LITMIR.BIZ

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that conversation did not come easily to her. But he didn’t want to discuss his erstwhile mother.

      “About thirty minutes,” he said more gently.

      “Oh.”

      “Name’s Mack, by the way.” As a way to apologize for his rudeness, he stuck out a hand. “Mack McCaulley.”

      She stared at his palm and hesitated a moment before slipping her slender hand into his, then pulling away as fast as she could.

      What? Did he have cooties?

      “I know who you are. I recognized your picture from Metropolitan magazine. Page 110. The four of you guys are sitting around without shirts on.”

      “Ah, the infamous ad.”

      She stared at his chest then, as if recalling how bare he looked in that confounded advertisement and her cheeks darkened to bright crimson.

      “You’ve got the advantage because all I know is your last name.” He tapped his log book lying on the seat between them. “What’s your given name?”

      “Cammie Jo.”

      Had she said Tammie Jo? He couldn’t be sure, she had such a soft tone, but the name suited her. Old-fashioned, sweet, innocent. For no good reason, he had the strangest urge to wrap his arm around her to protect her from the big bad world.

      “Pleased to meet you.”

      “Pleased to meet you, too.”

      She smiled and met his eyes at last, although she immediately glanced away again. But that rapid-fire smile did dazzling things for her—let’s admit the facts folks—rather plain-Jane face.

      Mack returned his attention to business as they neared the mountain range that almost surrounded Bear Creek. Like most of the numerous mountains in Alaska, this cluster had no official name, but the locals called them the Tlingit Peaks for the original natives who’d inhabited the area.

      He angled the nose of the floatplane upward as the majestic blue hunks of snowcapped jagged rock drew nearer. She sucked in her breath with an audible whoosh. Turning his head to look at her once more, Mack discovered she had her eyes clenched shut.

      “Afraid of flying in small planes?”

      Cammie Jo nodded and swallowed hard. “Any planes.”

      It had taken a strong dose of Aunt Hildegard’s home-brewed chamomile tea and a meditation tape to even allow her to set foot on the dawn flight from Austin to Dallas/Fort Worth and then on to Anchorage. If she hadn’t wanted to see Alaska so badly, nothing would have persuaded her aboard.

      And planes weren’t the only things that frightened her. Top on her list of phobias? Making small talk with handsome strangers. And not just any handsome stranger but the very bachelor she’d been fantasizing about.

      Being here with him was too cool and too cruel. Out of all the bush pilots in Alaska, how had she ended up with the object of her affections?

      Of course she hadn’t the faintest notion of competing with other women to become this man’s wife. Because of her shyness, she feared she would never find her true love the way her mother and father had found each other.

      How she wished she was gutsy enough to flirt with him.

      Ha! That would be the day.

      She knew Mack wasn’t impressed with her. Men never were. He’d barely even glanced at her when she’d sidled up to where he’d stood in the airport, holding a placard with her last name written in a bold masculine hand.

      But what about the treasured wish totem nestled in the bottom of her handbag, waiting for her to come to a decision? What if the necklace worked? She could wish for anything.

      Bravery.

      A husband.

      True love.

      Wishing doesn’t make it so, Cammie Jo. There’s no proof the necklace is anything more than suggestive jewelry.

      No proof at all, except for the letter her mother had penned to her on her deathbed.

      How she wanted to believe in the mystical power.

      Mack’s gaze on her was disconcerting. Frankly, everything about him disconcerted her.

      His outdoorsy, masculine scent when she was accustomed to delicate, feminine aromas like lilac and lavender and rose. His husky masculine voice when the dulcet, ladylike murmurs of her three aunts most often graced her ears. His stubble-darkened jawline when she was used to…well, okay, so Aunt Kiki did have a bit of a five o’clock shadow, but not when she regularly used her depilatory cream.

      Anyway, he represented an alien creature, from the corded muscles of his wrists and forearms to his disheveled brown hair to his proud aquiline nose.

      And in his presence Cammie Jo was as tremulous as a bunny rabbit at a hoot owl jamboree.

      She turned her head to look out the window, but the closeness of the mountains in conjunction with the smallness of the plane unnerved her almost as much as the man beside her. She shifted in her seat and tried to cross her legs, not an easy feat in the many layers of puffy clothing she wore.

      Accidentally, she kicked the handset mounted on the dash. The two-way radio slipped from its mooring and crashed to the floor of the plane.

      Shy klutz, thy name is Cammie Jo.

      “Omigosh. I’m so sorry.” She reached for the handset at the same time Mack leaned over and their heads cracked together.

      “Ow!”

      “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” She rubbed the bump on her noggin. Mack was wincing and doing the same.

      “I’m so sorry,” she apologized again. Without thinking, she reached out to touch the red angry welt forming on his forehead but he drew back.

      “I’m okay.” His voice was gruff; his gaze fixed on a spot outside the windshield.

      Mortified, she shrank into her seat.

      Remember why you came here, she scolded herself. Not for love, not for romance, not to snag yourself a handsome bachelor but to face your fears, visit the land of your mother’s birth and to have a grand adventure.

      And if she couldn’t face her darkest dreads? Cammie Jo gulped. She would no doubt end up single for the rest of her life, living in the same old house in Austin, teaching college and pining for what might have been.

      No. She refused to hide from life any longer. So what if she had embarrassed herself in front of Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-For-My-Shirt Bush Pilot. Big deal. She would live. No point putting the guy on a pedestal.

      She might not be sexy and brave and graceful and totally feminine from her head to her toes, but she was whip-smart. She had maintained a perfect 4.0 GPA all through undergraduate school and a 3.9 during her graduate studies in information science.

      So there. Pffttt.

      She warmed to the subject. Who was he anyway? Sitting there looking so accomplished, so tough. Her own mother had been a bush pilot. How hard could flying a plane be? The guy wasn’t a brain surgeon or nuclear scientist. In fact, if she wasn’t so scared of flying, she could become a pilot if she wanted.

      Oh yeah, dead easy to be courageous inside her own head.

      On the outside was another story.

      Do something brave, stare out the window, study the landscape. Imagine you’re piloting the plane.

      Cammie Jo forced herself to look out the side window and wished she hadn’t.

      The mountains were so very close and it looked as if Mack flew straight at them.

      Her breath took its sweet time strolling from her lungs. Her pulse crescendoed in her ears.

      I won’t look away, I won’t, I won’t. I’m brave. I’m strong,

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