She heard mechanics working in the hangars, the twang of music, the clink of metal, the roll of voices, but didn’t stop as she might have another day. Conversation wasn’t what she was after.
Solo time.
The killer had a car, or truck, she decided. Nobody would’ve carried Dolly from where she’d stopped to where she ended up. Did he kill her when she pulled off 12, dump her body in the trunk of the car, bed of the truck? Or did he give her a ride, maybe park at the trailhead, then do it? Or force her up the trail, then—
Jesus, any way it had happened, she’d ended up dead, and her baby daughter an orphan.
Why had she been heading south on 12, or had she been heading back from farther away? To meet a lover? To meet this theoretical person she’d enlisted to cause trouble? Plenty of motels to choose from. Hard to meet a lover—and Dolly had been famous for using sex as barter—when you lived at home with your parents and your baby.
Why couldn’t she have loved the baby enough to just make a life? To treasure what she had, and put some goddamn effort into being a good mother instead of letting this obsession eat away at her?
All the time she’d spent planning her weird revenge, harboring all that hate, could’ve been spent on living, on nuzzling her baby.
“Oh, mother issues much?” Annoyed with herself, she quickened her pace.
Enough solo time, she decided. Solo time was overrated. She should’ve taken Gull up on his offer to come with her. He’d have distracted her out of this mood, made her laugh, or at least annoyed her so she’d stop feeling sad and angry.
When she moved around the people scattered over the lawn, the picnic tables at her father’s place, she looked up, as they were.
Coming on final, she thought, watching the plane. She crossed to the fence, tucked her hands in her back pockets and decided to enjoy the show. Her smile bloomed as the skydiver jumped—and taking a breather didn’t seem so bad after all. When the second figure leaped out, she settled in, studying their forms on the free fall.
The first, definitely a student, but not bad. Not shabby. Arms out, taking it in. Check out that view! Feel that wind!
And the second . . . Rowan angled her head, narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t be sure, not yet, but she’d have laid decent money down Iron Man Tripp rocketed down toward the student.
Then came the moment. The chutes deployed, one then two—to applause and cheers—the blue-and-white stripes of the student’s, and the chute she’d designed and rigged for her father’s sixtieth birthday with the boldly lettered IRON MAN in red (his favorite color) over a figure of a smoke jumper.
She loved watching him like this, and always had. Perfect form, she thought, absolute control, riding the air from sky to earth while the sun streamed through those drifting clouds.
She’d been exactly right to come here, she realized, when the world tipped crazily all around her. Here, what she loved held constant. Whatever happened, she could count on him.
She willed the stress of the morning into a corner. She couldn’t dismiss it, but she could shove it back a little and focus on what made her happy.
She’d hang out here with her father for a while, have lunch with him, talk over what was going on. He’d listen, let her spew, and somehow pull her back in, steady her again.
She always thought more clearly, felt less overwhelmed, after a session with her father.
The student handled the drop well, Rowan observed, managed a very decent landing and was up on his—no her, Rowan realized—feet quickly. Then the Iron Man touched down, soft as butter, smooth as silk.
She added her applause to the rest, sent out a high whistle of approval before waving her arms in hopes of snagging her father’s attention.
The student unhooked her harness, pulled off her helmet. Gorgeous red hair seemed to explode in the sunlight. As the woman raced toward her father, Rowan grinned. She understood the exuberance, the charge of excitement, had seen this same scene play out countless times between student and instructor. She continued to grin as the woman leaped into Lucas’s arms, something else she’d seen again and again.
What she hadn’t seen, and what had her grin shifting to a puzzled frown, was her father swinging a student in giddy circles while said student locked her arms around his neck.
And when Lucas “Iron Man” Tripp leaned down and planted a long, very enthusiastic kiss (and the crowd went wild) on the student’s mouth, Rowan’s jaw dropped to the toes of her Nikes.
She would’ve been more shocked if Lucas had pulled out a Luger and shot the redhead between the eyes, but it would’ve been a close call.
The woman had her hands on Lucas’s cheeks, a gesture somehow more intimate than the kiss itself. It spoke of knowledge, familiarity, of privilege.
Who the hell was this bimbo, and when the hell had Iron Man started kissing students? Kissing
anyone
?
And in public.
The woman turned, her face—which didn’t look bimbo-ish—warm from the kiss, bright with laughter, and executed a deep, exaggerated curtsy for the still cheering crowd. To Rowan’s continued shock, Lucas simply stood there grinning like the village idiot.
Was he on drugs?
Her brain told her to ease back, to find some quiet place to absorb the shock. Her gut told her to hurdle the fence, march right up and demand what the fuck?!
But her fingers had curled around the fence, and she couldn’t seem to uncurl them.
Then her father spotted her. His loopy grin aimed her way as he—Jesus—took the redhead’s hand, gave it a little swing. He waved at Rowan with his free hand before he said something to the face-caressing redhead, who actually had the
nerve
to smile in Rowan’s direction.
Still holding hands, they strolled toward the fence and Rowan.
“Hi, honey. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I . . . I’m low on the jump list, so.”
“I’m glad you came by.” He laid his fingers over the ones she had curled on the fence, effectively linking the three of them. “Ella, this is my daughter, Rowan. Ro, Ella Frazier. She just did her first AFF.”
“It’s great to meet you. Lucas has told me so much about you.”
“Oh, yeah? Funny, he hasn’t told me a thing about you.”
“You’ve been pretty busy.” Obviously oblivious, Lucas spoke cheerfully. “We keep missing each other. Ella’s principal of Orchard Homes Academy.”
A high-school principal. Tony private school. Another strike against bimbo status. Damn it.
