Surviving alaska, p.1
Surviving Alaska, page 1
“I’m looking for a man.”
Ian’s eyes dropped to Natasha’s sling, then bulky walking boot. “This guy responsible for all that?” He motioned to the injuries.
Fury flashed in her expression and Lexi stiffened. A low growl rumbled from the dog’s throat.
Ian froze. He did not want those teeth sinking into his hide.
“It’s okay, girl,” Natasha whispered, her left hand stroking the black fur. “We’ve been together for four years. She senses my moods and interprets my body language, then responds accordingly.”
“She going to bite me if you get mad?” He’d have to rethink his strategy on making the woman go home.
“Only if I give her the command.” Natasha’s lips quirked. “Or if I’m unconscious and she thinks you’re a threat.”
“Good to know.” He swallowed, doing his best to radiate harmless vibes. “The man you’re searching for, did he give you those injuries?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going after him? By yourself?”
P.A. DePaul resides outside Philadelphia in the US. In her free time, you can find her reading, working on a puzzle, playing with her dog, winning game nights against her husband (sometimes) or whipping up something in the kitchen. You can learn more about her at padepaul.com, Facebook.com/padepaul and Instagram.com/padepaul.
Books by P.A. DePaul
Love Inspired
Inspirational Mountain Rescue
Deadly Mountain Treasure
Surviving the Storm
Visit the Author Profile page at LoveInspired.com.
Surviving Alaska
P.A. DePaul
But the wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt.
—Isaiah 57:20
This book is dedicated to K-9 heroes and heroines everywhere. Thank you for your amazing service.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank-you goes to my husband. He’s a sounding board, brainstormer and rock star at keeping the household running while I’m writing.
Massive squishy hugs go to my agent, Michelle Grajkowski, and editor, Johanna Raisanen. I love you both!
I don’t even know where to begin on the thank-you scale for Rich Worthington and the Lower Moreland Police Department. Rich, thank you for allowing me to use your name. Hopefully you’re okay with becoming an ASAC with the FBI. :) Thank you for answering my litany of emails, calls, texts and popping in the station. You rule. I own every mistake and stretch of reality.
My final thank-you belongs to you, the reader. I appreciate the support and your time in reading this labor of love. It means the world to me.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Excerpt from High-Stakes Blizzard by Rebecca Hopewell
Chapter One
Lexi whined, her pitch starting with a high complaint and ending on a low growl.
Natasha Greene transferred a worthless tissue into her right hand, which was dangling from a sling, and buried her fingers between the German shepherd’s pointed ears. She silently agreed with the assessment.
Yesterday, they had spent seventeen tedious, and painful, hours locked inside airports and planes, thanks to layovers and delays. Landing too late at night in Anchorage, they had shared a budget hotel room, then, this morning, hopped onto a small charter plane flying northwest, hauling mail and supplies.
She needed the brief reprieve on solid ground. And yet...
The village of Whisper, Alaska—population 436—couldn’t be more opposite from Philadelphia if it tried. Tucked into the heart of the untamed interior, basic infrastructure such as highways didn’t exist. Like most of the state, the village was isolated and only accessible by small planes.
Within Whisper, mud strips simulated roads while colorful homes comprised of wood and scavenged materials were in desperate need of repair. Rusty wires penned chickens but uncollared dogs roamed free. The only asphalt found was at the airport. And calling the single patchwork building an “airport” was generous. The structure pulled triple duty as a terminal, warehouse, and hangar.
But the view surrounding the locals could not be beat. In the distance, majestic mountains and flourishing forests stretched for miles.
A strong gust of wind snatched at Natasha’s baseball cap and clanged metal signs, clinging for survival on rusty bolts, against the terminal.
Summer had decided to skip this part of Alaska, or gave up and let fall have its way. Instead of shorts and tank tops for August, Natasha needed a coat and gloves. Great. She had hoped the internet had lied when she researched what to pack for the trip. It hadn’t.
Another gust iced through her lightweight jacket and tactical pants.
“Dalton’s around here somewhere,” the charter pilot, Skip, interrupted her survey. “We’re meetin’ for lunch.”
For the first time since she left Philadelphia International Airport, Natasha doubted her plan. In her mind, it had seemed so simple. But now...
“Head on inside,” the pilot yelled over his shoulder as he strode toward an open hangar bay. “It’ll be warmer.” He pointed at a dirty glass door at the front of the building.
Peering into Lexi’s big brown eyes, Natasha prayed she hadn’t made the second worst mistake of her life.
* * *
Ian Dalton tossed the saturated rag on top of the growing pile inside a broken laundry basket. Grabbing another from the warped cardboard box, he dropped the piece of old T-shirt onto the floor of his aging Cessna 180.
