Chapter 15
Millions of cubic feet of airspace, hundreds of planes in the air, and that fucking buzzard picked Lance’s flight path for its suicide run.
Today.
When he had a jumpy passenger.
He could land a Cessna with one eye closed, but landing a Cessna on God only knew what kind of terrain with an engine that kept going out took a bit more concentration.
Hell if he’d let Kaci hear him talking to the nearest air traffic controller about an emergency landing.
He was still two hundred feet up when his suggested makeshift landing strip came into view. The plane was pitching and pulling, dipping and groaning, but he held steady, talking to the machine, manipulating the tail and ailerons and flaps to compensate for the sputtering engine.
The Aero Club guys would never let him live this down.
Hell, neither would anyone in his squadron.
Nice aim, Thumper. Most people just buy a Thanksgiving turkey at the store.
Damn bird had been half as big as a turkey. Couldn’t have been a sparrow or a robin.
Had to be a fucking vulture.
It was a fucking miracle the bird hadn’t taken out the whole engine. Must’ve just clipped its wing.
But they weren’t on the ground yet.
He pulled back on the throttle, breathing a sigh of relief when the damaged propeller gave him all she had. Nose up. Attitude good. Airspeed questionable. Altitude perfect.
Passenger hyperventilating.
Where was a good bottle of Jack when a guy needed one?
Two minutes later, they were on the ground. The plane bounced, but it stayed down, shuddering and jiggling over the uneven plowed dirt until it came to a full stop.
As soon as Lance unbuckled his seatbelt, Kaci lunged for the door.
It didn’t open.
She banged on it.
“Kaci.”
“Let. Me. Out.”
He reached across her and flipped the lock. She tumbled out onto the ground, where she promptly fell face-first into the dirt.
He followed her out her side of the plane, because it was faster than walking around the damn thing. “Kaci,” he said again.
She lifted an arm. “Sugar, sometime later, I’m gonna thank you for me being alive. Might be a day, might be a couple weeks. But right now, you need to back off and let me and this ground get reacquainted.”
He needed to walk away.
Give her some space. Let her cope.
But—“I landed a fucking airplane without an engine, and it was a fucking good landing at that. The ground didn’t do a damn thing, you big baby.”
She lifted her face. Her nose and forehead were smudged with Georgia clay, but her bright blue eyes glowed as though they’d gone nuclear. “Did you just call me a baby?”
Had he?
Apparently he had.
And he didn’t want to take it back. “I signed up to put my life on the line every single fucking day, and you prance around shooting off pumpkins and potatoes and God only knows what else, but someone so much as says the word airplane around you and you turn into a Big. Ol’. Baby.”
She pushed to her knees, then all the way to standing, her every pore shooting out laser death beams. “I’d rather be a baby than an asshole.”
“Who was it throwing out cheating accusations? Refusing to admit defeat in trivia? Acting like you’re doing me the favor in putting up with your crazy-ass redneck shit? And I’m the asshole. Right.”
“You don’t have any idea—”
“Your father died a hero so you could pussyfoot around, letting some stupid fear be bigger than all of your brains. I’ve never lost a parent.
You’re right. I don’t know what that’s like.
But I lost a buddy in pilot training. I’ve lost friends in Iraq and Afghanistan.
You keep living, Dr. Boudreaux. Because that’s how you honor someone’s memory.
So go on. Hug the ground. Skip your damn conference.
I’ll keep fighting for your right to be a baby. ”
He turned around with a growl and kicked at the dirt. He had to call the Aero Club. His commander. Someone for a ride. Go talk to the farmer and thank him for use of his field for an emergency landing.
This was a fucking disaster.
Something hit him square in the back.
He twisted around. “Did you just throw a mud ball at me?”
She launched another chunk of Georgia mud at him, but it sailed left and over his head. “I. Am. Not. A. Baby.”
He didn’t want to care.
He shouldn’t care.
She was a hot mess. Trouble with a capital everything. A walking catastrophe who couldn’t aim for shit.
“The bird throw that first one?” he said.
“Go to hell,” she snarled.
And this time, she turned her back on him and marched those sweet hips away.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“Ain’t none of your concern, Captain.” She punctuated the sentence with a raised middle finger.
Lance growled to himself.
She wouldn’t go far.
She couldn’t. They were in the middle of fucking nowhere, at least fifty miles from Gellings.
So he’d let her cool off—and he’d do some cooling off himself—and he’d get back to taking care of the damn plane.
Kaci had no idea how far she walked, but thank heavens for GPS on phones. When Tara finally pulled up on a backcountry road two hours later, after leaving work to come rescue her, she had no idea where she was.
