All That You Are (4 page)

“That'd be great, Sam. I'll owe you one.”

When Sam replied, his words were punctuated with an emotional depth Mark didn't understand. “No, Dana. I'll always owe you.”

The airplane dipped on its pontoons as Sam pulled himself in. A dockhand secured the door and prepared for departure as ropes were removed from the dock cleats.

Slipping into the pilot's seat after grabbing the headset, Sam didn't immediately fit it over his ears. Staring at Mark, he addressed him with all frankness. “She's not as tough as she seems. She doesn't need a guy trying to take her for a ride.” He slipped aviator sunglasses over the bridge of his nose. “Your headset is on the yoke. When you wear it, it'll cancel out most of the engine noise. If you need to say something, talk into the mouthpiece and I'll hear you.”

Sam Hyatt may not have been the biggest guy with the biggest threat, but there was an underlying warning in his advice that gave Mark pause. And something did become clear to him.

While it seemed Sam would do anything for Dana Jackson, he wasn't interested in her in a romantic way. Rather, he carried a deep-seated compassion for her. Like a big brother watching out so she wouldn't get hurt. As if she'd had more than her fair share of it already.

When they returned, Mark would find out more, but for now, he settled in for the ride. He looked forward to fishing and getting out on the water, thinking, forgetting about responsibilities.

He felt good. Optimistic. His mood light.

But three days later, when Jeff led the way from the dock to the pickup, all that changed.

The truck was no longer in the parking space.

“A'
IGHT—LISTEN UP,
everyone.” In his naturally grizzled tone, Bear “Roadkill Barker called the patrons at the Blue Note bar to attention. “I got a new class startin' next Wednesday night. Pass the word around to them who ain't here and need to know how to butcher roadkill. Anyone's interested, y'all got to preregister and bring a sharp knife, saw, meat hook and a box of freezer Ziplocs to the first class. We be meetin' in the Church of Divinity's basement. Oh—and it be free to senior citizens.” Bear hunkered back onto his bar stool and gave a satisfied nod. “Thanks and God bless America. Now go back to drinkin'.”

Dana had been standing at the back bar, getting two beers on tap for the pair seated at the bar's end, when Bear made his colorful announcement. Every month, he offered his field expertise to those who needed free game to feed their families. The state had enacted a roadkill plan that, when a state trooper found a fresh carcass at the railroad tracks or highway, he called a person on his waiting list to haul it away. That person had to know how to butcher a fourteen-hundred-pound moose and pack it from the accident scene.

The occupation Bear had had before showing up in
Ketchikan was left to speculation. Dana thought she'd heard he was a university professor from Oregon. Others claimed to have seen him getting off the “Blue Canoe”—the ferry from Bellingham that delivered cuckoos and convicts from Washington State with a one-way ticket to Alaska. If you asked Bear, he never gave you a straight answer.

In any case, he was a regular at the Blue Note, and the bar was all the livelier for his presence.

Leo Sanchez, her trusted manager, busied himself with mixed drinks for the table by the door. Without Leo, Dana would be sunk. In the kitchen, Presley Reid, her childhood girlfriend, manned the oven and stove, creating cocktail fare for a packed house.

Saturday nights slammed the Blue Note. A live band played in the corner, the honey-sweet sound of modern jazz rising to the rafters. Dana loved to feel the fluid notes through her body as she wiped off the glossy counter with a damp rag.

If it weren't for the fire marshal's visit the other day, she would have been in a great mood since she was closed tomorrow and could spend the day with Terran.

But the fire-breathing dragon had descended on her and not even Presley's to-die-for fish tacos could take a bite out of his flame.

Nobody except her close staff—Leo and Presley—knew she'd been written up, and the infractions weren't minor.

The Blue Note had once been an active cannery and, as such, the roof and walls had been constructed pretty basically. Dana's father had done some remodeling back in the early eighties when he'd opened the place, but nothing major had been done since.

Nearly thirty years later, and the Blue Note was in trouble.

Big trouble.

The fire marshal had found several violations. Most of them had been overlooked by the previous inspector. She'd been operating a legal nonconforming use of property, and had been allowed, to a degree, to run with the “illegal use.”

