One
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Lightning split the sky, momentarily blinding her.
The cloud-to-ground strike had been too close for comfort.
Sloane Andrews gripped the armrest of the puddle jumper—a single-engine Cessna.
She’d experienced very little lightning in Seattle, but watching it out the window of this plane—and so close—unnerved her.
That and the ridiculous turbulence. Her stomach roiled and her knuckles grew white.
A friend of a friend of a friend had connected her because this guy was a pilot with his own plane and was already traveling to Mercy Ridge, a small town in the northern Cascades of Washington.
Actually, she was surprised he’d agreed to let her—a complete stranger—ride along.
She’d been desperate to get to her destination, but now she wished she’d driven out from Seattle instead of trying to save a few hours. What had she been thinking?
But she didn’t have time to be selective.
“Is this normal?” She spoke into the headphone mic. “I mean, I’ve experienced turbulence. Maybe it’s just this region of the country.” On the last word, the plane dropped and shuddered, and she might have left her stomach about two hundred feet above her.
“Define normal,” he finally said.
“I thought we were flying into clear skies. So is this just a normal clear-sky flight into the mountain range?” Now she just sounded ridiculous.
“A word of advice. Expect the unexpected. A thunderstorm popped up. Microclimates can catch you by surprise, and here we are.” His voice remained smooth and even, once again reassuring her, as if this was simply another day in the sky.
Air Force. Hello.
She’d let him focus on getting them out of the storm without telling him she’d pinned desperate hopes of surviving this flight on him. As if he didn’t already know that.
Rain pummeled the windshield. Not that she could see much anyway—other than the lightning—in the fading daylight.
And neither could the pilot. The storm clouds filled her view and had turned the day dark.
Another flash of lightning illuminated his profile at the very moment she looked at him and seared his rugged features into her mind.
She tried to blink away the image of his tightly clenched, angular jaw, his gaze focused on his instruments.
She could almost be grateful the lofty, sharp-edged Cascade Mountains loomed ahead of them and drew her attention away from the steady-handed pilot. Still, they were flying into the mountains, and in this storm, that struck fear in her.
Though she’d rather let him focus on getting them to Mercy Ridge and landing the plane, she couldn’t help but ask, “How much longer?”
She bit back anything else she might have said. Let him focus. It wasn’t like she was paying him to get her there. He’d simply offered based on a mutual acquaintance. She’d had her reasons for making the hasty, irrational decision to accept his generosity.
Her sister Brynn’s pale face flashed in her mind. Time was running out. Sloane forced herself to breathe. When the plane dropped again, she gritted her teeth, and her breathing hitched. She hated how her gasps and occasional whimpers must sound to the pilot.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed.
“We’re fine. Just a little weather,” he said.
So he’d noticed.
A little weather. Right. Through the rain-streaked window, jagged mountain peaks emerged and disappeared in flashes of lightning. Somewhere in those millions of acres of forest surrounding the mountain range was nestled the small town where she hoped to find her father.
Holt keyed the mic. “Mercy Ridge traffic, Cessna Five-Niner-Seven Charlie Romeo.” Holt flicked his gaze at her and then back. “It’s a one-runway strip. One guy on the radio—if he’s still there.”
That didn’t make her feel better.
The one guy on the radio responded. “Cessna Five-Niner-Seven Charlie Romeo, Mercy Ridge traffic. Severe weather’s closing in fast. What’s your position?”
How about, they were already in the storm?
Holt leaned forward. “Mercy Ridge, Cessna Five-Niner-Seven Charlie Romeo. About fifteen miles east of your position.”
“Copy that. You’ve got a nasty cell between you and us. Recommend—” Static interrupted the transmission.
Sloane caught Holt’s eye. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not ideal.” He sent her a half smile, half grimace. How did he do that? It was the first crack in his unreadable mask. He banked the plane slightly, she assumed to find a better route through the storm.
“What are our options?” Sloane was no pilot, but she knew risk assessment.
“We push through and land at Mercy Ridge,” Holt said, eyes scanning his gauges and screens, “or we try to find somewhere to set down before the weather gets worse.”
“Which is safer?”
“Safer depends. Either way, we’re trading one hazard for another.”
