intended to pen her dogs. He waited to open the door until she’d disappeared again.
“I know, buddy, you’re disappointed to lose playmates. But maybe those dogs aren’t as friendly as you. Come on. I’ll walk you into the woods to do your business. Then you’ll have to stay in the chopper while I unload Morgenthal’s order.”
Trudy reappeared about the time Mick returned to the clearing. “Where should I stack all the boxes?” he asked.
“My husband and sons and our other rangers are making sure all of the campers have left. They’ll be closing this end of the park and putting up chains across the entry roads until next season. Would it be a terrible imposition if I asked you to carry the paper goods to the canopy we’ve set up for the potluck? Put everything else on the porch. I don’t want you rein-juring your leg. Wylie told us about your surgery. In a way, that was his good fortune. Otherwise he wouldn’t have met your sister.”
“Wylie’s right. Marlee never would’ve taken over my cargo route if I hadn’t been laid up. It’s no problem moving your stuff, Trudy. I have a hand truck I can load boxes on.”
Trudy talked incessantly as Mick loaded up cartons and trucked them around. He would’ve told her he’d see her the next day, as he’d been invited to the potluck, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Phew, Wingman,” Mick said after he’d buckled himself back in his seat. “That woman could talk the ears off a mule. I suppose she gets lonely stuck out here with her husband out tending the park.”
He slipped on his earphones and promptly turned his thoughts to his next delivery. Mick wondered if he’d see Hana Egan this trip. A new kind of excitement rose in him, different from the thrill he got from flying. A month ago when he’d delivered the bulk of the winter supplies to Captain Martin, who lived year-round at the smoke jumpers’ camp, Mick had managed a few words with Hana. She wasn’t real talkative, and sometimes he had to cajole information out of her. She’d said she’d be going home to California soon.
As he rose above the stand of timber marking the northernmost park entrance, Mick considered how little he knew about Hana. He knew he was drawn by her red-gold curls that snapped to life when she stood bareheaded in the sun. He liked the freckles dusted across her nose. Mick probably thought too much about kissing her shapely mouth, since odds of that happening weren’t high. He’d never seen her wear lipstick. Of all her attributes, Mick found Hana’s eyes to be her most arresting feature. Given her coloring, a person might expect her to have blue or green eyes, but hers were…gold. Whiskey gold. He’d spoken with her enough to decide that her eyes reflected her every emotion.
Time passed quickly. The smoke jumpers’ camp sat halfway between the ranger station and his sister’s house. The place looked pretty deserted. He recognized Leonard Martin’s battered Ford diesel truck, and the assistant’s slightly newer SUV. The Jeep belonged to Jess Hargitay. As a rule, smoke jumpers flew in from various camps during times of fire. But Jess drove in. This station was the seasonal home to maybe six men and women. And the season was at an end, Mick lamented as he landed.
Heck, maybe he’d find out where Hana lived in California. He’d been thinking of island vacations, but California had plenty of white sandy beaches.
He repeated the process he’d gone through at the ranger station. He let the rotors stop fully before he leashed Wingman and the two of them climbed out.
“Hi, Mick.”
Hana Egan’s sweet voice had him spinning too fast on his fancy titanium hip. Mick felt a deep pain buckle his newly healed muscles. A blistering swear word escaped before he could check himself. He dropped Wingman’s leash when he was forced to grab the upright strut on the landing skid to keep from toppling.
The petite woman was quick on her feet. She scooped up the fleeing dog’s leather leash. “I didn’t mean to surprise you, Mick. Are you okay?” Those whiskey gold eyes Mick had so recently been thinking about turned dusky with concern.
“I’m fine,” he growled. The last thing he wanted was for Hana to judge him a lesser man than Jess Hargitay, who was swaggering toward them. Smoke jumpers tended to be agile, tough and have a penchant for danger.
“You don’t act fine,” she said. “Why can’t men ever admit to any shortcomings?”
He tried to discreetly knead the kink out of the long muscle that ran down his thigh. He hadn’t limped in a month, but he limped now as he crossed the space between them and relieved her of Wingman’s leash. “I wouldn’t touch that comment with rubber gloves, Hana. Suffice it to say, must be a guy thing. But I can’t answer for all men.” He looped the dog’s leash through a cross tube at the rear of the landing skid. “I probably need to ask Jess where he wants me to stack his supplies.” Still smarting from her words—and the cramp in his leg—Mick lowered his chin in dismissal and started to walk around her.
“Hold on.” She touched his hand, then abruptly pulled back. “I saw you dropping down to land, and I hurried over here to catch you before anyone else butts in. I wanted to tell you goodbye, Mick.”
“You’re taking off for home today, then?” He halted in his tracks and idly rubbed at his hand, still feeling the rasp of her surprisingly callused palm. Although, considering the job she did, Mick didn’t know why he’d be shocked to find her hand wasn’t nearly as soft as it looked.
“As soon as six of us finish climbing Mt. St. Nicholas, we’ll split up and go our separate ways.”
“You heard there’s a front moving in?”
“I’m sure Jess scoped out the weather. We’re making the climb for fun. It’s been a rough summer with fire after fire. This is our last hurrah as a unit before we scatter for the winter.”
“Huh. So you aren’t all from the same place?”
“No.” The denial was accompanied by a crisp shake of her red curls.
“I imagine you’re anxious to get home to your family, what with the holidays around the bend.”
Mick noticed that a brittleness overtook her usually friendly demeanor. Had he crossed some kind of line? Granted, in the past they’d never got around to discussing anything personal.
“I struck out on my own at sixteen, Mick,” she said briskly. “I took three part-time jobs so I could graduate from high school. Before that I was shuffled through a lot of different homes. There’s none I’d remotely call family.”
“So you were, what? In foster care?”
“Care? If you say so.” She spat the word with distaste. “I hope that’s not pity in your eyes, Mick Callen. I’ve done fine. This winter I’m enrolling in a couple of courses at UCLA. One day I’ll have my degree in forestry.” She followed that with a halfhearted laugh. “I’m surprised Jess hasn’t regaled you with the fact that I’m UCLA’s oldest underclassman. But I think I should qualify as a junior this semester.”
Mick felt her underlying anxiety over baring so much of her soul. He usually played things cool, too, when it came to spilling his guts. Now he felt moved to share. “This past spring my grandfather died. Pappy. You probably heard about it.”
“I did. Mick, I’m so sorry. You know he bragged about you something fierce. You must miss him terribly.”
“Yeah. I rattle around the house.” Mick dug deep to keep his voice from breaking. It was one thing to share a private grief, and another to show weakness.
“I heard your sister married Wylie Ames. Gosh, does that mean you’re totally alone this holiday season?”
“Marlee and Wylie want me to spend a week with them at Thanksgiving. I probably will if I haven’t winged my way to a sandy beach in some warmer clime. Their baby’s due right around Christmas, and they’ll have a house full with Jo Beth’s grandmother coming to help with the baby. Especially if weather forces the midwife to bunk over.”
Mick