His To Protect

Mark was a common enough name. She hadn’t thought twice about it last night. But in the context of the Jayhawk and the Elizabeth City connection, she made sense of all the clues. Heard Mark’s full name and rank and recalled it listed on the flower arrangement card Jeff’s crew had sent when they couldn’t attend the memorial. Mark Sampson. The pilot who’d flown her brother’s final mission.

The man she’d spent the night with was the same man who had left her brother to drown.

At her strangled exclamation, the pilot’s eyes swerved her way, widening in recognition.

But did he really recognize her? Of course not. He had no idea who she was or how deeply she’d betrayed her brother’s memory. The thought of it knocked her breath out, like ice water.

Her eyes drifted out of the hangar and back toward the bus. For a moment she envisioned racing to it, returning to the hotel and then to Idaho. But she didn’t think she could live with this burden any better there than here. She wasn’t that kind of woman any longer.

Hitching her duffel bag higher on her shoulder, she stared at a distant spot over Mark’s shoulder. Leaving wouldn’t honor her brother. This heartless pilot would not take that from her, too.

No.

She’d go on the mission as planned. Maybe, amid the chaos of this natural disaster, she’d better understand the choices Jeff had made—and the sacrifices. To do that, she’d need to avoid the officer whose presence would be enough to keep her wounds from healing, even if that meant ignoring the strongest attraction she’d ever felt for a man.

* * *

WHY WOULDN’T SHE meet his eye?

As introductions rolled on, Mark stared at Cassie and listened to his crazy heartbeat. It’d taken every ounce of willpower to squelch thoughts of their night together during preflight inspection this morning. He’d worried he might never see her again. But here she stood, even more beautiful in natural light, and looking far too vulnerable to fly into the aftermath of a Category 5 storm.

Damn it. He could not let her mess with his head.

Would not let memories of their incredible night distract him from what he really needed. This mission.

And the absolution that each successful operation would bring him.

Exhaust fuel permeated the waterlogged air when more engines fired to life around them. His gaze swept over her as she huddled in the group, her arms crossed, shoulders folding in. The thin, dirty light revealed the purple shadows under her eyes. Shadows he was responsible for.

Did she regret last night? She’d seemed as satisfied as him when they’d parted. Still, the pain he’d noticed in the bar shimmered around her now. Gone was the passionate woman who’d rocked his world.

The redhead beside her finished her introduction and turned, giving the floor to Cassie.

“I’m Cassie Rowe, RN American Red Cross, Greater Idaho,” she said, voice ragged. She hit him with a stare like a threat.

“First timer!” proclaimed the woman next to Cassie and a smattering of cheers and claps rose.

“Getting her dollar ride,” one of his crew put in.

Rowe. The name backhanded him like a slap from his old man.

Jeff’s last name. And hadn’t he been from the Midwest? Mark’s brain buzzed, his nervous system flashing warnings brighter than any heads-up display on a flight screen. He tried recalling the names he’d written on the card to Jeff’s family.

There was definitely a sister.

Outside, the light shower turned into thick, clammy rain. When the group turned his way, he automatically waved them on board, a buzzing in his ears. Time to leave. He had less than five minutes before takeoff. But he had to know.

He tipped his hat to each of the members when they clambered on board, then pulled Cassie aside. She jerked her elbow free and examined him with flat eyes that sucked in everything and emitted nothing.

“Cassie—”

The rain blew against them, shifting, and an engine whined loud as another plane took off.

She put up a hand and backed away, her eyes overbright. “No. I can’t—” She stared around her, dazed, then tossed her duffel bag into the cabin, bounded by him and hauled herself inside the helicopter.

Damn.

“Yo! Time’s up, Commander,” called Robert through the open cockpit door.

“Got it.”

He climbed into his seat, donned his helmet and strapped himself in. Robert shot Mark a questioning look, which he ignored as he compartmentalized and began the familiar start-up routines. Didn’t Cassie’s last name trip a signal in anyone else’s mind from his crew? His hand fisted in his lap while Robert moved the battery switch to On, flipped on the APU and checked through the hydraulic systems. Mark fired up the engines and the rotors whirred to life, the blades slicing through the fog rolling in off the bay.