What kind of an answer was that? Still, his honesty was oddly reassuring. And he was talking more than he had been.
“Any good news?”
“Yep. I know this terrain. There’s a reason they call flying through these mountains in bad weather the ‘Cascade Coffin.’”
Seriously? That’s what he told his passenger? “I’ve never heard it called that. Then again, I’m not a pilot. Maybe keep those kinds of things to yourself.” She pursed her lips, biting back anything more she would have said, and stared out the window.
Another violent jolt caused her head to knock against the window.
Sloane sent up a silent prayer, and she wouldn’t stop praying until they landed.
Outside, the fading light created dark shadows except when lightning flashed, revealing the outline of the Cascades ahead, along with the cloud formations.
They weren’t going to get above the storm. Not in this little Cessna.
“Can we go around it?”
“That’s what I’m doing.” He’d yet to sound impatient with her questions, her need to talk through the fear, and she appreciated that.
A sharp boom shook the Cessna, lightning once again striking dangerously close. The panel lights flickered—once, twice—then steadied.
Sloane’s heart pounded.
The plane lurched like it had dropped into an invisible hole. Holt tightened his grip on the yoke, the nose dipping. Was the Cessna losing altitude, or was he taking them down on purpose? What was going on?
“What just happened?” Why couldn’t she leave him to do his job?
“Nothing good.” Every line of his body was edged with tension, but his voice was smooth and controlled. How did he maintain his composure?
She couldn’t fathom it. “Did we just get struck?”
The engine sputtered, giving a rough cough.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Holt demanded, as if to coax the engine back into a steady rhythm with his words.
For the first time, his tone didn’t sound reassuring.
She drew in a long, slow breath to calm herself. Didn’t work. We’re going to die.
They skimmed close to a mountain ridge—too close, to her way of thinking.
God, please get us out of this. Please . . .
Unshed tears burned behind her eyes as she squeezed them shut. She couldn’t shake the terror gripping her.
“Mercy Ridge, Cessna Five-Niner-Seven Charlie Romeo,” Holt called again. “We’ve taken a lightning strike. Experiencing electrical issues and engine trouble. Request landing advisories.”
Static answered him. No hiss, no chatter—just dead air.
“Holt?” Sloane struggled to keep her voice steady.
“We’ll be fine.” He rapidly flipped switches and checked gauges. His actions belied his words.
Don’t lie to me.
The plane shuddered violently as the engine coughed again. Holt’s jaw tightened. “I need you to listen very carefully. We might need to make an emergency landing.”
“This after you just said we would be fine?” Her voice came out too high, too thin, filled with fear.
She could see the headline now.
Woman on Mission to Save Dying Sister Killed in Plane Crash.
“Where?” Sloane looked out at the shadowed world beyond the window. The last of the light was draining away, the landscape flattening into dark shapes. Lightning flashed, revealing rocky ridgelines. Tree lines. Nothing that looked remotely safe. “You can’t even see where you’re going.”
“I was using the instruments before. Now . . .” His gaze flicked to the dark panel, then out through the windshield. “I’ve got enough light left to pick something. Barely. And I know this terrain.”
Was he being overconfident? Trying to convince her or himself?
The engine faltered again and then went quiet. The sudden silence was more terrifying than the noise had been.
“Scratch that,” Holt said, voice tight. “We’re gliding now.”
These planes could glide for a good while, she knew, but under these circumstances, the tight fist squeezing her heart only squeezed tighter.
The nose of the plane dipped, and her stomach lurched.
“What can I do?” she asked, forcing herself to think past the fear.
“Brace when I tell you. Head down, arms crossed, feet flat.” Holt worked the yoke with deliberate precision, keeping the wings level though the wind buffeted the small plane. “And say a prayer. I heard you earlier—so I know you can do it.”
Oh, sure. Leave it up to her to pray hard enough to save them.
Through the windshield, the fading light and a jagged flash of lightning revealed a break in the trees ahead—a rough meadow, small and uneven, but open.
“There,” Holt said, more to himself than to her. “That’s our chance.”
So one chance was all they had? Lord, we’re in your hands.
