by Jillian Hart
He’s dependable, strong, hardworking and honest. Those were a few more of her requirements, right there. Kirby wanted a husband she could respect and look up to. Not that Sam Gardner was that man.
What else had Ruth said about him? He’s had a hard life.
What happened to him? Kirby wondered.
“This is the last one.” His distant rumble rose on the breeze blowing through the open window. “One more throw, then we’ve got to fix the fence. Can’t have you running loose, you big menace. It’s bad manners to accost pretty ladies.”
The menace barked in happy agreement, hopping and leaping in anticipation, his attention on the enormous plastic bone. Sam’s laughter and the warm vibration of his voice lifted and fell according to the wind’s whim. There was something vulnerable in him, this big strong man, playing with his dog.
A hard life, huh? She wondered about that as she watched him kneel to rub Leo’s ruff. Then he disappeared into the house, the dog shadowing him.
When Sam appeared again, he was wearing his tool belt and hauling a small bucket that rattled when he came around to her side gate.
“Hey, I’m about to trespass,” he called from below the window.
She was out of his line of sight, and he hadn’t looked over at her once. How did he know where she was? Did he know she’d been watching him?
“I’m surprised you’re using the gate. I thought you might just climb over the fence instead.”
“I would, but I don’t want to set a bad example for Leo. Hey, hello there, pup.”
Her spaniel’s bark rose in a happy greeting as Kirby hit the switch on the iced tea maker.
“That’s some watchdog you got there,” he called through the screen door. “What does she do? Invite burglars into the yard?”
“Only once, and he wasn’t a burglar.” Kirby stared at him hard.
“Hey, insult me and I won’t fix the fence.”
“My dog isn’t the one getting out.” She pushed open the screen door to join him on the back deck. “I almost have your tea ready. It’s brewing right now.”
“Brewing? You don’t use the mix?”
“From a can? Don’t insult me. When I promised you tea, I meant the real thing.” She led the way to the back of the property, where a few boards leaned against the fence beneath the shade of a giant maple.
“The real thing? I don’t know.” He hefted the awkward boards as if they weighed nothing at all. “I think that’s too wholesome for me. I need the fake stuff with all the chemicals and artificial flavors, or I could go into shock. Then who’d fix your fence?”
“I’m a nurse practitioner. I’d save your life.”
“Great. You’d revive me so I could go back to work.”
“I’d revive you because I took an oath. And because you’re my new quiet neighbor. The one who won’t play loud music at night.”
“Are you hinting at something?” Acting as if puzzled, he hauled the hammer from his battered leather tool belt. “I’ll have to remind my fellow biker gang members to keep it down when we gather at midnight to shoot off our illegal firearms.”
Oh, he thought he was funny when he was no such thing. The tea was probably ready, so she headed back to the house. “Can I get you anything? I have cookies.”
“Cookies are too sweet for me. They might ruin my sour disposition.”
“How about a lemon?”
The little spaniel skipped after her, clearly in love with her owner and, to Sam’s shock, Leo took after Kirby, too, his tongue lolling, his gait snappy, that sappy loving look in his big eyes.
“Hey, get back here!” he commanded, and the dog gave him a sad expression. It was an embarrassment, that’s what. “Oh, don’t complain. Come here.”
He didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Kirby was nice and seemed lovely, but she was a woman. Like half the people on the planet.
He shoved a bunch of climbing rose canes aside. Yep, she was a woman. Flowers and tidy weeded flower beds and those little figurine things stuck here and there. A birdbath and stepping stones with designs on them.
He was glad he was in charge of his own destiny. Being alone was a good thing. He didn’t need anyone and he didn’t need ceramic stepping stones.
As he dug through his bucket for the right size of galvanized nails, he heard her phone ring inside the house. He could see her kitchen through the big back window. Tidy and cozy and as ruffly and bright as a magazine cover.
It looked homey. There she was, leaning against the white counter, the phone tucked against her shoulder, talking while she poured sparkling tea into a tall glass.