“Never again,” he muttered, attacking the red berry liquid seeping into the crevasses. The old man and young kid on his earlier flight had refused to listen. Ian had told them repeatedly they shouldn’t hold the large beverage cooler. He offered to strap it in the cargo area behind their seats, but the grandfather insisted he’d done this before with no problems.
Ian’s desperation for money had won over common sense. Sure enough, twenty minutes into the flight, turbulence hit, and the lid popped off as the container shot out of the man’s hands. Red juice had dumped all over the kid and plane.
“Dalll-ton.”
The male voice bellowing interrupted Ian’s internal rant. Straightening, he peered through the window of his Cessna’s opened door to find Skip lumbering into the hangar. The forty-seven-year-old Inuit pilot had been the first person Ian met when he moved to Alaska from Virginia five months ago. Landing in Anchorage with no money, job, or place to live had been the second lowest point in his life. Skip had banged on the Cessna’s door when Ian hadn’t climbed out of the plane. Within a ten-minute conversation, Ian had a job prospect that ultimately gave him the other two missing needs: a paycheck and housing.
“What happened?” Skip crowded into Ian’s space, studying the interior.
“Lack of judgment.” Ian balled the wet T-shirt in his fist.
Skip cackled, straightening. “Yours or the passengers’?”
“Both.” Ian threw the rag into the basket. He’d have cleaned the mess at the previous airport, but Skip had a tight schedule flying mail and packages to various villages. Skip only flew the items so far, so if the cargo had to reach the outer edges, he dropped it off at designated airports and other pilots hauled it the rest of the way. It wasn’t a perfect system, but remote Alaskans were used to delays.
Brushing his long, graying braid over his shoulder, Skip’s eyes twinkled. “I gotta charter for you.”
“Seriously?” Ian perked up, maneuvering to look over Skip’s shoulder. He caught the tail of the man’s small white-and-gold Piper Chieftain, which revealed nothing.
“Come on.” Skip stepped around the support bar securing the Cessna’s wing overhead to the front of the plane. “We can catch her on the way to the lobby.”
“Her?” Better and better. Then reality sunk in. Pretty, single women under the age of forty weren’t that prevalent in the interior. In fact, they were downright scarce.
Skip’s shoulders shook with his low laughter as he trundled toward the opening.
Whatever. Skip had a wife, four kids, and a grandchild. The man didn’t have to bother with dati
Movement caught his attention and he hustled only to stop just inside the hangar.
Wha...? He blinked. Well, the potential passenger was under forty. She checked that box. Possibly pretty too, though the distance and her hat had the jury deliberating. Her single status remained a mystery, but that all paled with the flurry of questions now buzzing his brain.
Skip clapped Ian on the shoulder. “You said you needed more fares.” He motioned. “I intercepted her in Anchorage. Gave her a free ride since I was coming here anyway.”
Wind smacked Ian’s cheeks, but he ignored the biting sting. What had happened to the poor woman?
A black sling held her right arm crooked at ninety degrees. So, either her arm, her shoulder, or both were broken. She winced as she walked, and her left hand rubbed the side of her ribs. Were they injured too? Sheesh. What drew a woman in that condition to the untamed Alaskan interior?
“Dog’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Dog? Ian’s gaze tracked lower, and sure enough, a gorgeous German shepherd stuck by the woman’s side. More black than tan, the dog looked purebred and able to rip an arm off if warranted. No leash—
Wait.
“That’s just wrong.” The German shepherd didn’t trot. “A dog that beautiful shouldn’t be limping.” Not that it was okay for any dog to be hurt, but something about watching this dog struggling made him want to lash out at whatever had caused the damage.
A deep sigh rumbled from the other pilot. “Agreed.”
Ian plucked off his frayed baseball cap and scratched his scalp. His hair seriously needed a cut, but that was low on the list. “You know what happened to them?”
“Nah.” Skip tucked his hands into his jeans. “Ms. Greene was quiet on the flight.” He grinned. “I ended up doing most of the talking.”
Ian snorted. That meant Skip told the woman his entire life story.
The older pilot’s ears pinked. “Pictures might have been involved.”
Laughter erupted out of Ian’s throat. “No doubt.”
Skip shoved Ian lightly. “Come on.”
Slapping the hat back on, he followed Skip back into the hangar. In the last five months, the older pilot had drummed up, stumbled upon, and/or strong-armed countless charters for Ian. How the man did it, Ian didn’t care. He desperately needed the money. The slew of attorneys back in Richmond drained their retainer fees almost as fast as Ian could replace them. Since he didn’t see an end in sight, he pretty much accepted any legal charter.
And too many times to count, Ian wished he could afford to be picky. More than once, he regretted accepting a charter—the berry juice fiasco being one of them.
