Free Touching the Clouds by Bonnie Leon Page B

peanut butter sandwich. His cheek bulging, he said, “No one should fly in this territory. It’s killing work. You’d be smart to turn around and go back where you came from.”
    Kate stared at her sandwich, her throat tightening. “Why me?” she asked, thinking it must have to do with her being female.
    He blew out a breath. “It’s not just you. We should all go home.” His expression turned somber. “I’m serious, Kate. It’s no place for a woman.”
    Irritation flared and Kate shot back, “Why not a woman?”
    Mike shook his head. “I don’t mean just women. Anyone in their right mind ought to go home.”
    She’d known flying here was dangerous, but she hadn’t expected to hear such a negative viewpoint from an Alaskan pilot. She folded the remainder of her sandwich in the waxed paper and put it in her pack. Taking out the tin of cookies, she opened it and halfheartedly offered one to Mike. “Mrs. Towns made these.”
    “Heard she’s a good cook.” He accepted the cookie.
    “She is.” Kate selected one and took a bite, barely tasting the mix of spices and raisins. Confused and frustrated, she wanted to ask Mike more about why he felt the way he did about flying in Alaska, but decided it wouldn’t be prudent, not on her first day. She chewed and tried to think of something else to talk about. Finally she said, “I can’t believe how many people live in the bush. How do they find these remote places?”
    “The natives have always been here. Others came looking for gold clear back in the last century and then stayed. And there are some who are still searching for it.” He grinned. “Most just want a solitary life and like the idea of living off the land.” He squinted as he studied a seagull hopping along the beach. “Some are hiding . . . from something or someone.”
    “That sounds ominous.”
    “Not really. There’s all kinds of things people want to leave behind.” Mike popped the last of his cookie in his mouth. “These remind me of my mother’s. She was a great cook.” His voice had taken on a wistful tenor.
    “Where did you live before moving here?” Kate set the open tin between them on the log.
    “Chicago. When my mother died, I figured it was time to make the move.”
    “What about your father?”
    His eyes hardened. “Haven’t seen him since he walked out on us. I was ten.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry.”
    Mike waved off her regret. “He wasn’t any good, anyway.”
    “How did you end up here?”
    He gazed at the ocean. “A friend taught me to fly when I was still in school. He came up several years ago and convinced me it was a good move. So here I am.”
    “Why do you stay?”
    “You ask a lot of questions.”
    “I figure I ought to know something about my teacher.” She grinned.
    “I stay because I can’t leave. Winter nearly runs me out every year, though.” Bracing his hands against the log, he leaned back. “Something about this place . . . almost feels like a part of me.” He took another cookie. “And I like the people. You can count on them.”
    “I’ve seen that. And I like it too. ’Course I haven’t been through a winter yet.”
    Mike rested his quiet blue eyes on Kate, unsettling her. “How’d you end up here?” he asked.
    “I love to fly and I heard there were jobs for pilots. There’s not a lot of work in the Yakima area right now. Well, not much anywhere right now.”
    “That’s it? You’re here out of practicality?” He shook his head. “It’ll take more than that to keep you here.”
    “It’s not all about being practical.” Kate brushed cookie crumbs off her shirt. “I want to challenge myself, to try something I’ve never done—”
    “Ah, so it’s adventure.” He chuckled. “You’re like the rest of us then.”
    Kate felt a prickle of annoyance. “I want more than an adventure. I want to prove I’m a good pilot.”
    “You don’t know?” Mike raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “I guess we all feel like that