Chapter 34

Wyatt had to give Melanie credit. For a woman who’d never been in a small plane, she’d stayed pretty calm, even when the going got rough. With atmospheric wave activity causing turbulence over all four mountain ranges between Pendleton and Babb, Montana, they’d been bounced around for most of the trip, and it was a whole different experience in a six-seater.

Conversation had been nonexistent. There wasn’t a whole lot left to add after their text and telephone chat. She’d needed a safe outlet for the emotions she could no longer keep bottled up. He’d provided one. Then he’d removed all traces of himself from the room, as close as he could give her to an anonymous one-night stand.

And once again, they would put it behind them and never speak of it again. It was their way.

Besides, Melanie was distracted enough between worrying about Hank and riding out the periodic bucks and jolts of the small aircraft. It took all of Wyatt’s concentration to keep the plane on a relatively even keel—especially when it came time to land. The web page he’d checked had been very generous when they called the scrubby strip of grass an airport. Throw in the gusty crosswind, and their touchdown had been a lot more adventurous than he preferred.

The wind rocked the Cherokee and plastered Wyatt’s jacket against his back as he ran a rope through the ring on the underside of the second wing, pulled it snug, and tied it off in two practiced, well-spaced knots. He gave the rope a tug to test that it was secure, then turned to where Melanie stood huddled against the fuselage. His instrument panel claimed it was sixty-three degrees, but the air had a biting edge that cut right through his clothes—and he was a northerner compared to Melanie.

He tapped his fingers on the door. “You can wait in the plane if you’re cold.”

“No. The fresh air is good.”

He studied her face for signs that she might be about to upchuck her breakfast burrito. “Feeling a little green?”

“You think? Between buzzing the runway to chase off the cows, and the holes—” She took a couple of steps to kick dirt from one of the mounds that pocked a runway marked by rows of old car tires painted yellow. “Didn’t your plane used to have two engines? It seems like a spare would be a good idea.”

“I traded the Cessna in. This one is a lot cheaper to own, and just as safe.”

“If you say so.” Melanie hugged her ribs, shivering as she scanned their surroundings. The rocky flat was cut off to the east by the river that flowed along the base of a ridge and into Canada, close enough that Wyatt had had to be careful not to encroach on international airspace. Beyond that ridge, they’d glimpsed the plains that stretched east to infinity. To the south, the choppy surface of Lower St. Mary’s Lake gleamed an unearthly blue. At their backs, clouds piled up behind the jagged peaks of Glacier National Park. Snow still clung on the highest precipices and in shady niches, contributing to the chill. Fifty yards away, a steady stream of RVs, cars, and pickups rolled by on the highway. Wyatt could almost sort the locals from the tourists at a glance.

“Are we early?” Melanie asked.

“No.” Wyatt hesitated, then stepped around behind her, putting a hand on each shoulder to pull her into the shelter of his body. When she stiffened, he kneaded her shoulders gently. “Consider me a human windbreak.”

As he continued the massage—purely therapeutic, even if his heart and body wanted to think otherwise—she relaxed enough to tilt her face up to the sun, the crown of her head brushing his jaw, but her muscles vibrated with tension. He ached to wrap his arms around her and hold on for as long as he was allowed.

His phone buzzed, and he checked the text. “Hell. I forgot I had a haircut scheduled today. I won’t be able to reschedule before I leave for Reno.”

“You’ll have time to get it cut while you’re down there.”

Wyatt scoffed at the suggestion. “I’m not letting a stranger touch my hair.”

“What was I thinking?” But as snark went, it was far from her best effort.

He tilted his head to scowl at her, dragging out the inane conversation to distract both of them. “Oh, and you would walk into any old salon?”

“Always do.” She flicked the end of the ponytail that danced in the breeze. “I never get around to making appointments. I just walk into one of those mall places if I notice the ends are getting fried.” When she saw the look of honest horror on Wyatt’s face, she rolled her eyes. “As hairstyles go, this isn’t exactly rocket science.”

Unlike his, which required practice and precision. He’d had enough of the pretty-boy crap when Laura had persuaded him to let it grow out—very temporarily. My angel face, she’d called him, toying with his mop of curls. Back then, his future had been laid out like the squares on a Monopoly board—from Connecticut Avenue to Park Place, acquiring the requisite wife, children, and real estate along the way.

Now here he was, standing in the heart of the Blackfeet Nation with the woman who’d ended up owning him.