She sure made a pretty picture. His chest ached with the power of it. He supposed it was the image she made, standing there like an advertisement for all that was good in the world. Clean counters and polished wood and every knickknack in place. With a smile that shone as genuine as the sun.
Not that he believed in that kind of goodness anymore.
Goodness? No. God? Yes. Peace? Yes. That’s what he believed in.
After too many years as a soldier and then as a corporate pilot flying head honchos anywhere in the world they needed to go, he just wanted a home. Peace and quiet. To be content and enjoy his life. Just him and Leo.
He drove the nail in sure and deep with one whack of the hammer. Pinned his elbow on the board and drove in a second nail. A third.
“That was my sister.” She came up from behind him, her steps hushed in the soft grass. Ice cubes rattled as she set down glass and pitcher, both topped with sliced lemons.
Thoughtful.
“I’ve got to run in and help her with the coffee shop. She’s shorthanded. Do you need anything else? I’ll leave the back door unlocked. Just help yourself.”
“Sure, okay.” He didn’t look at her as he drove another nail home. “I’ll lock up when I finish.”
“Okay. Thanks, Sam.”
“I’ve got to ask you something.” He nailed the next board into place. “This has really been bothering me. I’ve had some neighbor disasters, too.”
“You’re worried about me?”
“Are you a partying kind of girl? I’m praying that you’re a quiet sort of woman who doesn’t play music all hours of the night. I need my beauty sleep.”
“Funny.” She slung her slim black purse over her shoulder. “Give my regards to your biker friends.”
Her wink made him chuckle, and it warmed him down to his bones. One thing about Kirby—he liked her sense of humor.
But that was all.
She swept away from him, like grace and spring and peace all rolled up into one perfect human being. He wasn’t looking for a wife. Not by a long shot. But she was fine.
Very fine, indeed.
Chapter Four
Her house was dark—not surprising considering the late hour. The green glow from the clock on the stove, showing 3:15, cast enough illumination to guide her around the corner of the island. She padded on bare feet to the cupboard and reached for her favorite oversize mug by feel.
As she flicked on the cold water faucet, she swore she could smell the faint hint of Sam’s woodsy scent, and it was pleasant. The image of him working on her backyard fence shot into her mind. The afternoon sun had burnished his broad back and his arm muscles had flexed while he drove the nails home.
Fixing her fence for a glass of iced tea. What kind of man did that?
A man who named his ferocious-looking dog Leo, that’s who. A man whose aunt sang his praises as if he were perfect in every way.
You’ve thought about him enough today, okay? Kirby popped open the microwave door, and the interior light burned like a beacon in the darkness as she placed the cup inside. She loved the embossed image of a wet, rumpled cartoon cat in a puddle that said Nothing Is Ever Simple.
That was her life slogan. She shut the door, hit the two-minute button and listened to the machine whir. Sam. There she was, thinking about him again. And what was wrong with that? Everything.
Especially having a conversation about him with herself at three in the morning.
The light from the microwave showed her tidy sink and counter. After coming home from helping out at the coffee shop and having dinner with her sisters, she’d expected to find Sam’s glass and tray left on the counter. But no, he’d rinsed the dishes, put them in the dishwasher. All by himself.
Okay, that was a bonus requirement. One that wasn’t on her list. Maybe she should add it. Right under “man of faith,” she would add “does dishes.” Not a bad attribute for her future Mr. Right to have.
And as if that wasn’t enough, the fence repair was perfect. Through the night shadows around her back porch light she could just make out the unbroken row of boards that proved Sam Gardner completed even small jobs with care.
All those jokes he’d made about being a biker or in a rock band made her smile, even in the lonely night. He was probably a pretty good plumber. And he was here to stay.
She could see his house perfectly through the spreading branches of the lilac trees outside her kitchen window. His windows were dark, his house silent.
Pure blessed quiet.
