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Like a waterfall released from a dam, emotions flooded through her. Fury, of course—at his unreasonableness, his dismissiveness, his lack of compassion, the brick-wall-ness of that smug face.
And also, amazingly, relief. She could finally admit it; she hated this job.
“Then I guess we’re done here.”
One week after that, Molly, newly unemployed but breathing free, parked her rental car outside the hangar at the Blackbear, Alaska, “airport.” Blackbear was a several-hour drive from Anchorage, and the town where three different flight services offered passage to Firelight Ridge. She had searched for the company with the best safety record, which turned out to be the one with the worst reviews.
“The pilot is an ass. He wouldn’t answer one single question we asked. He kept saying he wasn’t a tour guide. So rude!”
“Worst. Pilot. Ever. I started to throw up and he tossed me a bag and said ‘I just disinfected the plane, don’t get any on the seats.’”
“At first I thought the pilot was cute, but he went the entire flight without smiling once. He did laugh, but only when I asked him if he gave out bottled water to the passengers. Do yourself a favor and choose another way to get to Firelight Ridge.”
Since Molly wasn’t interested in a tour guide, smiles, or bottled water, she decided that Fangtooth Air Service’s one-hundred-percent safety record would do nicely. Despite the reference to the pilot’s alleged cuteness, she figured the guy must have a snaggletooth that accounted for its name. Maybe that was considered “cute” here in Alaska, where everything had a rough-and-tumble edge.
She’d been completely unprepared for the distances involved in traveling in Alaska. An Uber from Anchorage to Blackbear would have been hundreds of dollars. A one-way car rental was at least somewhat more affordable. Maybe the car would still be there when she got back. She might well be hopping on the next flight back to Blackbear if Lila wasn’t in Firelight Ridge.
This whole thing was such a stab in the dark. Or rather, the light—it was mid-May, and the sun was still high in the sky even at eight o’clock at night. That didn’t mean it was warm. Molly wore her thickest wool coat, which happened to be a black Valentino number she’d splurged on before she was unemployed.
Inside the hangar, where a small sign identified a nondescript door as an “office,” Molly pushed open the door of what she hoped was Fangtooth Air Service, not a broom closet.
Maps of various mountain ranges covered the walls, the air smelled of old burnt coffee, and a large metal desk took up half the space. Behind the desk, a girl looked up from a clunky desktop computer with green duct tape holding the back together. Her black hair and pale amber skin made Molly wonder if she was part Native Alaskan, but then again, she had no expertise in that area and therefore refused to speculate.
“Are you Molly Evans? You’re late.”
“How can I be late to my own private flight? Besides, it doesn’t leave for another half an hour.”
“Preflight check-in. Anyway, it leaves whenever Sam decides. He’s the pilot.” The girl spoke as if she revered the pilot who’d gotten such bad reviews from his passengers. Maybe he was nicer to his staff.
“Then how can I be late?”
“Because he wants to leave in the next ten minutes. There’s a storm system coming through. After that, the next weather window won’t be until later in the week. You probably don’t want to get stuck here, but if you do, my aunt rents out her garage apartment, which is literally in the garage, like there’s still cars there too. It’s not bad, if you don’t mind the smell of diesel. There might be a deer in there too.”
“A deer?”
“Dead one,” the girl added quickly. “Hanging. Drying,” she explained, when Molly still gazed at her blankly. “Don’t worry, it’s already been skinned.”
“Check me in,” Molly said instantly. “Let’s not waste another minute of our weather window.”
“Too late for that.” A male voice growled at her as a door at the back of the little office opened. Molly jumped; she hadn’t even noticed the door, which was covered by another map. “Another seven minutes and I’m scratching this flight.”
Molly could see why one of the reviewers had called him “cute,” although she wouldn’t have chosen that word. His face was all rough angles and dark scruff and frowning lines, with the only oasis in the storminess a pair of clear blue eyes. Not just any blue, either, but a royal blue, or maybe “imperial” would be a better word, based on his manner.
“You must be the pilot.” She decided to start off on a good foot, rather than pulling out some kind of legal lingo to save her flight. “I’m here, ready for check-in. What do I need to do?”
“Step on that scale.” He pointed to the floor next to the desk, where an industrial-sized scale sat.
“Excuse me?”
“The scale. See it? Where’s your bag? I need to weight it too.”
“I can save us some time. My bag weighs forty-nine pounds and I weigh a hundred and forty-two.”
He snorted and told the girl at the desk, “Put down a hundred and fifty-two.”
“Don’t put down a hundred and fifty-two,” Molly ordered her. “I just said I weigh a hundred and forty-two.”
“It’s okay.” The girl shared an amused glance with the pilot. Sam, hadn’t she called him? “We always add ten pounds.”
