“Shit!”
Flecks of blood spattered the windshield and the plane vibrated violently. Riley quickly feathered the propeller and shut down the engine to prevent further damage.
He muttered a prayer and searched for a place to land.
OH, MY GOD.
Maria Alvarez stared in horror out the window of her station wagon. The small plane wobbled in the sky, its right wing dipping dramatically before leveling off. The aircraft was losing altitude fast. Maria pressed on the gas pedal as she whizzed along I-40 heading west out of Albuquerque toward Mesita.
Suddenly the plane switched direction and crossed the highway right over her car. He was gliding toward the salvage yard—Maria’s destination. Flipping on the blinker, she entered the exit lane. Keeping the plane in sight, she drove along a deserted road for a quarter mile. The road dead-ended and Maria turned onto a dirt path that led to Estefan’s Recycling and Auto Salvage. The business had closed to the public years ago but the property had never been cleared of ancient car parts, tires and appliances. The past few months the lot had become the home turf of the Los Locos gang.
Aside from normal gang activities—robbery, drugs and shootings—the Los Locos members were famous for their artistic talent. A recent display of their artwork across the front of an office complex on the south side of Albuquerque depicted an alien invasion of earth. The mural had received praise from the art professors at the University of New Mexico but not the police or the public. Regardless of the gang’s creativity, none of its members would escape the ’hood without an education.
Maria was one of five teachers in the city whose students had dropped out or had been expelled from high school. Except for a few instructors, society had written off the troublemakers. Education, not gang affiliation, was the path to a better life. Once the teens joined a gang, leaving alive wasn’t an option. Maria’s job was to help at-risk teens earn a GED then enroll in a community college or a trade program. Most days she loved her work, but there were times—like now—that her students tested the limits of her patience.
Yesterday, three of her charges had skipped class. When she’d stopped by their homes this afternoon to check on them, their families had no idea of their whereabouts. As she left one of the homes, a younger sibling confessed that his brother, Alonso, had gone to meet the Los Locos at Estefan’s Salvage.
As Maria raced toward the junkyard, the plane dropped from the sky and touched down, bouncing twice before racing across the bumpy desert toward the chain-link fence enclosing the property.
He’s not going to stop in time.
The aircraft rammed into the fence, ripping several panels from the ground before the nose of the plane crashed into a stockpile of rubber tires, spewing them fifty feet into the air. Amazingly the aircraft came to a halt in one piece.
After parking near the downed fence, Maria clutched the lead pipe she stowed beneath the front seat. This wasn’t the first time—nor would it be the last—that she rescued one or more of her students from a dangerous situation. Her father insisted she carry a gun, but after her brother had been shot dead by a gangbanger ten years ago, Maria wanted nothing to do with guns.
Sidestepping scattered debris, she hurried toward the plane. Her steps slowed when the cockpit door opened and the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on stepped into view.
He tipped his cowboy hat. “Howdy, ma’am. Sorry about the mess I made of your place. I’ll cover the damages.”
This past March Maria had celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday. Entering her mid-thirties was tough enough without being “ma’am’d” by a sexy young cowboy. He grinned and she swore her heart flipped upside down in her chest. Embarrassed by her juvenile reaction to the stranger she stopped several yards from the plane.
“You wouldn’t happen to have the name of a good aviation mechanic, would you?”
Chapter Two
Stomach tied in knots, Riley walked around the plane, assessing the damage—flat tire. Minor dents. Oh, man, that couldn’t be good—two mangled propeller blades. Only a bird the size of a hawk could have done that much damage.
Despite a breeze, sweat dripped down his temples as the harrowing descent replayed in his mind. At least his radio hadn’t shut off and he’d been able to communicate his safe landing to the control tower at a nearby airport.
“Are you all right?”
The sultry voice startled Riley. He’d forgotten about the woman. He gave her a once-over. Out of habit he catalogued her features, placing them in the plus or minus column. Her voice made the plus column—the raspy quality reminded him of a blues singer.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He moved toward her then stopped on a dime when she lifted the metal pipe above her head.
“Don’t come any closer.”
This was a first for Riley. Usually, he was the one beating off the women. “I’m no threat.”
Keeping hold of the weapon, she crossed her arms in front of her bosom—a well-endowed bosom.
Plus column.
She had curvy hips unlike the skinny buckle bunnies who squeezed their toothpick legs into size-zero Cruel Girl jeans. This lady filled a pair of denims in a way that made Riley want to grab hold of her fanny and never let go.
Three pluses—home run.
“Engine trouble?” she asked.
“Bird strike. I’d hoped to make it to Blue Skies Regional—” the municipal airport was located seven miles northwest of the central business district in Albuquerque “—but I lost altitude too quickly.”
“Who are you?”
The female drill sergeant needed to loosen up a bit. He spread his arms wide. “A cowboy.”
“Aren’t they all.” She rolled her eyes.
Amused, Riley tapped a finger against his belt buckle. “Standing before you, ma’am, is a bona fide world-champion bronc-buster.”
“Don’t call me that.” Almond-shaped brown eyes flashed with warning.
“Call you what?”
“Ma’am.”
So the lady was a tad touchy about her age. The tiny lines that fanned from the outer corners of her eyes hinted that she was older than Riley by more than a few years. She was on the short side, but there was nothing delicate about her. The arm wielding the pipe sported a well-defined bicep. His mind flashed back to Dirty Lil’s—he’d give anything to watch this woman mud wrestle.
“I’ve never met a real cowboy who wears snakeskin boots and flies his own plane. My guess is that you’re a drug dealer, masquerading as a cowboy.”
Whoa. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’—uh, miss. I left Canon City, Colorado, earlier today after competing in the Royal Gorge Rodeo.” She didn’t appear impressed. “Go ahead and check my plane for contraband.” He dug his cell phone from his pocket. “Or call my agent. He’ll verify that I’m Riley Fitzgerald, current NFR saddle-bronc champion.” Soon to be dethroned if he didn’t get his rodeo act together.
“Agent?” she scoffed. “Is that what they’re calling drug cartels these days?”
The lady appeared immune to his charm. Riley couldn’t remember the last time a woman had rejected him. Her feistiness and bravado intrigued him and he found her sass sexy. “Why would a drug runner risk landing his plane in a salvage yard?”
“I’ve seen bolder displays of arrogance.”
Now he was an arrogant drug dealer? “As soon as I locate a good mechanic I intend to fly the heck out of Dodge.” He removed a handful of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet.