Of course, Vic had been right about Kurt, and she thanked God every day this past year that her brother had never lorded it over her. He'd welcomed her home without question, given her a job and worked like crazy to fill the void in Kirstie's life left by Kurt's death.
With a sleepy sigh, Kirstie sagged against Vic's plaid-covered chest. His devotion was all the more heartbreaking since he'd lost his own daughter in a drowning accident four years ago. His wife had blamed him—the heartless witch—and filed for divorce, the breakup so bitter he'd dug in his bachelor heels deep.
Still, he hadn't winced once when Kirstie had hauled Little Tykes Central through his wide bar gate and into his yard. He swore their arrival was an answer to a prayer, that giving Paige room and board in exchange for a lower salary saved him the pinch of hiring someone at full price.
He'd rescued her pride as well as her butt. She owed him big-time. "Kirstie failed to mention I'm easily six years—" or more, ouch "—older than the guy."
"Doesn't matter to a man. And it's not like you're ancient or, uh..." His gaze landed on the stacked bags of feed in the back of the truck. "Or dog food."
"Where do you get your charm?" She elbowed him in the side.
She didn't want this discussion, and she sure didn't want to remember that lightning crackle moment with Bo Rokowsky. Must be lack of sex messing with her head. Yet if she thought overlong about Kurt touching her, her stomach lurched like the brush tumbling past her feet. How could she have made love with a man so devoid of decency and not sensed something?
Forget about sex. Numb was better. Or it had been, until one lightning look from a cocky flyboy shocked her nerve endings to life again.
"Captain Rokowsky was charmed by Kirstie." Paige hooked her lunch sack over her shoulder. "I should probably check on Seth manning the reception desk and see if he needs ice for his ankle—"
"Captain, huh? He must not be too young."
"Still too young for me, since regardless of my actual age I feel a hundred these days."
She smoothed a hand over her sleeping daughter's head resting on Vic's shoulder. "How about you put Kirstie down on the sofa inside and I'll get a head start unloading the supplies?"
"Damn sweet deal for me."
"Just make sure to click on the intercoms so I can keep an ear out for her."
His smile faded. "I won't let anything happen to her."
She squeezed his sturdy forearm. "I know. Thank you."
A long swallow and curt nod later, he thudded up the steps to the circa 1920s farmhouse.
Paige circled around to the back of the truck and lowered the tailgate. Bending at the knees, she hefted a fifty-pound bag of Mrs. Svenson's rice-fortified dog food for her aging collie. Paige adjusted the weight on her shoulder and started toward the vet offices spoking off the house, a five-by-five clinic sign flapping in the wind, hinges creaking.
Muscle ache offered a healthy, welcome reminder that she held her own now. She trudged up the four side steps, her eyes drawn to the lonely landing strip out back where their cousin's Cessna Skyhawk was parked, stirring images of a certain guitar-toting pilot.
That plane would be better served reminding her of their precarious financial position.
They stayed solvent by Seth flying them out to remote locales for emergency calls.
Ranchers paid through the nose for that service. But mad cow disease and lower beef prices had hit the plains states hard, leaving ranchers panicking over every sick animal, yet short of funds to pay the doctor bill.
Their cousin's sprained ankle would take at least two to three weeks to heal before he could fly again. What a long time to pay a stand-in pilot, even the crappy one Seth had scrounged up who was working for bargain-basement rates.
"Maybe I should invest in a parachute," she mumbled, leaning a hip against the wooden door frame to bear some weight while she slid one hand to the knob.
She reminded herself the substitute was licensed. His finesse factor in the air wasn't great, but they didn't need pretty flying.
Bo Rokowsky was all about finesse and charm—
Ah, for Pete's sake.
The bell tinkled as the door swung wide to reveal her cousin manning the reception desk.
Resembling a blond beach bum more than a meticulous pilot, he lounged back in the office chair with his foot propped on the counter. Baggy cargo shorts and a faded fishing hat made for eclectic receptionist garb. "Have fun today?"
"A blast." Paige kicked the door closed behind her, the scent of ammonia-washed tile greeting her with antiseptic reality. No flowery, insubstantial fantasies here.