Touching the Clouds (6 page)

Don’t recall feasting bugs in San Francisco.
His mind carried him back to his home. He remembered cool summer days with fog-laden mornings, and sunlight gleaming off the bay. He missed it. But there was nothing for him there, nothing but reminders of all that he’d lost and the shrieking blare of guilt.

He took another drink. He’d add one more tree to the cart, then go back to the house and get Buck and Jackpot. The two of them should be able to pull the load easily enough. He replaced the lid on the canteen and looped it over the cart handle.

A branch cracked in the underbrush. Paul studied the dense woodland, but didn’t see anything. Breathing easy, he listened. Something was out there—he could feel it. Cautiously he moved to the tree where he’d left his rifle. He picked it up, cocked it, and waited.

And then there was something . . . a shadow that moved in the deep green. A grizzly? This time of year, the huge carnivores were scavenging the last of the berries and any grubs they could find before denning up
.

Several minutes passed, and when Paul heard nothing else, he decided whatever it was had moved on. He rested the gun against a tree and walked to a downed birch and set to work, hacking off limbs with his axe. Then, from the corner of his eye he caught movement.

He straightened just as a wolf darted into the shadows. His heart rate picked up and he grabbed his rifle. The large canine came out of hiding. Its golden eyes stared, challenging him. This wasn’t normal behavior
.

Paul kept his gaze fixed on the animal. Its lips curled back and it showed its teeth. A snarl came from deep in its throat. Paul held his gun ready. The wolf took a step toward him. To his left he heard the snap of a branch. Another wolf appeared. Like the first, it stared at Paul. And then there were three . . . four . . .

Tension ignited the air. Paul barely breathed. Palms sweaty, he gripped his rifle. This was bad. How could he hold off a whole pack?

The predators paced back and forth. Paul took a step up the trail, then another. They kept their distance. Maintaining eye contact with the wild animals, Paul moved toward the cabin, one determined step at a time. They followed.

Although wolves were not known for their aggression toward humans, Paul’s mind raged with stories of attacks. He’d never been overly concerned about the predators, but now had to fight to quiet his racing imagination.

Before he could see the cabin, he heard the fierce barking of his dogs. They knew the wolves were here.

The first one who’d shown himself moved closer.
He’s
most likely the alpha.
Paul counted them again—one, two, three, four, five . . . six. Were there more? They kept pacing and darting in and out of the underbrush, tongues lolling, yellow eyes staring.

He raised his rifle and fired one shot into the air. They backed off, but only momentarily. Paul kept moving. They were all around him. He took longer steps and fought panic that told him to run.

The cabin was close now. He could see his dogs lunging on their leads. A large wolf sprang at Paul. He lowered the rifle and shot. A blast and a yelp splintered the air. The animal fell. Another charged from the opposite direction. Paul fired again. This time he missed and the wolf seized his upper arm, tearing cloth and flesh. Pain flashed through Paul’s bicep.

He pushed his rifle against the animal’s gut and pulled the trigger. The wolf dropped to the ground, lifeless. The others kept their distance. Paul finally made the porch steps where he stood with his back to the cabin. His dogs strained against their leads, snarling and barking viciously. If the pack came at them, they’d have no chance while tethered, but Paul dared not release them.
I should have closed them in the shed
, he thought, angry with himself for taking the sighting of the wolves too lightly.

For several minutes the wolves remained at the edge of the clearing around the cabin, remaining mostly hidden in the foliage. One moved forward, and Paul dropped him. The rest of the pack dissolved into the forest. He calculated how many shots he’d taken—five. He had only one shell left in the chamber.

Keeping his eyes on the woods, he backed up the cabin steps, opened the door, and grabbed extra bullets from a shelf just inside. Hands shaking, he plugged them into the magazine, then returned to his post on the porch where he remained, waiting and watching. His dogs quieted. The wolves did not reappear.

A sound came from the side of the house. Paul turned, training his gun at the noise. It was Patrick.

His friend raised his hands, a rifle in one of them. “Whoa, neighbor. It’s just me.”

Taking a deep breath, Paul lowered his weapon. “Sorry.” All of a sudden his legs felt weak as the adrenaline wore off. He sat on the porch step.

