushed the thought away. He’d never have that either—not the way he was going now. After a while he slid into a restless sleep.

  Samuel awoke to the sound of voices.

  “You’re wasting your money, Patwin. That one there’s trouble.”

  “He’s just going through a rough patch.”

  Samuel knew that deep rumble. Samuel got up from the bed and walked to the bars. Patwin Super stood at the front desk down the hallway, his wallet open, handing a fold of bills to the deputy.

  Samuel’s heart lurched. Elizabeth stood behind him, hands folded meekly in front of her blue dress, her brown eyes downcast. Samuel had to look twice. Meekness looked odd on her.

  “He’s been in here three times in the last ten days. That ain’t a rough patch. That’s a pattern,” the deputy said as he counted the bail money.

  Behind her father, only Samuel saw the angry look that flashed across Elizabeth’s face. He suppressed a grin. Apparently she’d only learned to feign meekness.

  “Maybe,” Patwin said. “Or maybe he just needs another option.”

  The skinny deputy shrugged and put the money into a drawer. “Your money,” he said. “Follow me.”

  The deputy led Patwin and Elizabeth down the short hallway to Samuel’s jail cell. Samuel stood back as the deputy pulled out a jangle of keys and unlocked the door. “I’ll leave you to it,” the deputy said and went back to his desk.

  “Patwin,” Samuel said. He had to look away from Patwin, and his eyes shifted to Elizabeth’s face behind Patwin’s shoulder. The worry in her dark eyes, so like her father’s, made his stomach roil and his cheeks hot. He wasn’t sure which he wanted more: her to stay so he could look at her or for her to leave so she wouldn’t see him this way.

  “Hello, Samuel.”

  Samuel shifted his feet beneath Patwin’s dark gaze. The silence stretched out until Samuel could no longer stand it.

  “Patwin, I—”

  Patwin held up his hand, cutting Samuel’s words off. “I know what you’re going to say, Samuel. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are or how it won’t happen again.”

  “Papa, that’s not fair,” Elizabeth said. “He didn’t mean to—”

  Patwin rounded on her, a bear angry with his cub. “He didn’t mean to what? Get caught? Worry his father into an early grave?”

  Samuel gave a start to hear an echo of his own thoughts.

  Patwin’s angry gaze s
ilenced Elizabeth. She looked down at her feet, two spots of color high on her cheeks.

  Samuel swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. If he hadn’t been such a screw up Elizabeth wouldn’t have had to stand up for him.

  “Sir,” he pleaded, no longer feeling in good enough esteem to call him Patwin, not after his multiple mistakes. “I appreciate your help, but I can’t accept it.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Patwin said, and the anger went out of him like air from a balloon. “I did it for your father. He’s been a good friend to me, Samuel. If it weren’t for him my lumber business would never have survived. The white folks in this county didn’t want to compete with a Karuk. If not for your father’s support on the city council, I wouldn’t have the life I do now. He deserves better than what you’re doing to him, Samuel.”

  Samuel opened his mouth to say his father didn’t know what he was up to, but Patwin rode over him.

  “He might not know exactly what you’re doing, but sitting in that wheel chair doesn’t mean his mind doesn’t work. You’ve been fired from too many jobs, and you’re out most nights. Every few days you don’t come home. He knows you’re mixed up with the Fosters and it’s killing him.”

  Samuel grimaced. “What else can I do? No one will hire me. Not since the fight with Henry Douglas. I have to bring money in. We have to eat.”

  Patwin pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. “There’s another way, Samuel.”

  Samuel narrowed his eyes. “How?”

  “Come work for me. I need someone to run lumber from the reservation into town. It’s not a lot of money, but it’s honest work and it’ll keep you out of here.” He gestured around to the jail cell.

  For a moment, Samuel’s tongue forgot how to work. He swallowed hard and said, “You would do that for me?”

  “No.” Patwin shook one thick finger in Samuel’s face. “I’d do that for your father. And you better not make me sorry I did.”