Sheriff Daddy (Timber Creek Daddies #4)

Chapter 1

Hannah

My flight instructor is unconscious. Like… full-on, head-lolling, eyes-closed, not-breathing-right unconscious.

In a plane.

In the air.

With me.

A sick, weightless feeling drops through my stomach like the floor has disappeared. My hands clamp harder around the yoke, knuckles going white, and my brain—my usually capable, competent brain—turns into a dial-up modem from 1999.

This isn’t happening.

This cannot be happening.

I paid for a lesson, not a near-death experience.

“Rick?” I say, voice too high, too thin. “Rick, hey—stop it. This isn’t funny.”

His chin is on his chest. His headset has slipped crooked. One arm is hanging limp beside his seat like a prop in a haunted house.

I glance at the instrument panel and immediately regret it. There are too many numbers. Too many needles. Too many blinking things that feel like they’re judging me.

The plane dips slightly, a soft, innocent little wobble that should not be terrifying, except it is—because I am the only conscious human being inside this flying metal box.

My lungs tighten. I force air in anyway. Okay. Okay. Don’t spiral. If I spiral, we die. That seems… suboptimal.

My headset crackles with static and my pulse slams in my ears. I fumble for the radio mic with shaking fingers.

I’ve practiced this part. I’ve practiced this a hundred times in my head because I’m not reckless. I’m not some thrill-seeker. I’m not here because I want to feel the wind in my hair and scream into the sky.

I’m here because I’m trying to stay alive. Because learning to fly is supposed to be my way out. Not my way into an early grave. My hand finds the push-to-talk button.

“Mayday—mayday—mayday.” My voice breaks on the first word, but I say it again, louder. “This is… this is student pilot Hannah— I don’t know the tail number—”

Great start. Love that for us.

“I’m in a small plane—Cessna—something—” I swallow and look at the panel, forcing my eyes to focus. There. Letters. Numbers. “Tail number N… N-seven… nine… four… three… something…”

My instructor makes a sound. A wet cough that makes my heart leap.

“Rick?” I snap, turning toward him.

His head shifts. He doesn’t wake.

No. No no no.

I look forward again, my hands tightening. The horizon looks steady enough. The plane is still flying. That is… something.

But I’m too high. Too far. Too alone.

My throat burns. “Mayday. My instructor is unconscious. I— I need help.”

Static hisses. Then a voice comes through—deep, calm, and so steady it makes my eyes sting.

“Cessna November-seven-niner-four-three-two, this is Timber Creek traffic. I’ve got you.”

I make a strangled sound that’s half sob, half laugh. “Oh my God. Thank you.”

“Listen to me,” the voice says. “You’re doing good. Keep your hands on the yoke. Don’t yank it. Just breathe.”

I inhale sharply. Exhale.

“Instructor’s out?” he asks.

“Yes,” I blurt. “He just… slumped. He’s not waking up. I think he’s— I don’t know—having a heart attack or something. I’m not a doctor, I’m just a—” I choke. “I’m just Hannah.”

“Okay, Hannah.” Calm. Certain. “I’m going to walk you through this. You can do it.”

I swallow hard. “Who are you?”

A pause. Then, “Silas.” Just one name. Like he doesn’t need more.

“Silas,” I repeat, gripping the yoke like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth. “Please don’t let me crash.”

“You’re not going to crash.” His voice lowers slightly, like he’s talking me down from a ledge. “Not on my watch.”

Not on his watch. That should be cheesy. It should. Instead, it hits something in my chest that feels like safety. The plane wobbles again and my stomach lurches.

“I need you to tell me what you see,” Silas says. “Look at your airspeed indicator. That’s the gauge with the numbers and the needle—”

“I see it,” I gasp. “It’s… moving. Like a lot.”

“That’s normal. Tell me the number.”

I squint through tears, forcing my vision to focus. “Ninety. It’s… around ninety.”

“Good.” His voice is steady enough that I latch onto it like a rope. “Altitude?”

I glance at the altimeter, panic spiking again at the spinning needle. “Uh—two thousand… something? Two thousand eight hundred?”

“Copy. You’re at about twenty-eight hundred feet. We’re going to get you lined up with the runway. You’re near Timber Creek Airstrip.”

“I don’t know where that is,” I whisper.

“You will,” he says. “You’re going to look for a strip of asphalt with lights and an open field around it. It’ll look like a long, dark line.”

I scan the landscape below—patchwork trees, a ribbon of road, tiny houses like toys. Everything looks peaceful. Like the world has no idea I’m up here having a complete emotional collapse.

Then I see it. A long stretch, faint lights at the edges. A runway.

“I— I see it,” I say, voice shaking. “I see the runway.”

“Good girl.” He catches himself, clears his throat like he almost said something else. “Good. Keep it in sight.”

I swallow. “Okay. Okay.”

“Now, Hannah,” Silas says, “I need you to keep the wings level. See the horizon? Use it. Don’t stare at the ground.”

“I’m trying,” I whisper, but my vision keeps dropping because the runway looks like both salvation and doom.

The plane dips slightly again, and I gasp.

“Easy,” Silas says, voice like granite. “Small movements. Tiny. You’re not fighting it. You’re guiding it.”

Guiding it. Like I’m… in control. Like this isn’t just a metal coffin with wings. My hands tremble, but I try. I make a tiny adjustment and the plane steadies.

A shaky sob breaks out of me. “I’m going to throw up.”

“You can throw up after you land.” His tone doesn’t change. “Right now, you fly.”

I swallow it down, the bile and the panic both. “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”

“Throttle,” he says. “That’s the black knob by your right hand.”