Patrick’s eyes went to the wolf lying in the yard and to Paul’s bleeding arm. “Looks like you had some trouble here. You all right?”

“Yeah. They came at me.” Paul wiped sweat from his brow. “One got ahold of me, but it’s nothing I can’t take care of.” He shook his head, thinking about what could have happened.

“I heard the shots. That’s why I came running.” The long-limbed man cautiously moved to the dead animal. With his rifle aimed at it, he nudged him with the end of the barrel. “He’s pretty lean.” His eyes moved to the forest. “How many of them were there?”

“I saw six and killed three. There’s two, dead, on the trail.”

Patrick turned his eyes to the forest. “They’ll likely be back. We better set out traps.”

“Good idea.”

Patrick moved to Paul. “You want Sassa to take a look at that bite?”

“No. I’m fine.” He ripped the already torn shirtsleeve and tied it off to staunch the bleeding.

“Might as well make use of the pelts.” Patrick headed toward the trail.

Paul followed, ignoring the burning in his arm. It would need cleaning and stitching, but that would have to wait while he and Patrick skinned the animals.

After stretching the last hide, Patrick said, “Sassa’s got supper waiting for me. You want to join us?”

“Not tonight.” Using his good arm, he gave Patrick a friendly clap on the back. “Thanks for your help.”

“You’d do the same for me.” He headed toward the trail, his rifle resting on his shoulder. “Take care of that arm.”

“I will.”

Paul set his rifle against the porch steps and moved to the dogs. One by one he released them and led them into the cabin. Tonight, they’d sleep indoors.

5

K
ate glanced at the clock. It was nearly noon—time to leave. She’d been wanting to get to the airport ever since Paul Anderson had mentioned it. But with Helen out sick for three days, there’d been no time. Today was the day.

She handed Mrs. Sullivan her change and a bag containing thread and buttons. “Have a nice day.”

The kindhearted woman tucked the money into a coin purse. “You too, dear.” She snapped the purse shut, and instead of leaving, she smiled at Kate. “Did I tell you my son is coming to visit?”

“Next week, right?” Kate managed to conceal her impatience.

“Yes. I can scarcely wait. It’s been nearly two years since he was home.” She hobbled toward the door, then stopped and turned to look at Kate. “It’s a terrible time for my rheumatism to act up.”

“Maybe it’ll be better by the time he arrives,” Kate said, wishing she’d hurry on her way. Guilt flashed through her mind. Mrs. Sullivan was a caring woman who deserved her full attention.

“I dare to hope.” Mrs. Sullivan shuffled out of the store.

“Have a good day,” Kate called after her. She looked at the clock again and wondered if Helen Towns could spare her.

Dusting rag in hand, Helen walked toward the register. “Poor Mrs. Sullivan, she suffers so.”

“She’s very nice.” Kate glanced out the front window. “I talked to Mr. Towns about taking time off today. I won’t be gone long.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. He told me.” She looked around the store. “I’m certain we can manage with
all
the business we have at the moment.” She smiled, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Thank you.” Butterflies took flight in Kate’s stomach. Today might be the day.

Albert joined the women. He circled an arm around his wife’s small waist and tugged her in next to him. Turning his attention to Kate, he said, “We’ll be praying for you.”

“Thank you.”

Helen rested a hand on Kate’s arm. “You’ll do fine. Mr. Schaefer can’t help but like you.”

“Not everyone is as nice as you two.” Kate clasped her hands in front of her, trying to wring out some of her tension. “I just hope he needs a pilot. And if he does, that he’ll hire a woman.”

Figuring it would be better to face Mr. Schaefer in flight attire, Kate hurried to her room and changed into slacks and a tuck-in shirt. She sat down, pulled on boots, and laced them. After running a brush through her hair, she picked up her perfume and was about to dab some on, when she thought better of it. She skipped the lipstick as well, thinking natural was best.

Pulling on her leather jacket, she headed toward the front of the store, trying to maintain an air of calm. She smiled at Helen, who was working at the front register.

“Good luck,” Albert called, then returned to stocking a shelf with canned goods.

