Chapter 5 #2
He stands when I do, towering over me, close enough I catch his scent: soap and woodsmoke. It makes my pulse quicken. "Not happening. Whatever's got you spooked, rushing back won't fix it."
If only he knew. Rushing back is the only way to fix it.
I need to contact them, explain the delay, beg for more time.
Dad's next treatment is in a week; if the money dries up.
.. I picture him in his hospital bed, frail under the fluorescent lights, smiling weakly when I call.
"You're my strong girl," he always says. I have to stay strong for him.
But Silas blocks the door without meaning to, his presence filling the space.
I look up, meeting his eyes. Concern there, yes, but something hotter too.
Attraction? It mirrors what simmers in me.
His lips part like he wants to say more, argue maybe.
I imagine closing the distance, feeling that stubble against my cheek, his arms pulling me in.
No. I step back. "Silas, please. I need to handle this myself."
He hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "Fine. But take my number. Call if anything feels off."
I agree, punching it into my phone with fingers that tremble slightly.
He walks me to his truck, insists on driving me down the mountain.
The ride is tense, scenery blurring past: twisting roads, glimpses of valleys below.
He points out landmarks, trying to lighten the mood.
"That's the old mine trail. Good hiking in the summer.
" His voice rumbles, comforting despite everything.
At the airstrip, my car waits where I left it. He pulls up beside it, engine idling. "Hannah..."
"I'll be fine." I force a smile, hopping out before he can protest more.
He watches me drive away, I see in the rearview. Worry etched on that handsome face.
Back at the motel, I lock the door, and sink onto the bed. My phone buzzes almost immediately. Unknown number. "Status?" the text reads.
I type back: "Delay. Instructor sick. Need more time."
The reply comes fast: "One week. Or payments stop."
My hands shake as I delete the thread. One week to finish training, make the first run. Smuggle whatever "goods" they load into the plane. Cross into Canada, drop it off, return. Simple, they say. But nothing about this feels simple.
I think of Silas again, his cabin, the breakfast he made. That life up there, with people who care without strings. But strings bind me here. For Dad.
I have to do this. No matter the cost.
The day drags. I pace the room, replaying the flight in my head.
The controls shaking, Rick slumping, Silas's voice guiding me down.
Calm, steady. Like him. I shower, letting hot water wash away the grime, but not the guilt.
Dressing in fresh jeans and a sweater, I stare at my reflection: pale, eyes shadowed.
Not the girl Dad raised, but the one circumstances forged.
Afternoon sun slants through the blinds when I venture out. Timber Creek is small, shops lining the main street, locals nodding hello. I grab groceries, basics to tide me over. At the cafe, I sip tea, watching people. Normal lives. Envy twists in me.
Back in the room, I research border crossings online, memorizing routes.
Small airstrips in British Columbia, low-traffic areas.
They haven't given details yet, but preparation can't hurt.
My laptop hums, screen glowing. I find articles on smuggling: risks, penalties.
Prison time if caught. But if I don't, Dad suffers.
Night falls early in the mountains. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling again. Different room, same worries. Silas's number glows on my phone. I almost call him, just to hear that voice. But I can't drag him in. He's too good, too clean.
Morning brings resolve. I drive to the airstrip, inquire about Rick. Stable, but no lessons soon. Panic rises. How do I train without him? They won't care about excuses.
Another text: "Find a way."
I sit in my car, head on the wheel. Tears come then, hot and fast. For Dad, for the mess I'm in, for the man on the mountain I wish I could run to. But running to Silas means endangering him too. These people don't play fair.
So I wipe my face, start the engine. Time to find another instructor. Or learn on my own.
Whatever it takes.
The week ticks down. I practice ground school, reading manuals borrowed from the airstrip office. Simulations on my phone app. It's not enough, but it's something.
By day four, exhaustion sets in. Dreams mix the plane with Dad's hospital room, Silas's face watching. I wake sweating, reaching for a hand that's not there.
Day six, a breakthrough: another instructor, part-time, agrees to sessions. Older guy, gruff but knowledgeable. We fly twice, short hops. My skills sharpen.
The final text arrives: "Tomorrow. Coordinates incoming. Goods at airstrip at dawn."
My heart pounds. This is it.
I pack a bag, just in case. Stare at Silas's number again. Delete it? No. Keep it, a lifeline I might need.
Dawn breaks cold. I drive to the airstrip, nerves electric. A crate waits by a hangar, unmarked. I load it into the small Cessna, hands steady despite the fear. The engine roars to life. Wheels lift off.
North to the border.
For Dad.
But Silas lingers in my thoughts, that good-looking sheriff with his protective growl. If I make it back, maybe...
No. Focus.
The plane climbs, the mountains falling away the higher I go.
One run. Then another. Until it's done.
Or until it breaks me.