The plane descended rapidly toward the dark patch. Holt guided it, controlling the Cessna as it fought to glide steadily through the wind. Trees at the edges came into focus, closing in around them, growing terrifyingly near by the second.
“Can you really land here?”
“We’re about to find out.” His tone sounded grim. “Brace now!”
Sloane folded forward, crossing her arms over her chest, heart hammering. The plane stayed in a controlled glide, but they were coming in fast—too fast. Trees whipped past the windows.
“Come on,” Holt muttered, wrestling the yoke. “Just a little more . . .”
The first impact jolted through the fuselage as they clipped something—a tree, Sloane guessed.
The Cessna tilted dangerously to one side before Holt somehow corrected.
The second impact was worse. They bounced once, twice.
Something tore away from the plane with a metallic shriek.
Sloane bit back a scream as they slid forward, the world outside a blur of shadow and lightning.
Finally, with a sickening lurch, they stopped.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were the drumming of rain on the fuselage and her ragged breathing. Not just hers, but Holt’s.
“Are you hurt?” Holt’s voice broke the silence.
Sloane did a quick mental inventory. “I don’t think so. You?”
“I’ll live.” He was already unbuckling. “We need to get out. Now.”
“Why? Is something—”
“I smell fuel.” His words were clipped, urgent. “That means a leak. Possible fire risk.”
Holt forced his door open against the wind and rain. Sloane fumbled with her seatbelt, fingers clumsy with adrenaline, before managing to free herself. She grabbed her purse and pushed on the door at her side—nothing. The frame had warped.
“I can’t get it open!”
“This way.” Holt motioned for her to follow him.
Moving toward him, she clambered over the console, heart pounding, and tumbled out after him. Feet on the ground, she followed him out into the storm.
The rain hit like needles, instantly soaking through her light-pink sweater.
Lightning revealed their surroundings in brief, disorienting flashes—trees, rock, the crumpled fuselage of the Cessna looking utterly abused.
They’d come down in a narrow clearing, the wings chewed up by trees on either side.
She couldn’t see much, but she wanted a better look at the man who’d just saved their lives. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone so . . . capable under such pressure.
“This way,” Holt called over the wind, gripping her elbow to guide her away from the aircraft. They stumbled across uneven ground, the growing darkness between lightning flashes nearly absolute.
Fifty yards from the plane, Holt pulled her down behind a fallen log. “Wait here.”
“Where are you going?” Sloane grabbed his sleeve.
“Back for the emergency kit.” He didn’t look away from the wreck. “It’s stowed in the back. I had to get you clear first. Stay put.”
“Grab my duffel!”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness.
Sloane huddled against the log, rain plastering her hair to her face as she watched the shadowy outline of the plane. They might have survived the crash, but they weren’t out of this yet. Her body shivered uncontrollably.
Holt reappeared moments later, a pack slung over one shoulder. He’d barely made it halfway back when lightning struck a tree near the wreck.
The flash was blinding. The boom shook the ground beneath her. When Sloane could see again, horror seized her as the tree—burning despite the rain—toppled directly onto the Cessna.
Fuel ignited with a whoosh that she felt, more than heard, to her bones.
Holt threw himself down over her, covering her as flames erupted, pushing back the darkness.
Then he finally released her and sat up to stare at his burning plane.
“If you’ve got a phone, check it now. But don’t count on service out here. ”
She swallowed hard, hands shaking too much to check her cell. “What about my duffel?”
“Sorry. It was a tangled mess . . .”
“No, it’s okay. If you’d stayed long enough to get it . . .” She let the words trail off. Her teeth were chattering from cold and shock. “Where are we?”
“About ten miles from Mercy Ridge.”
“Well, at least we’re close.”
“As the crow flies, that is. Close is relative. We’re on the wrong side of Blackspire Mountain.”
“Okay, well, we can still walk if we have to, right?” Worst case, they were in the vicinity and just had to overcome the obstacles.
“Oh, we’ll walk,” he said. “But we’re not walking out tonight.”
Sloane stared at the burning plane, reality sinking in. She was stranded in mountainous wilderness with a stranger, miles from civilization, in the middle of a storm.
While her sister—who counted on Sloane—was hanging on to life by a thread.