After cross-checking his engine and system instruments against his start checklist, he tuned up the ground frequency and waited for a break in the chatter to request taxi clearance.

Something skimmed across Mark’s mind. Cassie’s eyes. Same color as Jeff’s. Then there was his old crewmate’s leave request for a sister graduating nursing school.

Cold sweat popped on his brow.

Shit.

“She’s Jeff’s sister,” he murmured under his breath, his voice ragged.

His shoulders tightened. Not the right time to dwell on this. But holy hell. Given her reaction, she’d realized who he was, too.

Her parents blamed him for Jeff’s death. No doubt Cassie did, as well.

And how could he fault her? He hadn’t stopped blaming himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the riot of thought and focused, drawing on his training. He was supposed to be putting this shit behind him. He’d sworn up and down to the military docs that he could handle flying.

That meant he would damn well get this bird in the air and put the mission first.

When the ground control conversation ended, he slowed his breathing. “St. Pete ground, Coast Guard 6039, IFR Clearance on request.”

The controller’s voice sounded through his headset. “Roger, Coast Guard 6039. Stand by.”

While Mark waited for final verification of his international flight plan, he continued down his checklist, the clipboard balanced on his knees.

After a minute, his headphones crackled. “Coast Guard 6039, St. Pete ground. Cleared to the Nassau MYNN Airport as filed. On departure fly heading three-five-zero, climb and maintain sixteen hundred feet, expect three thousand ten minutes after departure. Departure frequency 121.5. Squawk 0105.”

Mark nodded to Rob, who jotted down the information as Mark repeated it verbatim to the controller.

“Read back correct. Advise when ready for taxi,” the controller replied then tuned out.

After ticking off the last item on his checklist, Mark returned to the top and verified it all again. This liftoff would be textbook; Cassie wouldn’t rattle him.

Rob pointed at the timer, moved his finger in a clockwise motion and raised an eyebrow. Right. Too much delay. Mark slipped the board by the side of his seat and called on the designated frequency.

“St. Pete ground, Coast Guard 6039 at the Coast Guard ramp with information Alpha, IFR to Nassau, ready to taxi.”

Rain streaked down the helicopter’s windshield and the air inside the narrow cockpit was humid. Despite his turning up the ventilation, sweat pooled at the base of his neck and trickled down his back.

“Roger, Coast Guard 6039. Taxi through the back door to Runway 36L, hold short at Alpha.”

Mark pulled up the collective and pushed forward on the cyclic. When they reached five miles per hour, he pressed on the brake and the helicopter jerked to a quick, satisfying halt.

He accelerated again, hoping he hadn’t scared anyone with the brake check. Hadn’t flustered Cassie. “Everyone all set in back?” he asked into his mic through the ICS. An image of Cassie buckled into one of the seats twisted his gut. Jeff had sat back there once, too, secure and certain of his safety, a brother of the fin—as the air and sea rescuers called themselves—family, yet Mark had let him down.

Technically, a weakened cable and low fuel had been blamed for the accident, but Mark knew better. Most nights when he closed his eyes the fatal incident played out in vivid detail, making sleep impossible. It was why he’d been at the bar last night. Why he’d told Cassie he wouldn’t make for good company.

A year ago he’d been at the peak of his career. An aircraft commander, instructor pilot, flight examiner, and decorated search and rescue pilot with a spotless record. A man who embodied his profession’s motto: “So others may live.” After he’d been forced to make a decision that had cost a crew member’s life, however, his faith in himself had been shattered.

For most of his life, he’d strived to differentiate himself from his incarcerated father. To prove that he could be one of the good guys. He’d joined the Coast Guard to become that hero, to save others. Some hero he’d turned out to be. Losing a member of his crew had wrecked him.

He’d come back to justify the military’s faith in him. To prove himself again.

“Roger, Commander.” Larry’s response sounded in his ear after some static, the loud whirring snuffing out every other sound.