State licensing had never encountered a problem with her stove hood, or typical operating errors with food prep and/or serving minors—a
major
no-no. Dana and her staff carded big-time, and to their credit had busted fake IDs from a few jokers trying to drink underage. The city's building department had an insurance company who frequently came on checks. Everything had always been fine.

But the new guy, Bill T. Kirk—or as Dana nicknamed him, Fire Marshal Bill, reminiscent of the Jim Carrey character in an
In Living Color
sketch—said with the number of people crowding the bar on Friday and Saturday nights, she'd have to add a new sprinkler system. Not to mention, another exit door would be mandatory regardless of her crowd control.

At present, there was only one way in and one way out of the Note—the wharf. Not good enough. She had to be prepared in case of a fire so people could get out via two exits. His bloodhound hunt had also found that her bathrooms weren't handicap accessible like they should be. And she'd have to replace the old electrical panel and bring it up to code.

Fire Marshal Bill gave her six months to do it all—or he'd close her down.

Dana felt like taking his report and tossing the papers onto her desk without a thought. But she couldn't afford to be so cavalier. Without passing a fire inspection, she'd lose her business insurance. Without business insurance, her liquor license would be taken away. And without liquor, she'd be closed.

In short—she was screwed.

Screwed by the blatant truth that she didn't have the collateral to pay for the improvements and repairs. The bar was tapped out and her floatplane service had declined in a bad economy. Fewer people were traveling, and those who'd booked a ticket last year had gotten a great price.

Dana never knew what the cost on a gallon of fuel would be until the barge arrived. Last fall, she'd booked seats estimating the price at four dollars a gallon, but it had come in at five seventy-five. Gas had gone through the roof, taking a big bite out of her profits.

Yet Fish Tail Air stayed afloat, and for reasons that were too personal to dwell on, she'd never let Sam Hyatt go…. It would kill the man if he had to walk away.

“Did you put Sambuca on the order list?” Leo asked, drawing Dana from her thoughts.

“Yes. And I took off the banana brandy. I found a bottle in the stockroom.”

“Good deal.” Leo moved efficiently, his long hair in tight curls that rested on his shoulders. She'd never known a Mexican to have a natural perm like that, but he swore it was real. She believed him.

Her curly hair had been chemically relaxed, and each time she shampooed, she had to touch it up with a flatiron. The process grew out, and she was due to have
it done again if she wanted to keep her hair straight. There were days when she hated fighting it, and drew the length into a hair claw and said oh well.

Refilling the snack bowls with wasabi-coated peas, then snack-size pretzels and salted cashews for those who didn't like to set their mouths on…
fire
…Dana frowned at the reminder that she'd been smacked with violations.

She'd been trying to figure out what she could do on her own to save labor costs. It took an experienced carpenter to do sprinklers and cut in another door. But who did she know who could build an extension ramp out of steel? A trip to the library, and they'd been very helpful finding some home repair books for her on bathroom remodeling. Leo offered to help her out with that project.

Maybe she could get a bank loan, but doubtful. She already paid each month on the loan for Fish Tail, an added business her father had taken on about ten years ago. Buying the airplanes had started because they had the dockage for fueling stations just outside the bar. Oscar had always been fascinated by airplanes, and so had Terrance. But neither had learned how to fly. That's why they'd hired Sam Hyatt and his brother….

But that was the past. She had the present to concern herself with.

Dana released a troubled breath. She had one hundred and eighty days to bring things up to speed. Or else.

Cardelle Kanhai plopped a giant green insect repellent can on the bar, then took a seat. “Blue Hawaiian, heavy on de rum, mon. I sold a boatload of tanzanite rings today and I'm throwing myself a bashment.”

A “bashment” was Cardelle's word for “party.” He
used the expression often enough that Dana knew just what he meant.

“Cardelle,” Leo immediately said, “I told you I don't want any of that DEET crap sprayed in the Note. We don't have mosquitoes in here.”

A Jamaican national, Cardelle worked as a counter clerk in the cruise-ship-owned jewelry store—Jewels of the Nile. He only lived in Ketchikan during the peak months from mid-June to the last day of September. He never went anywhere without an Off! insect repellent can.

“You don't know dat for sure. We got Wes' Nile, malaria and dengue in my country—and Alaska has many maskittas. I seen dem swarming with mine owned eyes. I don't need no sickness, mon.” He went to pick up the aerosol can to douse his bare arms, when Leo put a hand over his.

