Fat tires smacked the dirt road with an explosion of soft glacial dirt. The bush plane bumbled along the track, a cone of silt roiling out behind it. She blinked into the blowing grit as the craft came to an abrupt halt. The cloud of dust overtook and enveloped the plane. The prop slowed then stopped. Anxiety twisted through her. The cockpit side flap dropped open. A man, tall, climbed out. He raised his hand in greeting, then reached behind the pilot seat. He hefted out a military-style duffel bag. Closing the door flap, he ducked out from under the wings and slung his gear up onto a broad shoulder. With a long easy stride, a smooth roll of the shoulders, he closed the distance to where Olivia waited alongside her truck. He was dressed in a dark-brown leather jacket that looked worn. Vintage. WWII bomber style with a sheepskin ruff and lining. His jeans were faded in places that screamed masculinity.