The Jayhawk’s wheels rolled smoothly as he taxied to the runway, halted on the hold short line and tuned into the designated channel.

“St. Pete tower, Coast Guard 6039, hold short Alpha.”

“Coast Guard 6039, position and hold. Waiting for traffic to clear.”

Mark watched a Herc roll ahead of him, the long-range surveillance plane’s four propellers whirling. The HC-130H was the oldest model in the fleet, but rescue ready and part of the massive response Clearwater mounted for the storm’s aftermath now that it was safe to approach. Would it perform as expected? Would he?

“Position and hold Runway 36L,” Mark barked into the mic. “Coast Guard copter 6039. Request for hover check.”

“Roger, 6039. Cleared for hover check. Advise when ready for takeoff.”

They rose ten feet and Mark scrutinized the instruments: 88 percent torque, 100 percent Nr, 2–3 degrees nose up altitude, 4–5 degrees left wing down and all other systems in the green. So far so good. Once stabilized, he checked for proper flight control response and verified his power setting. Nothing was wrong, yet he felt off.

Rob opened a bag of Jolly Ranchers and held it out. “Want some?”

“Nah.” Mark lowered the helicopter. His eyes fixed on the ground, mind focused on a precise landing position. Not on Cassie. Not Jeff. He brushed at the moisture beading his forehead.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, his voice firm.

And he was. Had to be. He shook some of the pieces into his hand after all and tossed back a couple.

He’d worried this first large-scale disaster response since Jeff’s loss would shake loose old insecurities. Challenge his hard-won equilibrium. But he’d arrived on the flight line clearheaded for the first time in months. What an irony that Cassie Rowe had been responsible for that. She’d leveled him out better than any of the mandatory visits with a base shrink—had made him feel normal again. Until she’d sent him straight back to hell.

When the Herc disappeared from view, Mark cleared his throat. “Coast Guard 6039, ready for takeoff.”

He gave Rob a thumbs-up. Simultaneously, he pulled the collective to 98 percent torque, adjusted the tail rotor pedals to maintain heading and maneuvered the cyclic to stay centerline. As they rose slowly, he transitioned to forward flight.

“6039 airborne.” As they gained altitude, Mark turned to heading three hundred fifty and continued with his departure procedures, the helicopter shuddering slightly before smoothing out. The Sikorsky shuffle.

A normal takeoff, just like always. Nothing wrong. And nothing would go wrong on this mission, he vowed, then loosened his white-knuckle grip on the stick. The gray sprawl of ocean appeared below as Mark’s gaze drifted to the MFD screen. Current weather images of the hurricane continuously updated in the newly installed test weather radar. Although the hurricane had jogged east, a few bands still streaked across southern Florida.

He verified the correct course set for the Nassau, where they’d refuel before going on to the mission’s staging area in the Virgin Islands, and slumped back in his seat, his joints stiff. He had to get over this jittery sense that something wasn’t right.

Cassie’s accusing expression swam into view. She had every right to hate him. It’d been a long time before he’d been able to face himself in the mirror.

So why had she joined such a treacherous mission? This was her first disaster operation. At least Jeff had been trained for what he faced. Cassie had little preparation for this scale of an emergency and his protective instincts rose. He’d failed her brother and wouldn’t let another Rowe family member come to harm on his watch. He owed Jeff that much and more.

But aside from that obligation, he would put Cassie Rowe out of his head. He’d fought too hard to get back in the cockpit after the weeks he’d been grounded following Jeff’s death. No way would he let a woman get to him, undermine all he’d devoted his life to achieve.

Fat splats of rain peppered the glass and he glanced down at his radar. The last vestiges of the hurricane brewed their mischief up ahead. The final salvo in a storm that had inflicted devastating damage...yet a certain blonde on board his aircraft felt like the greater threat.

He would not be with her again, even if she’d had any inclination to come near him a second time. Getting close to Cassie would jeopardize the mission. His career. Possibly his sanity.

The problem with playing with this particular fire, however, was already knowing how sweet the burn would be.

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