“I'm telling you, Cardelle, that shit stinks and I don't want to be breathing it in. I'll risk the West Nile.”

Deterred, he left the can alone. For now. Dana knew from experience, he'd go outside a few times a night and shoot himself with another coating of the stuff.

Looking left, Cardelle said to Bear, “Pass de buns.”

“Card, them is hot nuts, not buns.” Bear's broad shoulders took up the same width as his behind.

“Pass dem, mon.”

Bear obliged, then inquired, “You ever figure out whose truck you had towed?”

“No. But I bet you, it was probably some chi-chi mon blocking my Buick.”

Bear's thick brows knit together. “What's that?”

“What you call a girly mon without de balls to park in a straight line.”

Dana left the bar gossip to say hi to familiar guests at a table. As she approached, the door opened and two men came inside. She recognized them immediately.

Fish-brain and Moretti.

Sam had called him Mr. Moretti, and the name had stuck in her head. Why—she didn't care to examine. But in the days that had passed since he'd been a passenger on Fish Tail Air, Dana's thoughts, unfortunately, had strayed to Moretti.

More than once.

Against her better judgment, she'd taken a slow inventory of his features. Black hair, but showing a faint trace of silver at his temples. Olive-toned skin. There could be no more denying, his smile kicked her heart into overdrive. His handsome face exaggerated every masculine feature a guy could have. A square jaw, a day's beard growth, strong nose, straight forehead.

He'd gotten under her skin with those looks, and the smack he talked, it had just…well—just everything about him had set her a degree off-course. The rest of that Saturday, when she walked, she felt unsteady. When she breathed, she was short of breath. When she tried to think, she struggled.

And here he came striding into her place as if he'd been given a formal invitation. She'd thought, after tossing him out, he'd never have the nerve to return.

Her mistake.

While the fish-brain kept a cell phone to his ear and stepped back outside, Moretti approached her, a heavy ice chest in his arms. He carried the white-and-blue Igloo with ease, walking directly past her and having the gall to head right into her kitchen.

Dana followed behind him, determination marking her steps.

Once in the kitchen, he set the cooler on the stainless surface and Presley turned with wide eyes. “Mother of pearl! You look just like that actor—what's his name? Only better. Younger. More big. Holy cow, is the room shrinking or are you really this tall?”

“Presley, I'll handle this.” Dana went around the other side of the counter.

Intimidating Moretti posed a problem. He had to be a foot and a half taller than her, so she lifted her chin to give him a hard stare. Brown and rich like a candy bar, his eyes melted her.

She blinked to clear the liquid heat in her head. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

His response was uttered in a slow and deep voice. She could swear Presley squeaked or fainted behind her. “Why, bringing you something, sweetart.”

That ridiculously stupid name he used on her grabbed hold of her nerves, fueling her backbone. “Moretti, I didn't ask you to bring me anything.”

“You know my name.” His smile brightened. “You care.”

“Get over yourself. I heard Sam talking to you.”

“Did you hear me tell him that you take my breath away?”

She faltered a second, then snorted. “You're full of it.”

Breaking into a chuckle, he lifted the lid on the cooler. Inside, dry ice blocks and cleaned fish in plastic bags. Halibut. And shaker size, too.

“Heard you had a need for these, so I brought home as many as I could catch. Funny how fishermen think the big ones are the best to keep.”

Not saying thanks, she commented, “I needed them three days ago and Sam brought me a half dozen when he flew back.”

“Well, I've got eight in here.”

“Well, I've got spicy meatballs on the menu tonight, and hot wings on tomorrow's.” Her brow arched. “And you know all about spilling them on my floor.”

He leaned closer. His eyes bored into hers, his firm mouth in a set line. Hair fell over his forehead in a thick shock and she fought the urge to smooth it back. She could smell the ocean air on his skin, feel the heat coming from his gaze. If she took one single step backward, he'd know he got to her, so she remained where she was and didn't flinch.

His next comment rose the gooseflesh on her arms. “I sure don't know what to make of you, yet. But I will.”

Straightening to his full and intimidating height, he rubbed his fingers on the underside of his chin as if feeling the stubble while in thought. Then in a voice exaggerated in parody, he said, “Hey, Mark, thanks for the fish. No problem, sweetart.”