“Can you take us higher? I want to get a picture of the very top.”

“Oh, honey, no. I feel like puking as it is.”

Logan Bishop heard the request and subsequent whining clearly, even with his headphones covering his ears, but pretended not to. It was easier that way. He maneuvered his H10, light single-engine helicopter, along his regular tourist path, ignoring the special requests coming from the back. Sometimes he deviated…depending on the passengers and his mood. But today, the monotony of the tourist season was getting on his last nerve, and playing nice was not part of the service.

Circling around the mountains of the Glacier National Park in Montana once more, Logan appreciated the view of snow-capped mountains, thick with green forests. The predominately coniferous woodlands of pine, fir, and spruce gave the vista its continuous color, while the lower elevations were covered in cottonwoods and aspens, which lost their leaves with the changing seasons. The park, considered the Crown of the Continent Ecosystem, was originally inhabited by Native Americans and was home to hundreds of species of animals. With over a million acres, including two mountain ranges and over one hundred lakes, the tourists wanting to experience the park from above the ground kept him in business.

Making another pass before dipping near a crystal clear lake, he decided the couple in the back seats was more interested in the photographs than any history, so he continued to keep his mouth shut as they chattered amongst themselves.

As he began the flight back over the Blackfeet Indian Reservation, which the Blackfeet have inhabited for over ten thousand years, he heard an audible huff behind him.

“Look at all this good real estate going to waste here for a bunch of Indians.”

“Native Americans,” came the response from the woman. “That’s what you say now. It’s politically correct.”

The other passenger pinched his lips before snapping, “Well, excuse me, Dorothy, if I ain’t all PC and shit.”

With a quick glance behind him, Logan could see their interest had waned so he made a straight trip back to the landing pad outside Cut Bank, Montana, circling over the small town right on the edge of a steep bank leading down to a river. He had knocked off about fifteen minutes on their tour but figured it was due him for having to listen to their bickering.

The population of Cut Bank was only about three thousand people, but this time of year brought in tourists looking for wildlife photo opportunities. The three small hotels in the town filled up quickly, as well as the three in nearby Shelby.

After assisting Dorothy down and, with a silent nod toward both of them, he turned his back and walked away, efficiently cutting off any more requests to see the natural Montana vista. At least from his helicopter. After refueling, he waved to Gus, the owner of the small airfield, and climbed back in the cockpit, soon lifting off the ground. Five minutes later, he landed once more, this time with an air of contentment, on his own property. Coasting into the metal, dome-topped hangar, he parked his bird next to his Lakota—a huge, military grade helicopter used for mountain rescues of skiers or stranded hikers.

Climbing out, he stretched the kinks out of his back before beginning his routine maintenance. Qualified as a mechanic as well as a pilot, he alone handled his birds, until the annual inspection was due. With a final pat on its side, he walked to the open hangar door and pulled it shut, sliding it along the channel until it closed securely. Locking it, he activated the security he had installed before making his way over the hardened ground toward his low-slung, ranch house.

His acreage included flat, scruffy land with the mountains in the background. He owned the one-story house, with a basement, which he built when he bought the property, adding the helicopter hangar at the same time. Not fancy, it was large enough for him, sturdy and somewhat plain. A porch gave it a homier look, but was really added to cut down on the direct sunlight that blasted through the front windows.

Stepping into the neat interior, he walked straight to the kitchen, threw open the refrigerator door and reached inside to grab a beer. None. Fuck. He knew he had been getting low, but dreaded making the trip to the grocery in town. To be honest, it was not the shopping he hated, but having to interact with people. Any people.

Sighing, he debated for a moment, but decided he also needed milk, bread, soup, vegetables, and a few other staples. So much for kicking back and watching the game on TV. Grabbing the keys to his truck, he headed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, he drove into Cut Bank, stopping at the little grocery store on the outskirts of town. A larger one had opened on the other side of the tiny town, but he preferred the quiet, comfortable feeling in the older one, run by a couple who did not have a predilection for talking everyone’s ear off or asking too many personal questions.