Thank You, Father, for sending me this wonderful neighbor. She appreciated the stillness, but of course tonight had to be the night she couldn’t sleep. She hated insomnia. Too much on her mind—the practical worries of life like mortgage payments and school loan payments and remembering she needed to give notice at the hospital where she did shift work.
She told herself it was better to worry about all of her responsibilities than what was truly troubling her.
She wouldn’t think about the accident. Or about the dreams that had troubled her more frequently after the medevac crash last month.
The microwave binged, and Kirby retrieved the steaming cup. She dug a bag of her favorite sweet chamomile tea from the third drawer next to the stove. The paper around the bag crinkled in the quiet, and down the hall came the muffled sound of the little dog yipping in her sleep. Maybe Jessie was chasing birds in the backyard in her little doggy dreams.
The phone rang, loud and harsh in the peaceful kitchen. The tea bag tumbled from her fingers. Startled, she sprinted across the short distance to the other end of the kitchen. The caller ID told her that it was business.
Being on call was a nurse’s life.
She snatched up the receiver before the phone could ring a third time.
Stars were everywhere, sending out enough glow to light them up like a beacon, but the rendezvous was a go. Sam never backed down from a mission. It was a challenge, that was all. He was one of the best pilots he knew, and tonight he had to be at his best. He flew so low the whack of treetops against their belly made his navigator nervous.
Flying nap of the earth kept him sharp. On his toes. The intel had been good. Good enough, at least, to keep him several clicks south of trouble. He liked to stay away from enemy soldiers who might happen to be armed with missile launchers. Launched missiles weren’t so good for his helicopter.
It looked like easy flying tonight, and his navigator said so. Mark. They’d gone through boot camp together. Buddies to the end.
“You’re as crazy as ever, Gardner, but tonight looks like a cakewalk. Wait—”
Then the sky lit up. Fire and a deafening crack of metal exploding—
Sam jerked awake, disoriented, the dream still rolling in his mind, frame after frame of fire and death and fighting for calm.
He wasn’t falling out of the sky in hostile territory. He was safe in his new bed in his new room. Even the sheets were new. The memories faded, but the experience of it didn’t. No, that fateful night and its far-reaching effects stayed with him. Still.
He swiped his hand over his face and encountered damp. He had sweat bullets and his hair was drenched. It was the move—any change brought up the dreams—but it was more than that. Much more.
A dog snore broke the silence, followed by the scrape, scrape of dog paws on the floor. Leo was dreaming again, digging and running. Sam knew how fine it was to have good dreams, so he was careful not to wake his dog as he felt his way out of the room and into the kitchen.
He still went over the what ifs in his mind. There had been no warning, nothing. Mechanical failures happened. It was a fact. He believed as a Christian that all things happened for a reason.
It seemed odd that he’d learned that night and for too many nights following how cruel people could be. Even his own wife.
Old wounds. Deep scars. He fought to clear his mind of the nightmare. He checked the refrigerator—nothing in it because he’d drunk the last root beer after grabbing dinner at the local drive-in.
Empty-handed, he kicked open the back door and sat on the top porch step, head in his hands, his heart in pieces. The memory had sunk deep claws into him. He was still hooked, still haunted, unable to keep his mind in the present.
He could hear the beat of the blades as he fought the controls. He’d taken a hit and the radio was suddenly full of chatter, a mission gone wrong, injured SEALs at the LZ, under fire and in need. He was their only ticket to safety and he was going down….
Why was this haunting him tonight?
He let the temperate night air cool the sweat on his brow, and he knew why—the reason lived right next door.
She’d made him think of Carla, of his mistakes, of wrongs that could never be righted. Failings that could only be forgiven and handed over to the Lord.
He saw goodness in Kirby.
When he didn’t believe in real goodness. Not anymore.
The phone rang, a sharp blast of sound that saved him. He hauled his tired carcass up off the step and snared the receiver on the third ring. It was someone in need. A sick child needing a lifesaving flight to the hospital in Seattle, the nearest medical facility with the emergency care she required.
He was the pilot who’d volunteered to fly anyone who needed it.