“Oh, jeez, you’re a mess. Where’s Captain Flyboy?” Tara asked.
“Don’t ever say that man’s name to me ever again.”
“He didn’t push you out of the plane, did he?”
“He crash-landed us in a cornfield.”
“Is he okay?”
“Is he okay?” She rubbed her dirt-streaked hands down her pants.
Her favorite Ole Miss shirt was ruined, her feet had blisters, and her knees and ankles ached almost as much as her calves and thighs.
“That man took aim at a mutant flying ostrich, killed the plane’s engine, nearly made me have a catatonic stroke, and then he called me a baby. And you want to know if he’s okay?”
“So that’s a no.” Tara handed over a bottle of water.
Kaci’s phone rang. She pulled it out and glanced at it, and unwelcome tears clogged her throat.
“Um, does he know where you are?” Tara asked.
Kaci shoved the phone at her.
Lance was right.
She was a big ol’ baby. And she didn’t know how to admit when she was wrong. Or how to say thank you for everything he’d done for her.
“Hi, you’ve reached Kaci’s phone,” Tara chirped. “Oh, yes, we’ve met. I was there that night she kissed you at Taps… Uh-huh. I can—no, no, she’s fine. Do you need a ride back home too?”
Kaci flared her eyes wide and made a what the hell? gesture at her friend.
Tara ignored her. “Oh, good. Great. Yeah, I imagine that has to be a pain in the ass. Hey, so I know this is awkward, but I write romance novels in my spare time, and I would love to pick your brain about—hey!”
Kaci hung up the phone and shoved it back in her pocket. “Bad timing, sugar.”
“He’s worried about you. And he says to go ahead and take you home. He’s making sure the plane gets back to the Aero Club.”
Being the responsible one. Cleaning up a mess he wouldn’t have been in if it weren’t for her. “I think I screwed up,” she whispered to Tara.
Tara looped an arm around her for a shoulder hug. “All the best people do from time to time. You hungry? I brought beef jerky and bananas.”
She wasn’t hungry.
But she was tired of fighting all the time.
And of all the men in the world, Lance deserved to be fought with the least.
“I don’t want another military man in my life,” she said.
Tara squeezed her again. “Sometimes, we don’t get that choice.”
After four hours taking care of the plane, another hour and a half drive back home with Juice Box chattering the whole way, and a five-mile run, Lance still wanted to hit something.
Instead, he settled for heading out with the guys to spend some quality time with Gertrude and that bottle of Jack at Pony’s man cave. He was tossing darts and riding a buzz when an unexpected knock sounded at the door.
He didn’t think much of it until the room went silent behind him.
Slowly, he turned, knowing without looking that he would never be prepared for whatever it was she was up to.
“What the hell do you want?” Pony said to Kaci.
She was in jeans that hugged every curve, shitkicker boots, and a skintight pink cotton shirt that perfectly showed the outline of her bra.
Her lips were painted, eye makeup smoky, hair mussed and styled and falling about her shoulders.
She lifted her pert little nose, but uncertainty kept her blue eyes dimmer than usual. “Just bringing by what I owe y’all.”
She reached over beside her, grunted a little, then lifted a keg into the doorway.
“That filled with cyanide?” Pony asked.
Her nose twitched, and a flash of irritation brought a spark to her eyes, but her voice came out far meeker than Lance would’ve thought possible. “It’s SweetWater IPA.”
Five of the guys had gathered around her. Lance had to shift to see her between them. She stood her ground, but for once, she wasn’t standing there belligerently, daring any of them to challenge her.
Pony snapped his fingers. “Juicy, get over here and try the beer.”
Kaci’s gaze dipped to the floor. Her cheeks weren’t just pink. They were flaming red.
She was embarrassed.
Her discomfort hit him like a sack of bricks to the gut.
No matter how mad he was with her for walking away today, for leaving him alone wondering if she’d gone and gotten herself run over by a car or a random marauding bull or attacked by a rabid sparrow—which all seemed equally likely, knowing Kaci—he still didn’t want her swallowing her pride.
She’d worked damn hard to earn that pride, at least professionally.
And he shouldn’t have called her a baby.
“This beer’s shit,” Juice Box announced.
“Sugar, that’s your age talking,” Kaci said.
She clamped a hand over her mouth and looked down again.
Pony snickered. He snagged the red Solo cup from Juicy and tipped the beer back. “Lady ain’t wrong,” he declared. He pulled the keg into the building and gave her a nod. “Good beer. Thanks.”
And then he shut the door in her face.
Lance shoved forward. “Dammit, Pony, don’t be an asshole.”
“What? We’re even. Not friends.”