I glance down. Find it. “Yes.”

“Pull it back a little. Just a little. We’re going to start a gradual descent.”

My hand shakes as I tug it back. The engine sound changes—drops slightly. The plane starts to sink.

My heart jumps into my throat. “It’s going down!”

“It’s supposed to,” he says firmly. “You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”

I cling to his words.

The runway grows larger. The lights become clearer.

My fear grows too—because the closer I get, the more real it becomes.

Landing. I’ve done landing practice with Rick.

With Rick awake. Talking. Breathing. Holding the second set of controls.

Making calm jokes about how I “look like I’m wrestling an alligator. ”

This is different. This is me alone with gravity and consequences.

“Okay,” Silas says. “We’re going to line you up. Keep the runway centered in your windscreen.”

Centered.

I adjust. The runway slides slightly. I correct again.

My breath stutters. “I can’t— I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” His voice stays calm, but there’s steel in it now. “Listen to me. You are flying that plane right now. You’ve been doing it this whole time.”

I blink, tears spilling down my cheeks.

He’s right. I’m still alive.

“Now, you’re going to bring the nose down just a touch,” he says. “Not much. And keep that airspeed steady. Around seventy.”

“Seventy,” I whisper, nodding to myself like a lunatic. My fingers ache from gripping too hard.

Rick makes another weak sound beside me. A wheeze.

“Rick!” I turn my head. “Rick, please—”

His head rolls slightly. His eyes flutter but don’t open. A fresh wave of fear slams into me.

Silas’s voice cuts through it. “Eyes forward, Hannah.”

I snap back. He’s right. If I lose control now, none of this matters.

“Runway’s coming up,” Silas says. “You’re going to feel the ground rush at you. That’s normal. Don’t pull up hard. Just start easing back gently when you’re a few feet above the runway.”

My throat is dry. “How do I know when it’s a few feet?”

“You’ll know,” he says. “Trust your eyes. Trust your instincts.”

Trust. That word feels impossible. But I try.

The runway is huge now. I can see the white markings. I can see the edge lights. I can see, at the far end, flashing emergency lights.

My chest aches with the desperate need to live.

“Okay,” Silas says, quieter now. “You’re doing great. Keep it lined up.”

The plane descends. The ground rises. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

His voice softens, just a fraction. “I know.”

A beat.

Then, he says, “I’ve got you, baby. Just keep breathing.”

Warmth shoots through me like a flare. Not romantic—maybe. I don’t know. But something primal and comforting. Like someone just wrapped a blanket around my shaking shoulders.

My eyes sting harder. “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I’m breathing.”

“You’re about to flare,” he says. “Ease back. Gentle.”

I pull back slightly. The nose lifts. The plane slows. The runway rushes beneath me. A sound—wheels. A hard bump. The plane bounces and I yelp, panic surging.

“Don’t fight it,” Silas says, calm as ever. “Hold it steady. Let it settle.”

I hold. My hands shake. My whole body shakes. Then the wheels touch again—this time smoother.

We’re on the runway. We’re rolling. We’re alive.

“Oh my God,” I sob, the sound breaking out of me like a dam. “Oh my God.”

“Good,” Silas says. “Now keep it straight. Use your rudder. Don’t slam the brakes.”

I nod frantically even though he can’t see me. “Okay. Okay.”

The plane slows. The emergency lights grow closer. I see figures running. Medics. Fire crew. Someone waving.

“Throttle all the way back,” Silas instructs. “And when you’re slow enough, pull off to the side. Follow the signals.”

I do it. Somehow, I do it.

The plane rolls to a stop on the grass shoulder near the runway. Silence crashes into the cabin so loud it feels unreal. For a second, I just sit there, hands still on the yoke, frozen.

Then I look at Rick. He’s still out. My vision blurs.

“Help is coming,” Silas says. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

My voice is a whisper. “Thank you.”

A pause. Then, “I’m coming for you.”

The words send a fresh jolt through my chest.

The door is yanked open from outside and cold air floods in. Medics swarm, voices urgent. Hands reach past me toward Rick.

“Hannah?” someone asks. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. They lift Rick carefully out of his seat. He groans. Someone says “pulse is weak” and “get him on oxygen.”

I blink hard, trying to make sense of all the motion. Then I see a man.

Is it him? Silas.

He strides through the chaos like he owns it—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark sheriff’s jacket that fits him like a promise. His hair is dark, his jaw rough with stubble, his eyes locked on me with a fierce kind of focus.

He’s… devastating. Like a man carved out of mountain stone and law. My breath catches. And then my body finally catches up to what just happened. My hands start shaking violently. My chest tightens. My vision swims. I’m nearly crying—not from sadness but from sheer adrenaline and terror and relief.

It’s him. It has to be.

Silas reaches the open plane door, stops, and looks at me like he’s making sure I’m real. “You did it,” he says, voice low. steady. “You landed.”

My throat works. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You didn’t,” he says. His hand reaches for me.

I move without thinking, practically falling into him as he pulls me down from the plane.

The second my boots hit the ground, my knees threaten to give out.

Silas catches me. Then—without hesitation—he wraps his arms around me and holds me close, one hand firm at the back of my head like he’s shielding me from the whole world.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”

My breath breaks into a sob. I cling to his jacket like it’s the only solid thing left. And as the medics rush Rick toward an ambulance and the runway lights blur through my tears, one thought pulses through my head, loud and clear: I have no idea who Sheriff Silas is.

But if he can sound that calm while guiding a stranger out of the sky… I have a feeling he’s about to change my life on the ground, too.