Chapter Twenty-Two

ERIN

The balloon rose quickly, though the churning in my gut came from watching Nash shrink into the distance below us. What if he was right? And, shoot. He looked upset. Not how I hoped the day would develop after such a blissful night.

“Desert Skies One, radio check.” I spoke into the radio, something we’d forgotten to do before lift-off.

Not a good omen. What else might I have forgotten?

The radio crackled. “Desert Skies Support, reading you loud and clear.” Nash’s voice was tight and curt.

I cursed myself again, but there wasn’t much I could do now.

“Two-eighty at three point one,” I reported, then returned the radio to its cradle in transmit mode.

See? Madden’s smug look told me. All fine.

Yes, we were moving at a smooth, pedestrian pace, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling of something amiss. I checked the eastern sky. Were those clouds thickening, or was that just a trick of the dawn light?

The guests didn’t know enough to notice, and Madden was too busy showing off his knowledge of the landscape — and spinning tall tales — to pay attention to the weather.

“They say there’s ghosts down there at Phantom Ranch. And you see that cliff over there? A mountain biker missed a turn and flew right off the edge. They had to helicopter his body out.”

Two of the guests snapped pictures, suitably impressed.

There’d been no such accident — thank goodness — although a story had gotten around about a couple of bikers who had cut it close.

“Hey, check out the quad rental,” one of the guys said.

For the next twenty minutes, they tried to locate trails they’d explored the previous day, which suited me fine. I could concentrate on monitoring Madden’s flying and the weather.

The wind slowly backed to the southeast, and our speed increased. That cloud bank was getting bigger. I was sure of it now.

“Two-seventy-two at four point five,” I reported, picturing Nash drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in concern.

Over the next few minutes, our speed crept up to six miles per hour, and even Madden stopped rambling long enough to eye the storm.

“Yahoo! We’re finally moving!” one of the guests hooted. “Can you make this thing go even faster?”

“We move at the speed of the wind.” I looked Madden in the eye to telegraph the second, unspoken part. And the wind is getting faster.

Madden checked the instruments, then looked back at the clouds. Finally, he scratched his head. “Now, where did that come from?”

I refrained from pointing out the obvious. They were there before we took off, and I told you so.

Then again, I couldn’t exactly gloat, because there I was, up in the air with him.

The wind increased, pushing the cloud bank. It churned like a wave, rolling ever closer and closer.

Madden reached for the clipboard again. “But the forecast said—”

I nearly smacked it out of his hands. “There are forecasts, and there’s real life. Just look!”

After a glacial thought process, Madden clicked his jaw and studied the ground.

“We could make Heart Rock pullout if we start descending now,” I murmured.

“Descend?” one of the guests said. “Already?”

“No way, man,” another grumbled. “We paid a lot of money for this!”

Madden hesitated so long, I nearly reached over and pulled the cord that dumped hot air from the top of the balloon. We had to land — and soon.

“Your safety is our top priority,” I said in my flattest, you will not argue with me voice. “As for money, Desert Skies will refund proportionally for any flight under an hour.”

Five of the guests grumbled, but the sixth — Nate? — gaped at the black clouds steamrolling toward us. “Maybe it’s better not to get caught in that.”

“Nah. It would be cool,” another declared, taking pictures. “Can we get closer?”

How he expected us to do that without a motor, I had no clue. Why he would want to was even harder to fathom.

I signaled to Madden, who started dumping air. Whew.

“Heading for Heart Rock pullout,” I informed the ground crew over the radio. Then I cursed, because it was too late. The wind was sweeping us along faster and faster. “Correction…” I glanced around.

“Nolan Point,” Madden threw in.

Good to know he’d turned on that brain cell of his. “Nolan Point,” I echoed, making sure the ground crew heard.

The question was, would they find that rarely used clearing? I searched for the dusty white van and nearly cheered when I saw that it had already U-turned and set off in the correct direction.

Boy, that Nash was nearly as good at reading the wind as I was. Not bad for a wolf shifter. I supposed he’d learned in his years as a pilot.

The clouds were compacting and growing even darker. Not just gray but charcoal streaked with bluish-purple, all of it churning in an angry mass that consumed the landscape.

“Wow. Have you ever seen anything like it?” one of the guests asked.

“Reminds me of that dust storm that hit Phoenix a while back,” another answered. “What did they call it? A haboob?”

Three of the guys laughed, but I just gulped. If only they knew.

But the face I pictured at the reins of this storm was Harlon’s, not my father’s. Was Harlon back in Sedona? Was he even capable of conjuring a storm of such power?

Well, I would have to figure that out later. Right now, I had a balloon to land — the sooner, the better.

Having finally gotten the memo, Madden continued dumping hot air in bursts to bring us to lower altitude.

“Uh, where’s Nolan Point?” asked the one guest who’d caught on.

