His leather Sky King Ranch jacket hung on his desk chair.

Like he’d never left.

And when his father dished up the eggs, one arm across his chest, catching his breath in a wince, that was just enough.

“Sheesh, Dad. Get back in bed.” And then he’d gone around to grab the pan and somehow, he’d knocked his dad off-balance.

The old man went down, right there on the kitchen floor, and his grunt of pain roused the exact memory Dodge had run from.

Another person he loved, hurt at his own hand.

So, he’d helped him up—not that his father was especially cooperative—gotten him to his room, and left him there with the eggs.

“Thanks,” his father had said, his mouth tight around the edges.

“For Pete’s sake, stay in bed.”

“I feel fine. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“Clearly not,” Dodge snapped. And shook his head.

But okay then. He packed up his duffel bag and escaped to one of the guest cabins by the lake. But not until after he’d made sure his dad took his pain meds.

Stubborn old man.

Below him, the shadow of his plane flew across icy fields that drained from the foothills, spilling out in massive runs of untouched snow, undulating over hills and into canyons, and dumping into now-frozen rivers. The lush greens of black pine and spruce were a sharp contrast to the endless span of white.

A quiet escape from his own regrets.

No, not regrets. He’d made his decisions, had to live with them.

“You headed out to the Farleys’ place today?” His father’s question this morning hung in his head as Dodge banked and headed south along the east fork of the Yentna River, following the rugged channel that traversed the base of Magnus Peak.

“Mmhmm,” he’d said, checking his ForeFlight planner. The office of Sky King Air Services was simply an attachment to the lodge his father had added in the last thirty years, and the open door led into the kitchen and dining room. From there, too, he could see the great room and a southward view of their land.

“Looks like there might be some weather coming in later today,” Dodge said, writing down his flight plans. “I thought I’d get an early start.”

His father came to the door, holding a cup of coffee, clearly trying to prove his words from last night. He’d dressed by himself, the arm of his sweater empty, his casted arm next to his body. How he’d gotten on his jeans, Dodge didn’t want to ask. He’d shaved, too, and wore his Sky King Air cap, as if he might be going someplace.

Fine. Dodge was here to fly the planes, not babysit.

“Watch the approach—the wind comes whipping in from the north and the crosswinds from the west can throw you off.”