Refuge Cove (New Americana 2)

Dazed and shaken, John opened his eyes. His head felt like somebody had broken a brick over it. Reaching up, he felt a swollen, tender bruise, so sore he could barely touch it. The headset he’d been wearing was nowhere to be seen. What the hell had happened?

In a flash, it all came back—the storm, the descent through the clouds, and the landing he’d expected to go fine—except that it hadn’t. His head must’ve struck something when the plane crashed to a stop. Whatever it was, it had hit hard. He felt dizzy and mildly nauseous. Probably had a concussion. Never mind, he needed to see about the plane, which was undoubtedly in even worse shape than he was.

After unfastening his safety harness, he pushed open the door, and jumped to the ground. The jar to his head as he landed elicited a grunt of pain.

The storm howled around him, wet and icy cold, as he inspected his plane. It had come to a stop on a stretch of rocky beach. The float on the pilot’s side was destroyed, the struts holding it bent out of shape. The tip of the wing, where the plane had scraped along the beach and come to rest was crumpled. With time, money, and spare parts, the Beaver could be towed back to civilization and repaired. But there was no way he could take off and fly it out—especially in this godforsaken place.

Damn!

When he didn’t show up in Sitka, the mail flight would be reported missing. Rescuers who’d received his last radio message would be out looking for him. But nothing was going to happen until the storm cleared. If the wind and rain hung around, he could be stuck here for days—and if he had a concussion, the one thing he mustn’t do was sleep. If he did, there was a danger he might not wake up.

Still cursing himself for taking a chance on the weather, he climbed back into the cockpit and assessed his situation. He had a thermos of coffee, a couple of water bottles, and a few snacks. There was no telling how long they would have to last. The thing to do now was get on the radio and let his colleagues know that he’d survived a crash landing and was waiting to be picked up.

But when he tried to use the radio, there was nothing but silence. From the shock of the crash, or for whatever reason, the radio was dead.

* * *

When Emma came down for her shift at eleven o’clock, she had the loaded pistol John had given her tucked into the pocket of her uniform. Small as it was, the gun had enough weight to bump against her leg and bulge slightly beneath her apron. If a customer noticed it, she might be in trouble. But after Boone’s visit that morning, she would not be leaving her room without it.

By noon the wind had let up. Gray clouds, drizzling cold rain, hung over the town. But the weather wasn’t harsh enough to keep people from donning their rain gear and coming out to socialize over lunch.

“We get a lot of rain here,” Pearl explained. “If we let it keep us indoors, we’d all turn into hermits.”

Pearl hadn’t been here earlier when Boone had stopped by the window. Emma hadn’t told her about the brief visit. Pearl already knew that Boone was a threat. And after the fuss when Philpot had shown up, Emma had made a resolution—no more drama in the workplace.

The TV above the bar had been on all day with news of the storm. But there’d been no word from John. She could only hope he’d found a safe place to wait out the storm, and that he’d be home tonight. His text had mentioned that he wanted to talk. Did that mean he wanted to move forward together, or was he preparing her for good-bye? Either way, she would have to be ready. John was not an easy man to read.

David came in at his usual time. His mother let him out of the Escalade and drove away without so much as a wave. It was easy to understand why the boy wanted a job and a car. John’s son was growing up. What he craved was independence.

It was about four o’clock, and Emma was helping David set the tables for dinner when the breaking news screen flashed onto the TV. Emma stood stunned, the forks in her hand clattering to the floor as the newscaster read the bulletin.

“A mail plane has been reported missing and is presumed to have gone down in the storm, somewhere between Petersburg and Sitka. Earlier today, the pilot, John Wolf, flying out of Ketchikan, radioed his position and indicated that he was trying to land. Nothing further has been heard from him. Attempts to contact him by radio have received no response. Search planes will be going out as soon as the weather clears.”

Emma glanced at David. Like her, he was frozen to the spot, staring up at the TV as the broadcast continued. Pearl had come out of the kitchen, and she stood beside them, listening.

“We go now to our reporter in Sitka, speaking with Saul Mazursky, a former bush pilot and now mail supervisor. What’s your take on this, Mr. Mazursky?”

An older man, weathered and graying, spoke into the microphone. “If you know anything about bush pilots, you know two things—that they’re tough and that they’re like family to each other. The men in the air looking for John Wolf will be his friends and brothers. And they won’t rest until they find him, because they know that John would do the same for them. He’s one of the best pilots and finest men I’ve ever known—honest, dedicated, selfless, and as tough as they come. John, I know you can’t hear me. But if you could, I would tell you, hang in there. Somebody’s . . . coming.” Mazursky blinked and shoved the microphone back at the reporter.

Emma looked at David again. Tears were trickling down his face. He was hearing about his father, the man he hadn’t been allowed to know.

See, your mother was wrong. People do change. Or maybe he was the same man all along. That was what she wanted to say to him. But those weren’t the words the boy needed to hear. Instead, what she said was, “Pray for him, David. That’s what he needs from you now.”

* * *

John walked along the beach doing his best to stay alert. The wind had eased, and the rain was letting up some. But clouds lay like a thick gray blanket as far as the eye could see. He had spent much of the afternoon trying to fix the radio, with no success. He’d even tried his cell phone, but, as he should have known, there was no service here.

In an hour it would be dark. Not that it mattered. No pilot would be searching for him in this weather.

Even once the sky cleared, John knew that finding him wouldn’t be easy. He had landed in a narrow inlet, with high cliffs on either side. A pilot in a plane would only be able to see him from directly overhead. Before then, he could pass out from the concussion or die of hunger and thirst—but he mustn’t think of that now. He had set out anything that might hold water to collect the rain, saving the two precious quart bottles for as long as he could. Drinking the seawater in the inlet would only dehydrate him faster.

The night would be long and cold. Wrapped in his sheepskin coat, John had walked the length and breadth of the island looking for something that would make a fire. But this small pile of rock had no trees on it. And the few sticks of driftwood he’d collected were too waterlogged to burn. If he was to have any hope of rescue, when the time came, he would need to light a signal fire. For that he would need enough fuel to attract attention. Maybe something from the plane would work. But he would have to worry about that tomorrow.

He had planned to be home tonight, to pick up Emma after her work and drive someplace where they could be alone and talk. It was too soon for anything like a proposal, but he needed to know whether she could be happy in a place like Ketchikan, or whether she’d be walking out of his life as soon as she was able to leave.

If he could find the courage to say the words, he might even tell her he loved her.

Did she know he was missing? Had it been on the news, or was she waiting, expecting the call that wasn’t going to happen?