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  “Rick isn't here?” An icy chill of uneasiness ran up her spine.

  “I thought that was what I just said.” The older gentleman cocked his head to one side.

  “Didn't he leave a forwarding address?” The sensation of alarm was beginning to grow. None of this sounded like Rick. He plotted things through very thoroughly, then went ahead—just like piloting an aircraft. First he laid out a course, then he flew it. He'd sent her an airplane ticket but hadn't been at the airport to meet her when she arrived. Now she learned that he had moved out of the apartment.

  “No, he didn't leave a forwarding address,” the manager replied. “He didn't even give me notice he was leaving. I wouldn't have suspected he was going except two weeks ago, just a couple of days before the rent was due, I saw him coming out of his apartment with a suitcase. I reminded him the rent was coming due. ‘Course he told me that he'd be back in time to take care of it, but I never saw hide nor hair of him after that."

  The manager shook his head, indicating by the gesture that it was an old story. “I must admit he fooled me. He seemed a real likable fellow. I waited a week before I rented the apartment to someone else."

  “Do you mean Rick hasn't been here for two weeks?” Shannon asked, realization dawning. “Then he couldn't have received the telegram I sent him, telling him when I would arrive."

  “Telegram? A telegram did come for him a few days ago.” The old man straightened slightly and tipped his head down to peer at Shannon again over the rim of his half glasses. “I didn't know where to send it on to, so I kept it here. Thought he might stop by for his things."

  “What did Rick leave here?” she questioned. “May I see?"

  The manager hesitated. “You can see, but I can't let you take anything,” he agreed at last, and stepped out of the doorway to let her enter his apartment. “I packed it all in a couple of boxes. There isn't much of any value in it.” He motioned toward the two boxes sitting in the corner of the living room. “If he doesn't come for them pretty soon, I'm going to have to store them in the upstairs attic to get them out of my way."

  Shannon crouched down to unfold the flaps of one box. Mostly it contained odds and ends and a few clothes—the everyday sort of worn shirts and jeans. In the second box she found a gold-framed photograph of herself, the one she had signed to him, “With all my love.” Her fingers tightened on it.

  “Rick wouldn't have left this behind,” she murmured to herself. There was nothing wrong with the manager's hearing. A look of pity was on his face when she looked up. “That day you saw him with the suitcase, did Rick say where he was going?"

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “And I didn't ask. At the time I didn't think it was any of my business."

  “This isn't like Rick.” Again, Shannon said it mostly to herself.

  “People change,” he shrugged.

  “No.” She wouldn't accept that argument as she laid the photograph back in the box and stood upright. “There is a reason for this. I don't know what it is, but I'm going to find out ... somehow."

  “Good luck to you,” was the skeptical encouragement from the manager.

  “Thank you.” Shannon opened the flap of her shoulder purse and reached inside for her leather wallet. “How much does Rick owe you? I'll pay for it and take his things with me."

  The manager drew back. “I don't want to be taking your money, miss."

  “It's all right,” she assured him. “Rick and I are going to be married."

  He hesitated, then grudgingly named an amount as if it went against his character to take money from a woman for a man's debt. While he wrote out a receipt at a small desk for the money she'd paid him, Shannon picked up one of the boxes and carried it into the building's foyer, where the young cabdriver waited near her luggage.

  “Did you find out anything?” the driver asked quietly.

  She shook her head, chestnut hair brushing her shoulders. “There is another box inside. Would you mind carrying it out?"

  “Be happy to,” he assured her, and entered the manager's apartment as the old man walked out to give Shannon her receipt.

  “If you should hear from Rick, or if he stops by, would you tell him that I'm staying at....” She stopped and glanced beyond the man to the cabdriver, returning with the box in his arms. She had anticipated that Rick would make arrangements for a hotel. She addressed her question to the driver. “What is the name of a good hotel in Anchorage, a well-known place that's centrally located?"

  “The Westward?” He named one, then quickly named two more to give her a choice. “Or there's Captain Cook's and the Sheffield House."

  “I'll be staying at the Westward.” Shannon chose the first.

  “I'll tell him,” the manager promised, but his attitude showed that he doubted he would have the opportunity to pass the message along.

  When she left the building to carry the box to the taxi, the cloud cover seemed to be hanging lower, darkening everything. A fine mist was falling, replacing the earlier drizzle. The damp chill in the air seemed to penetrate to her bones. So many unexplained things had happened, her anxiety increased from the weight of them. One question kept repeating itself: where was Rick?

  The cabdriver took the box from her and stowed it in the trunk, then helped her into the rear seat. “You wait here while I get the rest of your luggage,” he instructed.

  Sitting alone in the silence of the cab, Shannon tried very hard not to think the worst. Just because Rick wasn't at the apartment didn't necessarily mean that he had been injured or become ill. There were probably several explanations—even if she couldn't think of a single one. She didn't know where he was, but that didn't mean he was missing. Yet nothing made sense. She was confused and worried.

  “Do you want me to take you to the Westward?” The driver slipped behind the wheel and closed the door.

  “Yes, please."

  He turned in his seat and noticed how tightly her hands were clasped together in her lap.