I pointed grimly. It was right under us, but the wind was sweeping us onward.

“No problem, though,” I assured him. “We can land anywhere — on a road, even on private property. We just need a flat area clear of obstructions.”

He nodded slowly, and I saw him grip one of the basket’s handles. Smart man, because when we did land, it wouldn’t be gentle.

Whoosh! The wind gusted to what felt like Mach 1, sweeping us ever faster over the landscape.

“Whoa.” One of the guests watched the scrub rush under us. “Aren’t we going a little fast?”

“No problem,” Madden bluffed. “The west fork of Red Canyon Road will be perfect.”

Perfect would not have been my word choice, but it did make sense. We just had to make sure we were well clear of the power lines before making our final descent.

I turned to the passengers. “All right, everybody. Let’s go over the landing procedure. The ground crew will be there to meet us, but we’ll have to anticipate a hard landing.”

“How hard?” they asked, alarmed.

“Hard. But we’ll be safe inside the basket. It’s likely to drag over the ground for a while, and that could be bumpy, so I’ll need everyone to crouch down inside until I give the okay. Not the time for pictures, folks. It’s a serious situation, but everything will be fine.”

I made sure my voice communicated calm and certainty. Madden, on the other hand…

“Shit!” he cursed, giving the balloon a burst of hot air.

I whirled. What the hell was he doing?

“Fence,” he grumbled.

“Power lines,” I hissed, pointing.

Madden started dumping air again. “We have plenty of space before them.”

My jaw dropped, and ugly statistics ran through my mind. Balloon accidents were rare, but when they happened, they often involved power lines. The balloon could get tangled, or the power lines could ignite an onboard fire — every pilot’s nightmare.

“After the power lines. We have to land after the power lines,” I barked. “Otherwise, we risk the wind pushing us into them.”

“There’s no road to land on back there,” he countered. “We’ll damage the basket.”

We would damage a lot more than the basket if we hit the power lines — a fact I made clear with the evil eye and a very quiet, “Too risky.”

Madden pointed to the storm, which was almost on top of us. “We need to land before that hits.” Then he turned, jutting an elbow to keep me away from the burner. “All right, everyone. The minute we land, bail out and move clear of the basket.”

I fumed — and fretted, because he was risking all our lives. But short of tackling him and taking over the controls, there was nothing I could do except make sure everyone was prepared.

My only consolation was the van racing toward our position, kicking up a plume of dust. I trusted Nash, Chico, and even John more than I trusted Madden — and we would need their manpower to land the balloon upright. They sped ahead, jumped out of the vehicle, and fanned out.

Nash made an urgent, no-go motion, telling Madden not to risk it.

For once, I wouldn’t have minded Madden listening to Nash rather than me. Unfortunately, he didn’t and continued the risky maneuver.

To his credit, Madden did get the balloon on a low, steady line two or three yards off the ground. But we were sweeping along so fast, it would be hard to land without tipping and ejecting the passengers.

“Shit,” one of the guests muttered, ducking into the shelter of the basket.

The rest followed suit. Finally, they’d grasped the severity of the situation.

“I told you we should have brought Lola,” one of them muttered.

Yeah, a blow-up doll would make a handy cushion for a crash landing. But I would rather die than stoop that low.

“Now, Madden. Now!” I yelled.

Still, we swept onward. Nash, Chico, and John converged on us, but we were still too high.

“Madden!” I yelled. “Dump air!”

“Hurry!” Nash roared.

But Madden was frozen, staring at the power lines, his face twisted in panic.

“Dammit…” I reached over and pulled the valve, dumping hot air. “Everyone, get down. Brace yourselves!”

Everyone did — including Madden, who ducked down, leaving me to handle things alone.

The balloon scraped the ground, throwing everyone sideways.

Nash, Chico, and John grabbed the basket, but their combined weight wasn’t enough to ground it. We scraped and bounced along, pushed by the wind.

“Okay, go!” I yelled. “Everyone out. Now!”

I meant the guests, but Madden was the first to bail out. Two guests vaulted out after him, while the rest climbed to the edge of the basket more clumsily. Not their fault, with the basket skidding along, hitting rocks and bushes. My hip banged into the propane tank, and my knee smacked into the stiff weave of the basket.

“Oof.” John tripped, and that side of the basket jerked upward.

The motion flung the two guys on the lower side of the basket to the ground, while the other two toppled back in.

“Everyone out!” I yelled, doing my best to keep the balloon steady. “That side.”

Having lost several hundred pounds of human ballast, the balloon rose clear of the ground. That made the motion smoother — other than the swatting and crashing of bushes. It also meant the last two guests faced a seven-foot drop to the ground. Intimidating, but not deadly.

“Go! Now!” I yelled.

Finally, they ditched, landing hard, then running clear.

“Erin!” Nash yelled.

