There it was again. Kristina Montgomery frowned at the faint whining noise above the treetops. Same as yesterday.
Leaning over the sink at the kitchen window, her gaze shifted to the sky. A small plane hovered above the tree line rimming her property. The yellow wings floated like a bright golden bird in the morning sunlight.
A robin called a cheery greeting from the winter-stark branches of a nearby oak. The droning of bees filled the air above the overgrown bushes, heirloom roses, which would burst into fragrant bloom come spring.
Provided spring ever came. Since her husband died two years ago, she’d felt trapped in her own stark winter of grief.
She’d bought the 1930s Arts and Crafts bungalow because of those rosebushes. And for the neglected garden.
Why? Maybe because of the inherent promise of new beginnings the garden held for her and her son. She and Gray had desperately needed a new beginning.
She scowled at the mechanical bird, a painful reminder of everything she’d lost. If she’d known the property adjoined a private airfield, she would’ve never purchased the run-down place.
In the twenty-six months since Pax’s death, she’d ridden a roller coaster of extreme emotion. She was caught somehow between overwhelming grief and a paralyzing fear of how she was going to raise their son alone.
At the edge of the woods separating her peaceful sanctuary from the airstrip, she spotted her son’s bike. She blew out a breath. How many times had she told him not to go over there? The airplane dipped one wing before disappearing beyond the forested horizon.
Gray had promised—she’d made him promise—to stay away from the airfield. But she should’ve recognized the stubborn glint in his brown eyes. The same glint her husband used to get every time he got into a cockpit.
Until above a windswept Afghan mountain, a rocket-propelled grenade had slammed into his plane. Hurling Pax and his fighter jet into a thousand pieces of jagged, burning metal—
She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes against the images that played in her dreams every night. Her hand tightened around the dangling chain of her husband’s dog tags. She had to stop doing this. She had to move on, for Gray’s sake. Mired in the past, she was no good to her son.
Her head throbbed. She rubbed her temples. Like father, like son? Her eyes flew open.
She refused to allow history to repeat itself. Not with her son. Not with the only person she had left.
Tucking the dog tags inside the collar of her pink shirt, she thrust open the screen door. The hinges screeched. She dashed down the concrete steps. The door slammed behind her. In dress flats for her morning meeting, she stalked across the grass toward the trees.
Sidestepping the bike, she followed a faded trail toward their very unwelcome neighbor. The overhanging tree canopy blocked most of the sunlight. She shivered and wrapped the open ends of her brown cardigan around herself.
February on the Eastern Shore of Virginia was much too cold to go outside without a coat. Knowing Gray, he was most likely in shirtsleeves.
She picked her way across the pine-needled footpath and emerged into a paved clearing to find the plane, wheels down, at the end of the runway. Engine roaring and propellers whirring, the pilot taxied the golden-yellow plane toward the terminal.
A metallic, tin-roofed hangar and a small brick building anchored the beginning of the runway. Beside the hangar, a sign—Wallace & Collier Crop Aviation Specialists.
Great. Just great. Somehow of all the houses for sale on the Delmarva Peninsula, she’d managed to buy the one next door to a barnstorming, daredevil crop duster.
Her teenage son waved at the plane as it rolled forward. But when he caught sight of her, his hand quickly dropped to his side.
“You got that right, buster. You’re in big trouble,” she muttered under her breath. And without stopping to think, she charged across the runway toward him. Gray’s eyes widened.
“Mom! Watch out. Get out of the way!”
Too late, she realized she’d stepped into the path of the oncoming plane. She froze. The sound of the propeller filled her ears.
Gray raced across the runway. Grabbing her arm, he yanked her out of the way. The pilot braked and swerved. The plane skidded as the wheels struggled for traction before finally shuddering to a stop.
Falling onto the grassy area, Gray took the brunt of the impact. But with the resilience of youth, he sprang to his feet.
She rose slowly, feeling every bit of her thirty-eight years. “Gray, honey, are you—”
“What were you thinking, Mom?” Hands on his skinny hips, he gestured to the plane. “Walking in front of a moving aircraft? Seriously?”
Shoving open the cockpit door, the pilot emerged. In jeans and work boots, his flannel shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, he clambered out and dropped to the asphalt.
A baseball cap obscured the upper portion of his face. But there was no mistaking the taut anger whipstitching his mouth, nor his jutting jaw as he advanced. “What kind of idiot walks into the path of an airplane?” he yelled.
She bristled. Pilots, the same the world over. Civilian or military, lords of the universe. Or so they believed.
Gray’s mouth went mulish. “Thanks a lot, Mom. Now Canyon’s going to kick me out of here for good.”
“You