Moving through the glass door, he nodded politely to the woman behind the cash register. “Marge,” he said, his voice rough even to his ears, realizing he had hardly spoken to the couple he took up in his helicopter.

“Logan,” she replied, her smile firmly in place as her grey, tight curls bounced about her head, before she looked back down at the magazine opened in front of her.

Walking through the aisles, he quickly loaded his cart with the necessities, calculating they would last him several weeks. He preferred to stock up at one time so he did not have to make too many trips. Avoiding the few other shoppers, he pushed his cart toward the counter and waited patiently as the woman in front of him balanced a toddler on her hip and tried to contain a small child interested in the candy.

The little boy fingered a candy bar longingly and Logan could see the wheels turning in his head, wondering if his mother would notice if he just took it. Clearing his throat, Logan gained the little boy’s attention, his wide eyes looking up at the large man standing next to him. He snatched his fingers back to his sides before looking down at his shoes.

As the mother paid and placed the toddler back into the cart, she turned to take the hand of her little boy, who glanced back at Logan as they left the store. Didn’t mean to scare him, Logan thought but, then, he knew his grumpy persona probably terrified the kid.

Sighing, he placed his items on the counter to be rung up, grabbing a candy bar at the last minute. Paying as Marge lifted an eyebrow, he grunted his thanks and pushed his cart out to his truck. Seeing the woman strapping her toddler into its car seat, he walked over and handed her the candy bar.

She looked up in surprise as he muttered, “Saw your boy looking at it. Thought he might want it. You can give it to him.”

With a nod, he turned and made his way back to his truck, hearing her thanks called out to his back. Opening the massive ice chest in the back, he placed some of the groceries there and the rest of the bags in the passenger seat. Hauling his tall body up into the driver’s side, he started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, heading for home.

Offering a chin lift to a few people he knew as he left town, traveling down the road, he breathed easier now, being the only vehicle in sight. A few miles further, he turned onto his long, gravel drive, the view of his hangar and house always giving him a sense of comfort. Mine. All mine.

Parking in his garage, he left the door open for ease of unloading the groceries. Hauling the ice chest first, he moved through the laundry room that led from the garage to the kitchen. Setting it down on the floor, he went back to grab the bags before closing the door. Kicking off his boots, he padded into the kitchen and bent over the ice chest, placing items into the refrigerator and freezer.

Standing quickly, he halted his progress. No sounds could be heard, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, a sign of danger he had always listened to. A habit that served him well in the military. A former, decorated SEAL, his spidey senses had saved his life—and the lives of his men—more than once.

Setting the milk into the refrigerator, he closed the door, moving stealthily to the drawer where he stowed one of his weapons. Making no sound at all, he walked with a powerful grace that belied his size. Glad for his socked feet, he rounded the corner, his gun in his outstretched hand, his aim facing the living room.

The room, full of shadows from the darkening evening, made it easy for an intruder to hide but, even so, his eyes immediately discerned no one was there. His gaze jumped to the porch where a slight movement sent him to his front door, knowing no visitors ever came to his house. And there was no one he wanted to see.

Throwing open the door, he caught a man in mid-knock, whose eyes landed first on his face and then immediately dropped to the gun in his hand.

“You wanna tell me who the fuck you are and what the fuck you’re doing at my house?”

The man lifted his hands up in a visible show of having no weapons, moving slowly backward a few feet. The illumination of the porch light gave Logan the opportunity to see who was standing there. The hair was a little greyer. The lines by his eyes were a little deeper. His clothes were no longer military, but the sharp creases in his pants gave evidence to an adherence of habits formed over the years. The man answered him with one word. “Preacher.”

Lowering his weapon slowly as recognition slid over him, his breath left him in a rush. “Commander. Commander Lambert?”