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It’s the swell of emotion every time Jonah first walks into the room, it’s the impatience I feel whenever he’s not around, it’s the way my heart skips every time I make him laugh.
On impulse, I lean over and press a quick kiss against Jonah’s cheek, above his freshly trimmed beard.
He regards me, a curious glint in his eye. “What’s that for?”
“For being you.” I shift my focus back to the approaching ground below. Even painted the same stark white of winter, this area of Alaska is a vastly different landscape from the frozen tundra we left at first light. On this side, the houses are dispersed but more numerous, the lakes and rivers clearly marked by the cut of dense forest around their shorelines.
Jonah follows my gaze. “This is a really nice part of Alaska.”
I’m momentarily enthralled with the jagged white peaks of the mountain in the distance, even more distinct against the crisp blue backdrop of the sky. Will all these mountain ranges ever become commonplace to me? “Which one is that?”
“Denali. Highest mountain peak in North America.”
I sigh. It does seem nice here. “Too bad it’s so remote.”
“It’s not that remote. It’s considered part of the Anchorage metropolitan area.”
“And how far is the actual city from here?”
“Only about an hour and a half.”
“An hour and a half.” I emphasize. “That’s a three-hour commute. In good weather.”
Jonah shrugs. “Not like Bangor, though.”
“No, I guess not,” I admit.
Jonah brings Veronica down on the snowy air
strip, her skies sliding effortlessly over a lane that’s been plowed recently, likely by the tractor parked off to the side. “Beautiful sight line … nicely graded …” His voice is full of admiration.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the runways.”
He yanks off his headset and flicks a multitude of switches by rote, bringing the plane’s engine to a halt. Leaning in to plant a fast but hard kiss on my lips and to whisper “smart-ass,” he pops open his door and hops out of the plane.
My boots hit the ground with a crunch, the stark contrast between the heated plane cabin and the frigid temperature outside making me shrink into my coat.
A man emerges from the tall metal building—a hangar, I realize, spotting a red plane wing inside, through the gaping door. He approaches, his steps hobbled and chosen prudently as he moves along the narrow, shoveled path. He must be in his seventies, his face weathered with age, the wisps of hair peeking from the base of his black toque white to match the snow.
Jonah closes the distance to meet him halfway, the cooler of meat dangling from one hand. He offers him a hearty handshake with the other. “Phil. Good to see you again.”
“It sure has been awhile.” Phil grins, highlighting a missing front molar. Gray-blue eyes shift to me, and I note how the left one is cloudy. “This the missus?”
“Not officially yet but, yeah.”
My heart sings at Jonah’s response, at all the promises and intentions buried within—though we haven’t discussed marriage seriously yet—and delivered without hesitation or fear, in typical blunt Jonah style. It’s a quality I despised when I first met him, how he so brazenly told me what he thought of me in less-than-glowing terms, and now I’m not sure I could survive here without it. It’s easy to trust a person unequivocally when you don’t have to worry about what they’re not telling you.
Jonah stretches an arm back to beckon me forward. “This is Calla. Wren Fletcher’s daughter.”
“Sorry to hear about your father. What a shame. Gone way too soon.”
“Thanks.” I rush to add, “And Jonah told me about your wife. I’m sorry, too.”
His lips press together and he offers me a curt nod of acknowledgment, as if he can’t manage more than that.
I know the feeling all too well.
Phil spies the cooler in Jonah’s grasp. “George mentioned he was sendin’ something from his hunt with you.”
