“Yeah. I’ve already called the insurance company.”
“That was Wren’s favorite plane.”
It was his favorite plane. It was the last plane he ever flew, with me in the passenger seat. And I know that wrecking it hurts Jonah more than all his injuries combined.
I smooth a strand of hair off his forehead. “And he’d tell you that it’s just a plane and he’s happy you’re all right. I know because it’s what he said the last time you crashed his plane.”
Jonah snorts, but his face remains serious. “You regretting this yet?” He takes my left hand in his, his thumb smoothing over my ring.
“No. Why would I ever?”
Earnest blue eyes trace my features. “There was a stretch there, when I woke up, and couldn’t get out, couldn’t move—”
That ball in my throat flares as I’m hit with an image of what that must have looked like from the air. They said they weren’t expecting to find a survivor. They said it was a miracle Jonah survived and in the relatively good shape he’s in.
“And all I could think about was you, and how I was gonna break my promise about finding my way back. How you were gonna wish you’d never met me.”
Fresh tears stream down my face as I shake my head. “I could never regret you, Jonah.” Not if I’d lost him last night, not if I lose him in five years or fifty.
He swallows. “Are you gonna be able to handle me flyin’ again?”
“Jesus. You’re insane.” I can’t help but laugh. “Can we just focus on you healing first?” It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since he nearly died. He won’t be flying again for months. His firefighting days are done for the season, and Jack Thomas will have to find himself another pilot for his rich hunters.
“Yeah, fine. Come here,” he whispers holding his arm out.
Ever so slowly, I ease in and stretch out against his side, balancing precariously close to the edge of the hospital bed. I gingerly rest my head against the crook of his arm. My tears soak into his blue hospital gown. “I know you’re going to fly again, and I would never try to tell you not to. Just please promise me you’ll never take a risk like that again. I’d rather spend a hundred nights alone if it means you were going to come back to me safe at the end of it.”
“That promise, I know I can keep.” He shutters his eyes. The doctor said he’d be groggy.
I bring his hand to my mouth, to kiss his knuckles, and then I ease back to sit, intent on letting him sleep.
“You weren’t alone last night while you waited, were you?”
“No, no … everyone was there.” Toby drove me in my Jeep to Anchorage, where they airlifted Jonah.
“Who’s everyone?”
“Well, not Agnes, but the McGivneys and Marie, and Roy—”
“Roy?”
“Yeah. I was surprised, too.”
Jonah makes a sound, but he says nothing.
“Listen, you need your sleep. I’m going to get Agnes and Mabel before you fall asleep. They’re in the waiting room. George flew them in.”
“Have you told them about their cabin yet?”
I laugh. “No. You can. Take full advantage of their pity for you and make them agree to it.”
He smirks. “Done. Come and give me a kiss first.”
I lean in to press a teasing kiss on his forehead.
“Not there.”
I peck his nose.
He groans.
With a smile, I savor his lips.
Jonah lets out a contented sigh. “I can’t wait to get home so you can wait on me hand and foot.”
“Oh, you think so.” I laugh. It feels so good to laugh with Jonah.
“Can you get me a cowbell?”
“Sure. I’ll also tell you where you can shove it.” My gaze trails the gash above his left eyebrow.
“How many stitches?”
I count them. “Six, I think?” I smooth my palm over his beard. It needs a trim. “At least it’s smaller than the last one.”
He laces his fingers through mine. “Am I still pretty enough for you?”
Chapter Forty
December
The cold bites my cheeks as I sail across the frozen lake on the snow machine, and for a moment, I regret mocking the neoprene face mask Jonah brought home for me ahead of this cold spell. I complained that I would look like a criminal.
But at least I’d look like a criminal without frostbite.
I pull up next to the other snow machine parked at the edge of the shoreline. Oscar and Gus catch up, their tails wagging. “I win!” I tease, giving Oscar a head scratch as I climb off my seat. Lately, the wolf dogs spend more time here than at their home.
I march up the cleared path, marveling at the winter wonderland before me. It snowed for the last four days straight before the drastic temperature drop, blanketing the earth in white. The tree branches sag beneath the weight of their snow coats, sprinkling me with snowflakes as I brush past.
Ahead, the small log cabin sits nestled within the forest, soft light filling the two new windows we cut into the lakeside wall for more light and a view. A steady stream of smoke curls up into the frosty air above it. All around, the trees have been trimmed back to allow for light while also respecting nature.
Behind the cabin, on the narrow laneway we put in last August, sits the scratched-up black truck, with its tires chained and its bed loaded with carpentry tools.
“You two stay here,” I order as I kick off the snow from my boots, leaving the hounds on the porch. Warmth envelops me the moment I push through the new red door. “It’s so damn cold out there.” I shudder for emphasis, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut wood as I do every time I come here. While the cabin was in good shape, I wanted a bright, clean feel inside. Everything has been clad with new wood, with a rolling barn-door-type wall to separate the bedroom from the living space and a tiny bathroom in the far right corner, behind the compact kitchen that Roy is putting finishing touches on.
“Too bad you don’t have anything to protect your face,” Jonah says, shoving another log into the woodstove in the corner.
I smirk at his sarcasm as I haul the basket of lunch onto a small folding table that the guys have been using for meals. “The soup was hot when I packed it, but I don’t know how old this thermos is, so don’t let it sit too long. There’s also roast beef on whole-grain buns—store-bought,” I confirm with annoyance, when I see the wary look Jonah and Roy share. I’ve been testing out recipes with Colette’s bread machine and, let’s just say I have a ways to go before I’m serving the results to guests. I certainly won’t be feeding any of it to Jonah’s mom and stepfather when they arrive next week.
Jonah hauls himself to his feet and wanders over to root through the basket, pausing long enough to plant a kiss on my lips.
“Yours is waiting for you at home,” I scold, playfully slapping his hand away before I smooth mine over his forearm. It’s noticeably thinner, but growing stronger every day. Of all Jonah’s injuries, his arm took the longest to heal—almost three months. He was stuck on the ground and grumpy for most of it, and supervising Steve and his crew so intently that they finished ahead of schedule, likely to get away. But he’s been cast-free and in the air for the past month, his mood back to normal.