Page 1 of Logan

1

THREE YEARS AGO

“Can you take us higher? I want to get a picture of the very top.”

“Oh, honey, no. I feel like puking as it is.”

Logan Bishop heard the request and subsequent whining but pretended not to. It was easier that way. He maneuvered his H10, light, single-engine helicopter along his regular tourist path, ignoring the special requests coming from the back. Sometimes he deviated…depending on the passengers and his mood. But today, the monotony of the tourist season was getting on his last nerve, and playing nice was not part of the service.

Circling the majestic mountains of the Glacier National Park in Montana once more, Logan marveled at the sprawling landscape beneath him. His view was of snowcapped mountains, thickly adorned with green forests. The predominately coniferous pine, fir, and spruce woodlands gave the vista its continuous color. The lower elevations were covered in cottonwoods and aspens, their foliage a testament to the ever-changing seasons. The park, considered the Crown of the Continent Ecosystem, was once the domain of Native Americans and now served as a sanctuary for countless animal species.

With over a million acres, including two mountain ranges and over one hundred lakes, the tourists wanting to experience the park from above the ground kept him in business.

“Look at that, Dorothy! Looks like a lighthouse tower!”

“Those were used to assist aircraft flying over the mountains,” Logan said. “Most in the country are decommissioned now, but Montana still has them.”

He made another pass near a crystal-clear lake, then decided the couple in the back seats was more interested in the photographs than any history, so he kept his mouth shut as they chattered among themselves.

As he began the flight back over the Blackfeet Indian Reservation, he added, “The Blackfeet have inhabited the area for over ten thousand years.” It didn’t surprise him to hear an audible huff from behind him.

“Look at all this good real estate going to waste here for a bunch of Indians.”

“Native Americans,” responded the woman. “That’s what you say now. It’s politically correct.”

The other passenger pinched his lips before snapping, “Well, excuse me, Dorothy, if I ain’t all PC and shit.”

With a glance behind him, Logan could see their interest had waned, and he made a straight trip back to the landing pad outside Cut Bank, Montana, circling over the small town right on the edge of a steep bank leading down to a river. He had knocked off about fifteen minutes on their tour but figured it was due to him for having to listen to their bickering.

Although Cut Bank’s population was only about three thousand people, tourists looking for wildlife photo opportunities came to the town this time of year. The three small hotels in the town and three in nearby Shelby filled up quickly.

After assisting Dorothy down and silently nodding toward both of them, he pivoted away, deftly extinguishing any furtherrequests to see the natural Montana vista from his helicopter. After refueling, he waved to Gus, the owner of the small airfield, and climbed back in the cockpit, soon lifting off the ground.

In quiet solitude, he traversed the landscape below, a slow hum of satisfaction moving through him as he surveyed what was his. When he came to Montana, he’d initially planned on buying a small spread. But the right price for a family trying to sell off a large estate acreage was too good to pass up. Loneliness occasionally gnawed at him, but he tried to tamp those feelings down.Who’d want to live way out here, and where would I meet them?With no answer to those questions, he just enjoyed the peace.

Five minutes later, he touched down once more, this time with an air of contentment on his own property. Guiding his craft into the metal, dome-topped hangar, he parked his bird next to his Lakota—a huge, military-grade helicopter used for mountain rescues of skiers or stranded hikers.

Climbing out, he stretched the kinks out of his back before beginning his routine maintenance. Qualified as a mechanic and a pilot, he alone handled his birds until the annual inspection was due. With a final pat on its side, he walked to the hangar door and pulled it shut, sliding it along the channel until it closed securely. Locking it, he activated the security he had installed before trudging over the hardened ground toward his low-slung ranch house.

His acreage included flat, scruffy land with trees and hills leading to the mountains in the background. The one-story house with a basement was on the land when he bought it, and he added the helicopter hangar. The house was plain but functional, large enough for him, and sturdy enough for the winters. A porch gave it a homier appeal but was added to cut down on the direct sunlight blasting through the front windows.

Stepping into the neat interior, he walked straight to the kitchen, threw open the refrigerator door, and reached inside to grab a beer. None.Fuck.He knew he had been getting low but dreaded making the trip to the grocery in town. It wasn’t the act of shopping that irked him, but rather the prospect of social interaction.Nah, that’s not true.It was just hard being around people who didn’t really know him or would never be able to understand him. He rubbed his aching knee and wondered if he even knew himself nowadays. This wasn’t the future he’d envisioned for himself.

Sighing, he debated for a moment but decided he also needed milk, bread, soup, vegetables, and a few other staples.

“Meow.”

At the same time he heard the meow, he felt the tabby feline rubbing against his legs. Looking down, he grinned. “Hey, Poncho. You need something to eat, too?” Even if he ran low on his own supplies, he always stocked the dog and cat food well. Reaching into the cabinet, he grabbed a can of cat food and dumped a measured portion into the dish on the counter. Placing it on the floor, he watched as Poncho quickly scarfed every morsel and then looked up at him in expectation.

“You know what the vet said. No more kitty treats. You have about two more pounds to lose to be as svelte as you need to be.” He squatted and rubbed the cat’s fur, hearing the purring begin immediately. Poncho had come with the ranch and was skinny when Logan first moved in. Feeling sorry for the scrawny fella, he overfed him, not realizing how quickly Poncho would pack on the weight. Now, on a diet, Poncho protested mightily at feeding time but never passed up a chance to sleep next to Logan, whether on the sofa or the bed.

“Okay, you’ve eaten. Now, I need to get some things for me.” Grabbing the keys to his truck, he headed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, he drove into Cut Bank, stopping at the little grocery store on the outskirts. A larger one had opened on the other side of the tiny town, but he preferred the quiet, comfortable feeling in the older one, run by a couple who didn’t have a predilection for talking everyone’s ear off or asking too many personal questions.

Moving through the glass door, he nodded politely to the woman behind the cash register. “Marge.” His voice sounded rough even to his ears.

“Logan,” she replied, her smile firmly in place as her tight gray curls bounced about her head before she looked back down at the magazine opened in front of her.

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