A black short-box pickup slowed to turn onto the gravel road leading to the airstrip, and Melanie stepped quickly away, as if not wanting to be seen too close to him. He tried to brush off the sting. It was possible Hank could be behind the tinted windows. If he saw Wyatt’s hands on his sister, this conversation would be over before it started.

But there was only one person in the vehicle, and the woman who stepped out was, at a guess, around five years older than Wyatt, with smooth, dark skin and jet-black hair cut in short, funky spikes. She wore a summer-weight black sweater, fashionably distressed jeans, caramel-colored suede boots, and a jacket to match. When she smiled, her face transformed from merely attractive to striking.

Wyatt had to force his answering smile past a knot of impatience. Bing had been maddeningly evasive on the phone, refusing to say anything specific about the situation beyond assuring him that Hank had recovered from his injuries, but she had promised to meet them herself. Why had she sent this—

The woman extended a graceful hand to Melanie. “You have to be the sister.”

“Uh, yes.” Melanie accepted the handshake but shot a quick Who is this? look at Wyatt.

He was trying not to gape, having recognized the rich, contralto voice. “And you’re Bing.”

He managed to make it a statement instead of a shocked question. To have a grandson near Philip’s age, she would’ve had to be…and then her son or daughter must have been… Wyatt gave up on the math, stepping closer to Melanie to give her a subtle nudge with his elbow. She blinked, as if he’d interrupted similar calculations on her part.

“No sense standing out here in this damn wind.” Bing gestured to her pickup. “I could use a cup of coffee. How ’bout you?”

Melanie opened her mouth, no doubt to demand to see Hank immediately. Wyatt grabbed her elbow and gave it a warning squeeze as he steered her toward the pickup. She jerked away, but clamped her mouth shut and climbed into the front passenger’s seat when he opened the door for her. Wyatt slid into the back seat behind her, where he could see Bing’s face and hold Melanie down if necessary. She was in no state of mind to be patient or tactful, which was why Wyatt had insisted that Philip give him Bing’s phone number, and that he be the one to talk to her.

They turned east on the highway, crossed over the crystal-clear river, and skirted the edge of the lake. Ahead and to the right, the Rockies loomed, row after row of sheer cliffs and razor-edged crests. These were the real deal, not glorified hills like the section of the Blue Mountains around Pendleton.

If Melanie pushed him off one of these, Wyatt wouldn’t limp away.

“How far is it to where Hank is staying?” she asked.

“About ten miles up that way.” Bing waved a hand over her shoulder, opposite the direction they were traveling. She silenced any protest on Melanie’s part with a cool, assessing look. “When he got hurt, I asked if he had family I should call. He said no.”

Melanie sucked in an audible breath at the implication. He didn’t want you there. Why is that?

“Does he know we’re coming?” Wyatt asked, carefully neutral.

“Norma doesn’t have a phone.” One corner of Bing’s mouth curled down. “And a call might guarantee he’d be gone.”

Melanie thumped a clenched fist on the center console. “Why? He knows he can always come to me for help.”

Bing gave her an enigmatic glance. “Can he?”

Before Melanie could return fire, Bing made a left into the parking lot of a café housed in a large, purple tin shed with a bright-red door and Aliens Welcome painted on the roof in three-foot-high letters. The decor suggested they were referring to the kind who might arrive via flying saucer. Inside, the dining room was a mix of rustic wood and hippie kitsch. At just past eleven on a Monday, only one table was occupied—by a family with Iowa license plates, two squabbling elementary-school boys, and a teenaged girl mesmerized by her phone. The server who greeted them had a man bun and a Swedish accent.

Bing marched past him to the table farthest from the tourists. “We’ll take this one. And bring me a cup of coffee and a piece of huckleberry pie.”

“Ice cream?” he asked.

“Huckleberry.” She nodded at Melanie and Wyatt. “They’ll have the same. And give me two burgers with the works to go. Put it on my check.”

“I’ll take sweet tea if you have it,” Melanie said.

She settled into the chair across from Bing with an expression that made Wyatt feel as if he was taking a seat between two mama bears who’d laid claim to the same cub. Whatever Bing had to say, she didn’t expect them to like it. Damn. Wyatt wanted to smack himself. He’d been so thrilled to locate Hank that he hadn’t realized Bing had never actually agreed to take them to him.

And she was still in the process of deciding.