“Her son bought her a tandem jump as a gift,” Lucas went on, “and she got hooked. You should’ve had your family here for this, Ella,” he continued. “Your grandkids would’ve loved it.”
And a
grandmother
? What kind of father-face-sucking bimbo was this?
“I wanted to make sure I handled it before they came to watch. Next time. In fact, I’m going to go in and talk to Marcie about setting it up. It was nice to meet you, Rowan. I hope we see more of each other.”
Though her voice was mild and polite, the quick clash when the two women’s gazes met made it clear they understood each other.
“I’ll see you inside, Lucas.”
Yeah, keep walking, Rowan thought. Make tracks.
“So what did you think?” Lucas asked, eagerly. “I’ve been hoping you’d get a break so you could meet Ella. It’s cool you happened to be here for her first AFF.”
“Her form’s not bad. She had a good flight. Listen, Dad, why don’t we grab some lunch in the cafe? There’s—”
“Ella and I are having a picnic lunch out here to celebrate her dive. Why don’t you join us? It’ll give the two of you a chance to get to know each other.”
Was he kidding? “I don’t think so, but thanks. Riding third wheel doesn’t suit me.”
“Don’t be silly. If I know Ella, she made plenty. She’s a hell of a cook.”
“Just—just—” She had to untangle her tongue. “How long has this been going on?
What’s
going on? Kissing on the jump spot, hand-holding, picnic lunches? Jesus, Dad, are you
sleeping
with her?”
He pokered up, a look she knew meant she’d hit a nerve.
“I think that would come under the heading of my personal business, Rowan. What’s your problem here?”
“My problem, other than the kissing, holding and so on in front of God, crew and visitors, is I came over here because I needed to talk to my father, but you’re obviously too busy with Principal Hotpants to spare any for me.”
“Watch it.” His fingers tightened on hers before she could jerk away. “Don’t you use that tone with me. I don’t give a damn how old you are. If you need to talk to me, come inside. We’ll talk.”
“No, thanks,” she said, coldly polite. “Go ahead and take care of your personal business. I’ll take care of my own. Excuse me.” She pulled her fingers free. “I have to get back to base.”
She recognized the combination of anger and disappointment on his face, something rarely seen and instantly understood. She swung away from it, strode away from him, her back stiff with resentment. And her heart aching with what she told herself was betrayal.
Her temper only built on the walk back, then took a bitter spike when she heard the siren blast. She broke into a run, covering the remaining distance to the base where she could already see jumpers on the scramble and the jump plane taxiing onto the runway.
She hit the ready room, shoving aside the bitterness as she had the stress—as something to be taken out and examined later.
She grabbed gear off the speed rack for Cards. “Payette?”
“That’s the one.” He zipped his let-down rope into the proper pocket. “Zulies to the rescue!”
She looked in his eyes. “Have a good one.”
“It’s in the cards.” He let out a chortle before waddling toward the waiting plane.
She went through the same procedure with Trigger while Gull helped Dobie.
In minutes she stood watching the plane take off without her.
“Secondary blaze blew up,” Gull told her. “Idaho’s already spread thin. One of their second load got hung up on the jump, broke his arm, and they’ve got two more injuries on the ground.”
“Aren’t you well informed?”
“I like to keep up with current events.” He re-angled his ball cap to gain more shade from the bill as he followed the plane into the sky. “Such as the dry lightning doing a smackdown up in Flathead. You didn’t spend much time at your dad’s.”
“Are you keeping track of me?”
“Just using my keen powers of observation. They also tell me you’re severely pissed.”
“I don’t like being grounded when I’m fit to jump.”
“You’re on the list,” he reminded her. “And?”
“And, what?”
“And what else has you severely pissed?”
“You and your keen powers of observation are about to, so aim them elsewhere.” She started to stalk off, then, too riled to hold it in, stalked back. “I go up to see my father, spend some time with him, talk this crap over with him because that’s what we do. When I get there he’s doing an AFF with a student. A student who happens to be a woman. A redhead. One who, the minute they’re on the ground, jumps him like my old dog Butch used to jump a Frisbee. Then he’s swinging her around, and then he’s kissing her. Kissing her, right there, a serious lip-locking, body-twining kiss no doubt involving tongues.”
“The best do. So . . . I’m working my way through that report, trying to pinpoint what pissed you off.”
“Did I just tell you my father kissed that redhead?”
“You did, but I’m having a tough time seeing why that flipped your switch. You’re acting like you’ve never seen your old man kiss a woman before.”
When she said nothing, only stood with her eyes like smoldering blue ice, he let out a half laugh of genuine surprise. “Seriously? You’ve seriously never seen him kiss a woman? The man has to have superhuman discretion.”
Gull stopped again, shook his head and gave her a light slap on the shoulder. “Come on, Ro. You’re not going to tell me you think he actually hasn’t bumped lips with a female in—how old are you, exactly?”
“He doesn’t date.”
“So you said when he had the date with the lady client for drinks . . . Aha. Now my intrepid deductive skills mesh with my keen powers of observation to conclude this would be the same woman.”
“She
says
she’s a high-school principal. It’s pretty damn clear they’re sleeping together.”
“I guess getting called into the principal’s office has taken on a whole new meaning for your dad.”
“Fuck you.”
“Whoa.” He caught her arm as she spun around. “You’re jealous? You’re actually jealous because your father’s interested in a woman—who’s not you?”
Heat—temper, embarrassment—slapped into her cheeks. “That’s disgusting and untrue.”
“You’re pissed and jealous, and genuinely hurt because your father may be in a romantic relationship with a woman. That’s not disgusting or untrue, Rowan, but it sure strikes me as petty and selfish.”