Page 4 of Cole

By the time she left, she'd have six months of data. The scientist she’d replaced had come last winter and worked through late spring. She hadn’t envied him being here in the worst of the cold and snow. But with his data and now hers, they would have enough information to start seeing the real patterns, the subtle shifts that spoke of massive change.

Leaning back, she sipped her coffee and thought about what to fix for lunch. She had supplies but knew it was soon time to take the twenty-five-mile trip to Cantwell. Glancing at her schedule, she decided she could wait two more days before going, though she would start her SUV this afternoon to keep the battery from dying.

And maybe, on her way to check the southern cameras tomorrow, she'd swing by the beaver pond again. Just to see if the moose calf was still there, and document what happened next.

Because that was her job now. Observer. Recorder. Witness to the wild.

The isolation that had seemed so appealing months ago when she'd volunteered for this assignment still felt right. Back in Seattle, well-meaning colleagues had questioned why someone with her experience would choose such a remote posting. She'd given them the expected answers about the importance of the research and the opportunity to lead the project. All true, but not the whole truth.

She hadn't mentioned the man she’d dated for several months. She left out why they broke up and why she needed space from Ryan’s suffocating certainty that they were fated to be together. He'd been so sure she just needed time, just needed him to be patient, just needed to see what everyone else apparently saw… that they were perfect together. Except she hadn't felt the spark with him. He was a good man, kind and stable, everything she should have wanted. But watching him plan their future while she felt nothing but friendship had made her feel like she was slowly drowning.

Then he was offered a job on the East Coast and wanted her to come with him. At that time, it was an easy decision. He left, and she volunteered for an assignment that gave her plenty of time alone to think about what she wanted to do.

Before she left, she explained that this wasn’t a temporary breakup. Distance had been the kindest gift she could give to both of them.

As she took her empty coffee cup to the sink, she gazed out the window and smiled. She had found her temporary purpose surrounded by cameras, creatures, and the endless cycle of wildlife. This wasn't permanent, but it was exactly where she needed to be for now. The work mattered. And for now, that was everything.

* * *

.

3

The Cessna 206 responded to Cole Iverson's touch like a well-trained horse, banking smoothly over the Bridger Mountains as morning sunlight painted the peaks gold. Below him, Montana stretched out in all its raw glory. Endless forests gave way to valleys where mist still clung to hidden streams. Ranch land dotted with cattle no bigger than specks from this altitude. He couldn't keep the smile from his face.

This was freedom. This was home. Not the first home he'd ever had, but the one that finally felt right. The one that fit after years of searching for where he belonged.

The plane suddenly bucked beneath him.

Cole's hands moved before his conscious mind registered the downdraft. He compensated for the wind shear that had just tried to slam him sideways into the mountain face. The Cessna wobbled, fought him for half a second, then settled back into smooth flight as he guided her through the turbulent air.

His pulse barely elevated. Many years of flying had taught him that panic killed pilots. Smooth, deliberate movements kept you alive.

He scanned the instruments, checked his altitude, and adjusted his heading two degrees north to account for the crosswind he'd just encountered. All automatic now. All second nature. The way Dad, and then the military, had trained him.

Cole adjusted his course, muscle memory guiding his hands while his mind drifted back. It had been over thirty years since his father first lifted him into the cockpit of that ancient Piper Cub back in North Dakota. A lot of time had passed since those huge, calloused hands covered his small ones on the yoke, guiding him through his first takeoff from the dirt strip behind their farm.

"Feel her talk to you, Son," his father had said, voice rumbling with quiet pride. "Every plane has something to say if you listen close enough."

Dad had been right about that. The old crop duster had talked plenty, usually complaining about the weight of pesticide tanks or the heat bearing down during those endless summer days. Cole was twelve when he started helping with the business, loading chemicals, checking fuel lines, and learning maintenance from a man who could tear down an engine and rebuild it with his eyes closed. By fifteen, he'd been flying solo runs over wheat fields, skimming low enough to taste the dust in his throat.

The business kept food on their table after they sold the farm and kept his mom and two sisters comfortable, even if money stayed tight. His brother-in-law now ran it, still using some of the same routes Dad had flown forty years ago. Cole visited when he could and sometimes took a shift in the cockpit just to feel that connection again.

Cole's throat tightened at the memory. Five years now since cancer took his dad, and the ache still caught him at unexpected moments. Usually up here, where the old man's spirit seemed closest.

He liked to think Dad would approve of where life had taken him. From those early days buzzing over cornfields to Army Blackhawks in Afghanistan, and now to this new chapter with Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana. Different missions, same sky. Same freedom he'd been chasing since that first takeoff when he was eight years old.

The radio crackled to life, breaking his reverie. Tyler's voice cut through the static, all business despite the early hour.

Cole grinned and reached for the mic. He loved the guys at Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana, loved the camaraderie and the work they did together. Loved Friday nights at the old tavern where they swapped stories and gave each other endless amounts of grief. But these solo flights? These belonged to him alone. Just him and the sky and the quiet space to think. To remember. To figure out where the hell his life was heading next.

Years of flying still hadn't answered the one question that kept him awake at night. He'd found the right place, finally. Montana fit him like those worn leather gloves in his flight bag. But the right person? That remained as elusive as the perfect landing in a crosswind.

The compound came into view ahead, nestled in a valley that provided both privacy and strategic advantage. Not bad for a startup operation. His boss, Logan, had vision. The former SEAL had recruited well, gathering men and women who understood that some battles were worth fighting long after the uniform came off.

His headset crackled. "Nine two seven on approach." A controller didn’t monitor the landing strip, but he signaled his arrival to the ones on the compound. Cole set the small plane down with barely a bump. The satisfaction never got old. It was that perfect moment when the wheels touched the ground and everything aligned just right. Some pilots flew for the adrenaline. Cole flew for moments like this, for the quiet pride of a job well done.

He taxied toward the hangar where Timothy Clemons waited, the newest addition to their pilot roster. He grinned at Timothy’s enthusiasm radiating from every gesture. He had been an Army Ranger and recently earned his pilot’s license, adding to their available pilots when needed.