Skip peered over his shoulder and smiled. “This’ll be the easiest money you make.”
Chapter Two
Burnt coffee and stale popcorn invaded Natasha’s nose the second she opened the glass door. It drowned every scent in the lobby.
A young girl, approximately fifteen or sixteen, sat behind a wood-paneled reception desk spanning at least ten feet. The top of a twenty-four-inch monitor peeked above the brown laminate overlay. The girl banged on an old keyboard while listening to someone on the multiline phone. Stacks of papers, a CB radio, mugs of pens and highlighters, and well-thumbed manuals left no room to utilize the desk. A giant map of Alaska was tacked to the wood-paneled wall behind her as well as some federally mandated signs.
The waiting area consisted of slouched couches in an L-shape. Three stalwart chairs had stains and tears, and a single side table held a leafy plant she couldn’t identify, in surprisingly vibrant condition.
Closed doors on either side of the reception desk had no markings designating their purpose. Though, one of them had to lead to a kitchenette, based on the overpowering smell permeating the place.
The phone clattered back into the base, jolting Natasha’s gaze to the girl. Lexi leaned against Natasha’s good leg to offer comfort.
“I’m Kaya,” the teenager announced in a mix of boredom and curiosity. “Can I help you?”
“I, um—”
The door on the right side of the desk swung open, its hinges squeaking in protest.
The girl’s head snapped in that direction, then her cheeks bloomed red as a goofy smile quirked her lips. “Ian.” She stood so fast her rolling chair smacked into the wall. “I didn’t see your plane land.”
That statement revealed so much.
Two men, approximately the same height, five-ten-ish, crossed the threshold, allowing the door to slam shut on its own.
On reflex, Natasha cataloged the newcomers.
Skip, in his late forties, early fifties, smiled at Kaya. His weathered, indigenous face showed laugh lines and a life well lived. Braided hair reaching just shy of his waist had more white than black, and it looked good on him. Overall, he exuded peace and contentment.
Ian radiated curiosity, energy, and a vibe that didn’t invite anyone to dig below the surface. Which made her instantly want to do just that. Ian looked to be in his early thirties. He wore a black T-shirt beneath a tan Carhartt jacket, and a pair of jeans gathered at the top of muddy steel-toed boots. A battered off-color baseball cap bearing a faded logo attempted to conceal dark brown hair, but the guy had let his locks grow or neglected regular haircuts. A full beard covered part of his cheeks and jaw, but he kept it shaved close. Light green eyes—a shade she’d never seen before—zeroed in on her. And stuck.
Unable to free herself from the gaze, she understood and respected the teenager’s crush. Her own cheeks warmed under his intensity. But something deeper...a connection she didn’t understand...hooked her. In all her twenty-eight years, she’d only felt this link one other time. When she met Lexi. The German shepherd was more than her partner—
“Ms. Greene.”
Natasha forced her unwilling eyes to peer at Skip.
He swished his hands in presentation. “I’d like you to meet the pilot I told you about. Ian Dalton.”
Natasha rolled the name in her mind and did her best to bite back the slew of questions fighting to break free. Why did he captivate her and look familiar? Had she seen him before? What was his story? She wanted answers to break this intrigue so she could focus on the reason for her trip.
The silence grew and she realized she hadn’t said anything. “Hello.”
Not a blink, twitch, or any indication the other pilot heard Skip’s introduction or her response.
“Dalton.” Skip’s eyebrows drew down. “This is Natasha Greene and Lexi.”
Lexi’s head tilted at her name, but she didn’t move from her position against Natasha’s leg.
For too many heartbeats, nothing happened. Ian or Dalton or whatever he called himself continued to stare. Pale green eyes roved over her features, pausing on her tri-toned baseball cap advertising a popular restaurant chain.
The blush crept down her neck, but she lifted her chin. Having only one free hand limited her options on maintaining midlength hair. Did he have a problem with her hat or was he gearing up to interrogate her about her injuries? For the past week, since she had been released from the hospital, she’d encountered two main reactions: one, people ignored the sling supporting a fractured collarbone and cast around a broken humerus, and all of her bruises, pretending they didn’t exist, or two, people openly goggled and asked for the reason.
Ian Dalton obviously fell into the second category. She braced for the onslaught of questions that were none of his business.
Skip smacked the guy’s shoulder. “Dalton.”
* * *
Ian blinked out of the trance. What had just happened? One second, he walked through the door, the next he fell into a vortex.
“Don’t be rude,” Skip hissed next to Ian’s ear.
Rude? What? He blinked again.
A low whine and the click of nails on concrete didn’t make sense until his focus cleared. The gorgeous dog positioned itself to stand in front of its owner. Pointed ears and big eyes aimed at him in expectation.
