The Pilot (ON HOLD)

Part 1

Of course, it was Rachel he stumbled to.

Of course, she brought him to me.

The pilot.

We'd received twenty-seven inches of snow since Christmas and that night it was snowing again. I was in the storeroom, counting jars of peaches, and updating the numbers in my ledger, when Brendan spoke from the doorway, "Rachel's here."

I looked up from my notebook.

"You better come upstairs." His brown eyes were always serious but just now they looked bleak.

I set my book on the nearest shelf and followed him up the narrow creaking stairs.

"She's in your room," he said.

"My room? Bren...."

He turned at the top of the stairs, "Val, I'm going upstairs to check the kids."

"What's she done?" I asked, touching his arm.

"If you need me, I'll be upstairs," he said, turned and left.

I walked through the kitchen, stopping in my bedroom doorway. Bren had lit the fire in the fireplace and the warm light filled the tiny room. A man was sprawled across my little bed, Rachel stood next to him, hands clasped under her chin.

"What are you doing bringing a man here?"

She jumped at my voice, turned her beautiful blue eyes to me, "Val! You scared me." Her voice took on that pleading sound that grated my nerves, tears pooling in her lashes. "You know this is the only place I could bring him."

Looking back at the man, I shake my head, "You could have left him where you found him."

"On my front doorstep? He wouldn't live the night."

"Rachel...."

"He's hurt, Val, I don't know how badly or where, but he collapsed on my doorstep. I brought him straight here. No one knows but us." She looked back down at him, brushed a curl of dark hair from his forehead with a delicate touch. "He's so beautiful Val, please don't let him die." She glanced back at me, her angelic face now tearstained, "I have to get back, I work tonight. You owe me, Val. Don't let him die." Her chin trembled against the perfect fall of curls on her shoulder.

"I'll do my best, Rachel." I said, sighing in defeat. She bowed her head in some manner of humility and I was left alone in my room with an unconscious man.

I saw the fireball before I heard the explosion.

It was a jet of some type, of that I was sure. After almost a year of silence in the skies, I'm surprised I didn't find the sound more disconcerting as it roared above the house, rattling the shutters. I'd heard rumors last time I was in Conway, of people seeing lights in the sky at night, rumors of airplanes in Boston or New York. A flight at night, though, I didn't know what to think about that.

I look at the man on my bed. He's dressed in a flight suit and boots. I see no obvious injuries and he doesn't feel feverish. I start by removing his boots, stripping him quickly, methodically and can find nothing wrong. He's dehydrated and cold and there is a lump on his head but I find nothing else. I wrap warm stones from the fire and pack them around him then cover him with every quilt I have. Using a plastic straw, I try to get some water into his mouth. He seems to swallow a few drops and I continue until it runs down his cheek.

Dropping into my reading chair, I prop my feet on the warm stone hearth, nudging the fire screen a bit with my toes.

Brendan appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand, "Will he live?"

Holding the mug up to my nose, I inhale the soothing vapor of lemon, honey and Tennessee Fire. "I think so." Sipping the warm drink, I lean back and look at the man in front of me. "You're angry with her."

Sighing, he settles on the hearth, "The plane crashed a week ago."

Nodding, "Do you think she's had him this whole time?"

He shakes his head, "I don't want to know. She shouldn't have brought him here."

"Anyone else would kill him, outright."

"I know," Brendan says.

"Well, I can't find anything worse than a bump on the head, wrong with him. It could be internal, he may not survive the night and the problem will be solved."

He rubs a hand across his bearded chin, "I know you want to talk to him."

"Yes."

"You should come sleep in my room tonight."

I smile, "Then where will you sleep?"

Standing, he stretches, "Fine, sleep in that big old chair like an old woman."

"It feels like I am." I say, taking a moment to admire him. At 5'9", with his dark hair, carefully trimmed beard, warm whiskey colored eyes and stocky build, he makes my mouth water. I've no idea why I keep declining his invitations. He has the sweetest smile.

"You keep looking at me like that and I'll just toss you over my shoulder like a caveman."

Grinning, I rub my stocking foot against his knee, "Careful, I'll take you up on it."

"Tease."

"Toy Boy," I reply.

His smile disappears when he glances back at my bed; I remember why I never go to his room.

"Goodnight, Val," he says.

"Goodnight."

I listen to him climb the stairs.

"I'm not the one you want, silly boy," I say, listening to his stocking feet pad across the floor above me.

The man on the bed groans, moving restlessly. A rock slides from under the blankets, landing on the floor with a clatter. Setting my own drink aside, I try to get more water down him. His eyes open, briefly, then he sinks back into oblivion. He has beautiful, sky blue eyes framed by thick dark lashes.

I snuggle more deeply into the overstuffed reading chair that has served me well the past three hundred ninety-two nights.