Page 132 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

46

JANNA

Iguided my horse toward the barn, my mind racing. The old crop duster had been sitting there for years, but I had checked out the engine and everything had been in order. I wasn’t sure if it was flyable but it was our only shot.

“Janna, what are you thinking?” Dalton called out behind me.

I slid off the horse, my legs shaky but holding me up. “The crop duster. It’s our ticket out of here.”

“Are you insane? That thing hasn’t flown in years. It’s probably held together with duct tape and prayers.”

“You were with me when I looked it over,” I said, pushing against the heavy barn door. “She’ll fly.”

Dalton dismounted and helped me wrestle the door open. The plane I had been admiring just a week ago was sitting there like an answer to all my prayers.

“Shit,” Dalton muttered. “This thing’s older than dirt.”

“Older than dirt but still our best option.” I started pulling tarps and equipment away from the aircraft.

While I worked to expose the plane, Dalton went back outside. I could hear him unsaddling the horses. He carried Pickle to the corner in a fireman’s hold. He gently put him down before returning to the horses. The sound of running hooves told me he’d turned them loose. They’d have a better chance of survival running free than trapped in a barn.

I climbed up onto the wing and peered into the cockpit. The instruments looked ancient but functional. Please work, I thought. Please just work.

I dropped into the pilot’s seat and started going through the startup sequence. The fuel gauge showed half full—not great, but enough to get us out of here. The battery was dead, but there was a hand crank for the prop.

“Dalton, I need you to spin the prop!”

“This is a terrible idea,” he shouted back, but he moved to the front of the plane.

“If you’ve got a better one, I’m all ears. If not, get cranking!”

I primed the engine and set the throttle. “Contact!”

The propeller turned once, twice, then caught. The engine coughed to life with a sound like a dying lawn mower, but it was running. Black smoke poured from the exhaust, but she was alive.

“Get Pickle!” I yelled over the engine noise.

This was it. This was how we were going to survive.

Dalton hauled Pickle’s limp form up into the tiny cockpit, maneuvering him into the back seat before climbing in behind him. Pickle’s head lolled against Dalton’s shoulder. He looked better. The almost-clean air was helping. The cramped space meant Dalton had to wrap his arms around Pickle to keep him secure, like he was holding a very large, unconscious child.

“This is cozy,” Dalton grunted, adjusting his grip.

“Shut up and hold on,” I said, checking the engine temperature. Still running hot, but it would have to do.

I pushed the throttle forward and the old bird lurched toward the barn door. The engine wheezed and rattled, but it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. We bumped and bounced over the uneven barn floor.

The driveway stretched ahead of us, rough and potholed but straight enough for a takeoff run. Thankfully, the old plane didn’t need a lot to get airborne. I just hoped the wind didn’t blow us out of the sky. I could see the fire line in the distance, a wall of orange and black. The power of the beast was awesome and terrifying.

“Janna, this thing sounds like it’s going to fall apart!” Dalton shouted over the engine noise.

“She’s perfect!” I yelled back, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.

The dial climbed. Thirty miles per hour. Forty. The plane shuddered and vibrated, but she was picking up speed. I could feel that familiar lightness in the controls, that moment when the wings wanted to lift us off the ground.

“Come on, baby,” I whispered to the old crop duster. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Fifty miles per hour. The wheels left the ground for a split second, then touched down again. Almost there.