He slammed down the phone, renewed, energized. With a purpose. Thanks, Father.
A mission was exactly what he needed. To focus his thoughts and give him a sense of purpose. Sam grabbed his keys, his shoes and his jeans and was out the door in ten seconds flat.
The local private airport was dark and still in the early-morning hours as Kirby pulled off the two-lane road and into the paved parking lot. Lord, You know I hate to fly. Give me strength. Please.
There was no time to waste. She hauled her medical bag out of the trunk. Who was going to pilot the flight? Chet always piloted the flights she volunteered for, but he’d up and sold the airfield two weeks ago. Retired to Lake Havasu, Arizona, where there were no cold winters to trouble his worsening arthritis.
She hadn’t heard who’d replaced him as a volunteer. Would it be the new owner of the airport? There were a few chopper pilots around. Maybe it would be Ed, who flew with the county search and rescue.
Her sneakers crunched on the gravel. The airfield was still this time of night. Everything was dark. The modest tower, the hangars lined in tiny rows off to the side, the mown fields that smelled of sweet bunchgrass and wildflowers. A wild rabbit scampered out of her way as she followed the path toward a helicopter set out in the middle of the tarmac.
Not a chopper she recognized. Newer than many she’d flown in. Whoever was flying tonight, he couldn’t be too bad of a man. To donate a flight and all that went with it spoke of deep pockets and a generous spirit.
Wait. Was that him? She caught a brief movement. A man’s tall form, all but shadow, circled out from behind the chopper, a clipboard in hand. Doing his preflight check. Kirby knew she couldn’t be heard over the beat of the blades and the whine of the engines, so she tried to catch his attention with a wave.
He lifted his clipboard in recognition, a dark stranger of a man who remained faceless and formless in the shadows.
Since he’d seen her, she ducked, climbed aboard and settled in. She’d done this probably a hundred times. Chet’s medical equipment was up against the bulkhead. He’d probably donated it, knowing
him, and she made sure the defibrillator and monitors were in working order.
She was belting into the jump seat in back when the pilot’s words, muffled by the noise of the helicopter, told her he was ready to go. Before Kirby could wonder if the pilot was going to introduce himself or she should go up front, another man’s shadow appeared.
“Hey, Kirby.” Jeremiah Clark, anesthesiologist, slammed the hatch behind him. “Looks like we’ve got a great new pilot. I have a lot of confidence in him. Have you met him?”
“No, I haven’t had the chance to.”
“He has a lot of combat flying experience. I always feel better with a veteran at the controls.” Once a marine, the doc dropped his gear and eased onto the seat next to her. “I’m glad Chet left us with a good replacement. Sam seems like a great guy. Once we’re airborne, you oughta go up and—”
“Sam?”
“Yep. Sam Gardner. He’s Ruth Gardner’s nephew. Ruth and my mom are in the gardening club together….”
Sam Gardner is the new pilot? The blood rushed from her head, leaving her dazed. She felt the faint movements and sounds of him up front, out of sight behind the panel of metal.
Sam, a pilot? She tried to picture it. She could. Sam’s confidence, the competence.
But he’s a plumber. Isn’t that what he’d said?
“He doesn’t own the airfield, too, does he?”
Jeremiah nodded. “Of course he does. Didn’t you hear?”
No, she hadn’t heard anything. That’s why she’d assumed he was a plumber. Not a pilot and a businessman with deep pockets and his own helicopter.
“Hope you’re strapped in, par’ners.” Sam’s voice boomed in her earpiece. “Let’s get this bird in the air.”
It was him. No doubt about it. Kirby couldn’t believe it.
But it did seem to fit. He was larger than life. Why not be a local Good Samaritan?
“Good having you at the controls, Sam,” Jeremiah said into his mouthpiece. “I don’t like flying, so take it easy on me, man.”
“I’ll do my best, Doc. Hold on tight, Kirby. We’re good to go.” Sam sounded confident, unshakable as the chopper’s blades whipped harder. “NASA, we have liftoff.”