Kate stepped outside. She’d decided to fly to the airstrip, so she headed toward Merrill Field. Nerves made her muscles tight, and every few steps she’d shake her arms, trying to loosen the tension. It didn’t help. She stopped and took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
Lord, I need your help. Convince Mr.
Schaefer to give me a chance.

When Kate reached the airfield, she found George, the manager of Merrill Field, with his head inside an engine compartment.

He looked up. “Hi. Haven’t seen you for a few days.”

“I’ve been putting in a lot of hours at the store.” Leaning against the fuselage, she said, “I heard the airfield at Lake Spenard might need a pilot.”

“Yeah? I’m not surprised. Understand Sidney’s doing pretty well over there.” He pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands. “He seems like a good man. Hope he has something for you.”

“I figured I’d take my plane.”

“Good idea. It’s a fine aircraft. Wish I had a spot for you.”

“Me too.” Kate didn’t know what else to say. She’d have preferred working for George. Momentary silence swelled until it became uncomfortable. “Well, I better get going.”

“I’ll crank your plane for you.”

“Nah. You’re busy. I can do it.”

“Okay.” He picked up a wrench. “Let me know how it goes.”

“I will.” Kate walked to her plane. For a moment, her desire to hurry nearly convinced her to skip the inspection, but she forced herself to take the time—better safe than sorry. Everything seemed fine, so she climbed in, pulled on her helmet, and then checked the gauges and oil. All was in good order.

After priming the engine, she climbed out and moved to the side of the plane. Using the hand crank, she turned the flywheel until the sound became shrill. “That ought to do it,” she said, hurrying inside and pulling the starter. When the engine lit off, it sounded rough. Kate made an adjustment to the mixture and it evened out.

She turned the plane toward the runway and rolled over bumpy ground until she was lined up on the field. Her nerves still spiking, she studied the windsock—it fluttered west to east. Skies were clear. If only today was
the
day . . .

The Bellanca ran smoothly as Kate taxied to the end of the runway and took to the air. As always, exhilaration lifted her right along with the plane. For a few moments her body relaxed, then she tightened her hold on the stick. A lot was at stake. She’d been in Anchorage more than a month and this was the first solid lead she’d had. This might be her chance.

Kate was in the air only a few minutes when she spotted the airfield.
Smart of him to set up alongside a lake. He can
use pontoon planes during the summer.
Memories of the dark waters of Rimrock Lake hurtled through Kate’s mind. She’d managed to get back into the air, but had never attempted a pontoon landing since the accident.
I’ll do it when the time
comes
, she told herself, only half believing her own resolve.

She made her approach and settled easily on the dirt runway. What looked like a shed sat at one end of the field. She taxied toward it. A small slender man, wearing a broad-brimmed cowboy hat, stood at the doorway.

By the time Kate turned off the engine, he’d walked to the plane. He wasn’t the type to stand out in a crowd, except for the way he was dressed. Along with his hat, he wore blue jeans and western-style boots. Kate figured he couldn’t be more than thirty and wondered if he was the owner or one of the pilots.

She removed her helmet and climbed out of the plane.

“Afternoon,” the man said. “That’s a fine bird you’ve got.”

“Thank you. She’s been good to me.”

He walked around the craft, studying it. “Interesting name you’ve got for her—Fearless Kate.” He grinned. “Let me guess—you’re Kate.”

“I am.” Feeling the heat of embarrassment, Kate glanced at the side of the plane where she’d painted
Fearless Kate
in black letters. “I was a bit exuberant when I first got her.”

“No harm in that.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked at her squarely. “I’m Sidney Schaefer. What can I do for you?”

“I was told you might need a pilot.”

“Maybe. You know one?” Mischief lit his eyes.

Kate swallowed hard and got hold of her nerve. “I’m a good pilot.”

His expression turned serious. “I’m sure you are. But I need experience and someone who’s strong—strong enough to load gear for hunters and stow bagged trophies, someone who doesn’t mind a bit of blood or puke, who can handle an aircraft in any kind of weather.”

“I can do all that.” Kate spotted a feed sack leaning against the shed. She walked straight to it and picked it up. It smelled and felt like potatoes. She carried the sack back to Sidney and set it at his feet.

He grinned and rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Not bad. That’s nearly seventy-five pounds.”

“I’ve been working all my life. I’m strong and I know how to work hard.”