Mineer - Heartbeat of the Bitterroot

2017 Janice Mineer

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2785-6

Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., 2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017937048

Cover design by Priscilla Chaves

Cover design 2017 by Cedar Fort, Inc.

Edited and typeset by Hali Bird and Erica Myers

ALSO BY JANICE MINEER

Gingerbread from the Heart

TO RANDY: HUSBAND, FRIEND, HEROMY BRIGHT SUN.
TO MY PARENTS, WHO GAVE ME A RICH PAST. TO MY DAUGHTER, STEPCHILDREN, AND GRANDCHILDREN, WITH GRATITUDE FOR THE PRESENT WE SHARE AND FOR THE HOPE OF A SWEET FUTURE TOGETHER.

Prologue

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S ome people create their own story, striking out in the midst of a wilderness of want and moving toward a brighter horizon. But for some people, their story is with them all along, and one day they just turn around and meet it face-to-face. For me, it was something like that. My story started early, like a small voice in the crowded room of my life. For me, it started with the dream, and grew.

This dream haunted my sleep when I was just a girl and was recurring, drumming the pace that propelled me toward an unknown goal. I would wake up remembering everything in striking detail; everything, that is, except the mans face. In the dream, I saw a broad, green field of grass, a green so intense it almost hurt my eyes. I could smell its sweet pungent scent. The air was still and coldthat bite that warns of snow. The sun was small and distant, weak in a hazy sky. Rows and rows of benches surrounded me. They were empty, but I felt as if hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching me. The man in the distance wore a ball cap. His dark auburn hair, threaded with silver, bristled from beneath it. He stood with his back to me, broad shouldered, hands on hips. When he turned toward me, I couldnt see his face. It was shadowedno, blurredbeneath the dark brim of his cap.

He walked toward me. I wanted to go to him but my feet were riveted to the cold, hard ground. Then a powerful force pulled at my chest, drawing me forward, tearing at my legs. I reached a hand toward him. A cry caught in my throat as a bird flew overhead, calling again and again, its voice fading as it disappeared into the small bright spot of sun. A wind rose and as I woke, I realized it was only the sound of my deep, ragged breaths.

And so, it followed me, this dream. It launched me on a journey. But I never imagined that the journey would nearly cost me my life.

Chapter 1

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T here was the occasional irate customer, face twisted in fury over a missed plane, and sometimes there was the crushed bag leaking strange fluid. And, of course, there were those times when an employee peacefully overslept, infusing panic into his team of overburdened coworkers. I expected most days at the Missoula Airport to hold a few surprises, but that particular day was one for the record books.

I started with Delta as a ramp agent in Missoula almost eight years ago, spent a year working in Santa Fe, then transferred to LA where I worked my way up to customer service and then shift supervisor, overseeing everything from ticket sales to the endless lugging of bags into and out of the bowels of planes. A couple of months ago, I transferred back to Missoulaa smaller airportwhere my duties as a supervisor were similar. I monitored employee workflow and even filled in at the ticket counter and on the ramp when we ran short of help.

I had run the gambit of experiences in the industry, and I understood that it was my job to smooth out bumps, unruffle feathers, and help maintain everyones sanity. But nothing really prepared me for that morning.

I had barely run my security badge through the scanner when I saw Brandon trotting in my direction, looking like hed just had a close encounter with a hurricane.

Jenna, Im glad youre here. He caught his breath and ran his long fingers through his bristly blond hair. We have a problem. Weve been called out to the tarmac by D gate. Theres a plane in trouble and they want us on hand in case passengers need help when they land. Well, we hope they actually will land, he emphasized.

Whats going on? I asked, quickening my pace. Even for Brandon, the anxious look on his lean face was unusual.

Computer, Brandon puffed as we trotted along. The computer on board says the landing gear is not locked in. The guys up in the tower cant tell for sure, and of course, a 747 is a lot of plane to land on its belly.

I followed him through the green haze of the scheduling room, trying to keep up with his long strides. We took a shortcut through the baggage area, dodging luggage carts and skirting conveyer belts. The place was deserted, so I knew the drama overhead had drawn a crowd.

Out on the tarmac, the autumn sun had turned unexpectedly fierce, and the smell of baking asphalt blended with the scent of jet fuel. In the distance, past the runway, the Bitterroot Mountains stood serene beneath a clear blue sky. The Clark Fork River ran along their feet beneath a long march of dark green fir trees. The peaceful scene did little to quiet the pounding of my heart.

I shaded my eyes and scanned the sky, locating the plane high above us, droning in a smooth circle. A holding pattern can be a dangerous thing, I knew. An airplane with faulty landing gear flies overhead, sucking away the life force of its engines. Nerves jangle, the faithful pray. In the end, subject to the immutable laws of nature, the plane must descend, borne as it were on the mutually held breath of those in the air and those on the ground.

The ramp crew stood, clumped behind the fire trucks and emergency staff, shifting nervously, talking in whispers as we joined them.

Everyone ready? I asked. My throat was dry and tight.

A few nodded, concern evident in their eyes. Beside me, Brandon coughed nervously and swallowed hard. After only a year on the job, I hoped he knew what ready meant. I hoped we all did. Hours of training in a small, dim room, fighting to keep your eyes open, trying to concentrate on the long list of facts thrown at you by a bored trainer. Filling out test papers, checking the little boxes. I hoped that translated into action if we needed it.

I was chewing my well-worn nails when I heard a voice behind me. Well, this will be interesting.

It was Mark, the Delta airport station manager. He stood quietly at my shoulder, arms folded. The man had an energy that emanated from his muscular frame. There was a youthfulness about him that belied the gray at his temples. He was a natural leader whose sense of humor got us through a hundred tensions every day. I was glad he had arrived.