I glanced over the edge of the basket. The balloon had risen higher, lifting Nash and Chico off the ground in their efforts to control it.

“Get out!” Nash yelled as Chico fell to the ground.

The balloon rose even higher. And, shit. The balloon continued hurtling toward the power lines, and I hadn’t considered the change in ballast. Now, I was ten feet off the ground. Fifteen… Twenty…

My mind spun with a whole new set of calculations. My first priority was to keep the guests safe, and we’d accomplished that — aside from a few bruises. My second priority was the balloon. If I bailed out now and let it hit the power lines, it would be a total write-off. Worse, we could be sued for damage by the power company. Even if we weren’t, the bad publicity would be a blow to the entire industry.

Of course, I had to keep myself safe too. But when I weighed it all up…

I made a split-second decision, then pulled the burner cord hard.

Flames burst out, and the balloon jumped higher.

Terrifying as it was, something primal in me cheered. A crazy, untapped section of my soul that had always yearned to fly free.

“Erin!” Nash yelled.

“Let go!” I yelled. It was too late to land before the power lines. My only option was to climb high enough to clear them.

Standard procedure for making a balloon climb was to heat the air in short bursts. But since this wasn’t exactly standard procedure… I yanked on the burner cord and held it, making the balloon surge upward. That came with a risk of burning the fabric of the balloon, but that seemed the lesser of two evils.

“Erin!” Nash yelled again.

Huh. Why did he sound so close?

A glance back showed Chico, John, and several of the guests running, pointing, yelling. As if I hadn’t noticed the power lines. I huffed. Men!

I turned back to the power lines, because that was all that mattered. My heart leaped to my throat, because it would be close. Very close.

Unconsciously, I rose to my toes and raised my chin as if that would somehow help the balloon scrape over.

And, whew. The air pressure changed, and we rose an extra foot or two — high enough for the balloon to clear the power lines. But not the basket.

I gave the burner a quick break, then pulled again, praying for an inch of clearance.

Seconds later, the power lines disappeared under one side of the balloon. I braced myself, waiting for disaster.

The power lines reappeared on the other side, and my pulse leaped. Was I clear? And why were the guys on the ground still running and yelling?

When Nash yelled again, I froze. Where was he?

I released the burner cord long enough to lean over the side.

“Nash!” I gasped.

He was hanging from the leather handles on the lower edge of the basket — a basket that was at least a hundred feet off the ground.

“Are you crazy?” I yelled, reaching for him.

But he was too far, and the wicker basket didn’t offer any handholds for him to climb up on.

“You’re the one who’s crazy. Why didn’t you get out while you could?” he hollered.

“Because I had a chance of saving the balloon!”

Then I stopped. Oops. Not the time to argue.

“Just land this thing already,” Nash grumbled.

Oh. My. God. He really was crazy if he planned to hang from the balloon long enough for me to land.

Worse still, the wind blew with new ferocity, and rain started pelting down.

I glanced over the terrain, overwhelmed by so many objectives. Saving Nash. Landing the balloon. Saving it, if possible — not to mention myself.

I took a couple of deep breaths, then settled on my first priority — Nash. Leaving the controls, I knotted several big loops into a spare line and lowered it over the side.

“Just give me a second to secure it,” I said, ducking back into the basket.

When the basket lurched, I screamed, thinking Nash had fallen. I looked again, terrified that I would see him plunging to his death.

But, whew. Nash was still there, hanging on by one hand. The other gripped a leather handle that had just torn free.

“Uh…hurry,” he mumbled.

My heart hammered as I secured the rope to the frame of the basket. Then I leaned out and swung it closer to Nash.

The leather of the remaining handle creaked ominously. His legs flailed for an eternity. Finally, he got a foot into one of the loops and grabbed for another with his free hand. I reached down, grabbing the back of his shirt.

“Not helping,” he grunted as he scraped along the wicker basket.

I stopped pulling, but I didn’t loosen my grip. One slip now, and he would plummet to the ground.

The moment his face cleared the top edge of the basket seared into my memory forever. Then he worked his foot into another loop, and I heaved, bringing him crashing onto me inside the basket. We sprawled there for a few heart-stopping moments, clutching each other.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Perfect.”

I didn’t know whether to smack him or kiss him.

“Perfect, my ass…” I grumbled, climbing to my feet and grabbing the controls. When Nash came to his feet beside me, I lost it.

“Are you crazy? Why didn’t you let go of the basket when it started climbing?”

“Because you were in it.”

And just like that, my heart melted.

I caught him in a half hug, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other on the burner cord.

“Never, ever scare me like that again,” I mumbled into his shirt.

He locked his arms around me. “I promise if you promise.”

I nearly laughed, but it was cut off by a whoosh — the next gust of wind.

We broke apart, because it wasn’t over. We were still hundreds of feet in the air — and the storm raged on.