“Okay, everybody, calm down. We’re okay.” A siren sounded, and he looked up to see an ambulance heading toward them. “Tower, I’m going to need a tow,” he said into the radio, but already he spotted a cart heading their way, probably to clear the runway.

Echo untangled herself and jumped out, grabbing Goose and then stepping back as a couple EMTs came over to retrieve their patient.

She was quiet—breathing, but unresponsive.

Dodge got out, went around, and took Echo’s hand as the EMTs strapped the woman onto a backboard. “We did the right thing bringing her in.”

She squeezed his hand. “Yes.”

“Unfortunately, we’ll have to find another ride home.” The ambulance pulled away, sirens blaring.

Meanwhile, an airport attendant hooked up the plane to move it off the runway.

Echo still hadn’t let go of his hand. “There is a reason I prefer mushing.”

He laughed, and it felt so freeing, so . . . alive, cleaning out the dark crevasses in his soul.

He was back. Back in his land, back in the cockpit. Back.

And not even the slightest urge to hit the dirt and unload his—well, practically empty—stomach.

He wanted to fist pump or something, but the last thing he needed was Echo knowing how he’d been fighting his own rising panic.

“We should go to the hospital and talk to the doctor,” Dodge said. “Tell him how we found her. See if we can help track down any next of kin.”

“Dodge Kingston, dead-stick landing over the sound. That was something.” The voice came from behind him, and Dodge turned to see Moose Mulligan headed out of a small building near the tarmac. A red-and-white Air One chopper sat outside the building, along with a truck emblazoned with the same name.

That’s right—Air One Rescue headquartered here.

“Hey, Moose,” Dodge said and met his handshake.

Moose turned to Echo, then looked at Dodge. Grinned. “About time.”

Dodge had to agree.

“I’m going to use the facilities,” Echo said, and gave his hand a squeeze before she left.

Moose folded his arms over his chest. “So, what happened out there? I was in the office when your call came in but didn’t get the details.”

“Fuel pump is shot.”

“On that old Beaver? Big surprise.”

“I checked it before taking it up, but . . . probably. The plane belongs to the Remingtons. I need to get on the phone to Nash, find out what he wants to do, but he’s out in the bush. For now, can you help me tie it down?”

“You got it,” Moose said. He was a big man, a good six three, dark brown hair, bearded, and proud bearer of his nickname. He and Dodge tied down the plane while Goose barked, running around them.

Echo was still inside.