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She didn’t know what to do.
Wynn fed the baby strained peaches and tried to smile. His daughter. His precious daughter. But even as he interacted with the little girl, there was a gaping hole where his heart had been.
Now, twice in his life he had made an unforgivable mistake. The first one when he left Felicity and Falcon’s Notch behind as a teenager. The second yesterday when he allowed his own fears to consume and control him. When he treated the woman he loved with cold derision.
Had he really thought he could send her away without damaging his own soul?
He loved Felicity Vance. Deeply, irrevocably. Perhaps he had always loved her. Why else would he have concocted a plan to keep her under his roof? Why else would he have made love to her with such desperation and passion?
He stared blankly at the small TV on the kitchen counter. Before Ayla came into his life, he would have been toggling between morning news programs, listening to every breaking story.
Now, the TV was on mute. But the graphic at the bottom of the screen caught his eye. Knoxville-bound jet skids off icy runway at LaGuardia.
Nausea rose in his throat.
Felicity lived in Knoxville. And he had sent her to the airport.
As panic fluttered in his chest, he ran the odds in his head. She might have flown out last night. Or maybe she had left via JFK or Newark.
But her airline operated multiple routes out of LaGuardia.
The muted newscaster, her hair perfectly styled, looked straight into the camera with a serious expression. Her lips formed the words printed on the screen. Possible casualties.
Wynn grabbed his phone. Started jabbing in numbers.
Though he pulled every string he could, it took him an hour—a whole damn hour—to get Ayla’s care covered. To make the terrifying discovery that Felicity’s name was indeed on the passenger manifest. To make the frustrating trip from Manhattan to the airport. To get as close to the runways as possible.
Every variety of law enforcement official swarmed the area. In addition to the usual security precautions, yellow tape cordoned off a wide swath of real estate.
An NYPD officer waved him off. “Sorry, sir. No civilian admittance. Check the airport’s website. They have a phone number to call for information.”
Wynn shook with helpless rage. Not at the man doing his job, but at his own culpability.
Fliss was out in that accident somewhere. He was going to do whatever it took to reach her.
Fortunately, it occurred to his terror-addled brain that he had friends in high places. FAA buddies. The first one he called answered. Twenty minutes later, Wynn had the credentials he needed to metaphorically jump the fence.
The runway was a nightmare. Emergency vehicles everywhere. All incoming flights were being diverted. He didn’t know or care where or why. His entire focus was on the crippled plane sitting drunkenly with one wingtip in the water.
Red and blue flashing lights made it hard to see. He jogged doggedly in the direction of the accident. It was a smallish jet. Probably a two-by-two configuration. How many people would have been on board?
Smoke billowed from one engine. The safety slides had deployed.
Where was Felicity in this chaotic nightmare?
And then it dawned on him. All he had to do was text her.
No answer. Damn.
Now he was close enough to smell jet fuel. The FDNY guys and gals were spraying foam from stem to stern.
EMT vehicles had parked wherever they could find space. Patients were being treated on the spot.
Wynn’s desperation increased. How was he going to find her?
