Crash Landing. Becky Avella

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       TWENTY

       TWENTY-ONE

       TWENTY-TWO

       TWENTY-THREE

       EPILOGUE

       Extract

       Copyright

       ONE

      Deanna Jackson just wanted to see the sky. The tiniest sliver of blue would be enough.

      The real sky was up there somewhere, hidden behind the canopy of smoke hovering above the rooflines of Main Street. It called to her to be free, to escape the doom and the stress in her airplane, but she couldn’t. Although it looked like it was nearing nightfall, it was really only eleven in the morning, and Deanna was stuck indoors. Stuck being a grown-up with bills to pay.

      Eerie shadows flickered through her coffee shop windows, making the inside of The Hangar feel too bright, as if its cheeriness offended the gloom outside. Occasional chunks of charred debris and ash dropped onto the sidewalks like dirty hail, a taste of what awaited the small town of Kinakane, Washington, if the wildfires bearing down on them weren’t contained.

      “Make that coffee extra hot, please.” Sharon Grabe’s hands trembled as she dug through her purse for her wallet. Sharon was one of the many refugees stranded in town awaiting word that she could return to her home, wondering if her house in Salmon Creek still stood and if her husband would get out in time. If he’d be smart enough to know his life mattered more than a building, no matter how many generations of memories that building might hold.

      “What are you doing, Sharon? Put that money away,” Deanna insisted.

      Sharon slapped her debit card on the counter and covered it with her hand. There was no trembling now. Her resolve solid as stone, she slid the card across the counter. “Don’t make me a charity case, Deanna. Not yet, anyway. I’m not ready to exchange hope for a free latte.”

      Deanna swallowed the lump in her throat, wishing she had more to offer, but she knew she’d despise the pity she was feeling for Sharon if it were turned in her direction.

      Townspeople used to complain about a little summertime smoke in the air caused by far-off wildfires in the mountains. Now the entire Northwest appeared to be ablaze, and five separate fires hemmed them in, sucking the life out of already taxed firefighting resources. The threat squeezed in on Deanna so tight she could hardly breathe.

      She felt the flames coming, their approach rumbling through her like the vibrations of an ancient army marching on a besieged city. More and more refugees were streaming into town bringing new horror stories every day. Homes and ranches that had been in families for generations, obliterated by infernos. Old Harley Hopkins died of a heart attack because after telephone poles burned out in Scotch Creek, he had no phone service to call 911.

      One way or another, it was clear Deanna wouldn’t escape this fire season unscathed. Even if she didn’t physically lose anything, seeing her neighbors suffering like this hurt enough.

      Her grandmother’s voice cut through her thoughts, snapping her focus back on more immediate concerns.

      “How long do you plan to make the king of Kinakane wait for you?” Gram whispered.

      Deanna’s gaze landed on the tall, broad-shouldered man in the leather easy chair by the front door. Her landlord removed his Stetson and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, obviously impatient with her. Deanna’s stomach knotted. It wasn’t just the smoke that choked her. She was stalling, and Blake Ransford wasn’t the waiting kind of man.

      Blake might not be an actual king, but he really did own most of Kinakane. He could be overbearing, but he was her mentor, always quick to bail her out whenever she needed it. Because he was seven years older than she was, it had never occurred to Deanna that Blake might want anything more from their friendship. But last night in an unguarded moment, he’d confessed that he wanted much more than she did.

      Hot coffee sloshed over the edge of the mug she held, scalding the back of her hand. “Ouch!” She dropped the cup, sending a sticky river across the counter.

      Deanna waved her hand to cool it. Who wanted this hot of coffee in July, anyway? She reached for a clean mug to remake Sharon’s drink, but Gram’s soft, wrinkled hand on her arm stopped her.

      “When are you going to get it through your thick head that you don’t have to do this all by yourself? Get going already.”

      Deanna glanced at Blake. His confession had come out of left field. She didn’t know how to feel about it, but if she let him, he could help her.

      When she laid her head on her pillow each night, the word bankruptcy echoed through her mind, stealing any hope of sleep. Now there were rumors of next month’s big rodeo being canceled. The whole town needed those tourist dollars, but without them Deanna would be finished. If there was no Roundup, she’d have to close The Hangar.

      Blake had promised to give her some advice over lunch. Lunch was harmless enough, right? She’d just have to be honest with him.

      “Fine,” she huffed and surrendered her mug to Gram.

      Blake stood. “Ready?”

      How could she make him see she was in survival mode? Every bit of energy went into finding a way to provide for her and Gram. To keep from failing. If she said these things to him, he’d only offer her money. That’s not what she wanted. She wanted to prove to herself and everyone else that she could make it on her own.

      Besides, wasn’t the fire threat enough stress?