  “There probably isn't anything to be upset about. When you finally see him, you'll more than likely laugh about this wild-goose chase around Anchorage."

  “Probably,” Shannon agreed, and managed a brief smile at the gentle reassurance.

  Facing the front again, he started the motor, then paused before shifting it into gear. “It's possible that he might be trying to reach you. He didn't get your telegram, so he doesn't know you're here,” he reminded her. “Is there someone you can call in Texas to see if he has been trying to contact you?"

  “Yes.” She'd call her parents the instant she reached the hotel. Then she realized she hadn't told the cabdriver where she was from. “How did you know I'm from Texas?"

  A wide grin split his face. “It's kinda hard to mistake that soft drawl,” he explained. “It isn't the heavy twang of some Texans I've met, but it's there just the same."

  The corners of her mouth relaxed into a natural smile. “I should have guessed.” It was difficult to remember that most people thought she had an accent.

  Her smile faded as the cab pulled onto the street. His comment served to remind her that she was in unfamiliar territory. The city was strange to her. She knew no one except Rick, and she didn't know where he was.

  The traffic became heavier near the center of the city, demanding more of the driver's attention. He pointed out some of the landmarks. Shannon looked, but she was too preoccupied with her own concerns to have much interest in the sights around her.

  At the hotel entrance there was a porter to take her luggage into the lobby. After she'd paid the driver, he gave her a card with his phone number written on it. “My name is Andy,” he told her. “If you need some help locating your boyfriend, give me a call."

  “Thank you.” She was touched by his offer. “As you said, it's probably all a silly misunderstanding."

  Crossing the expansive lobby, she filled out the necessary registration forms and was shown to a room on the fifth floor. She went directly to the telephone and placed a
call to her parents. It was her mother who answered.

  “It's me—Shannon,” she identified herself.

  “I've been wondering about you. Are you in Alaska? Did you make it safely? I'll bet you're frozen solid.” There was hardly a break between sentences as her mother rushed the words. “You should have taken warmer clothes with you. Do you want me to ship some of your things up to you by air, rather than wait until your father and I come this weekend?"

  “No. The weather is fine, mom,” Shannon assured her, then felt that statement needed some qualification. “It's no different from Houston in the winter—gray, drizzling and cool."

  “Are you sure?” her mother questioned skeptically. “Velma Jo and Fred were there two years ago and said they practically froze to death."

  “I promise you I'm not freezing.” She took a breath to ask if Rick had called, and her mother took advantage of the scant second of silence.

  “How was the plane trip? What is there—four hours’ time difference? I never can figure those things out. I'll bet you're suffering from jet lag, aren't you, Shannon? Traveling is so tiring on its own without someone messing with the clock."

  “Yes, I....” She supposed she was tired. She'd been too worried about Rick to notice.

  Her mother's voice became muffled. “I'm talking to Shannon. She's calling from Alaska,” she was saying to someone else in the room.

  “Who is that, mom?” Shannon was struck by the laughable thought that it might be Rick. How ironic if he had flown to Texas to accompany her personally on the long flight!

  “It's your father. He wants to say hello.” The telephone was obviously passed to her father, because Shannon heard his voice speaking to her a second later. “Hi, honey, how are you?"

  “I'm fine, dad."

  “How is my future son-in-law? I suppose he's there with you."

  Which meant he wasn't there. With a sinking heart she realized that it also meant Rick hadn't called her parents’ home. There was no message for her.

  “Actually ... he isn't here,” she admitted, trying not to let her concern creep into her voice.

  “Oh?” It was a pregnant sound. “Didn't he meet you at the airport?"

  “No. It seems he didn't receive my telegram,” Shannon explained, at least partially. She considered confiding in her father, then realized he was too far away to help. Besides, she might be needlessly alarming her parents. “Rick is ... out of town right now."

  “How soon will he be back?” He had barely asked the question when his voice became muffled; obviously, he was explaining the situation to her mother.

  “I'm not sure,” she answered. “I haven't talked to Rick yet.” Which was the truth.

  “His employer knows when he'll come back, doesn't he?” he asked.

  A ray of hope glistened. “I'm going to call and find out.” Why hadn't she thought of contacting Rick's employer before? He would know Rick's whereabouts, his new address, everything. “I just wanted to let you and mom know I had arrived safely."

  Chapter Two

  ANOTHER FIVE MINUTES went by before the conversation with her parents finally came to a close. Afterward Shannon ransacked her large purse again in search of the letter from Rick, which contained the name of his employer. She found it—Steele Air. Flipping open the telephone book, she ran her finger down the column of S's and stopped when she found Steele Air. She picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

  On the sixth ring a man answered, “Steele Air. No matter where you wanta go, we'll take you there.” There was a rasping edge to the male voice that hinted at advanced age.

  Shannon smiled at the slogan so proudly recited. “I would like to speak to Rick Farris, please."

  There was a pause. “Who?"

  “Rick Farris,” she repeated, and added, “He's a pilot."

  “Who ain't?” was the retort, but a reply wasn't expected. A hand was cupped over the mouthpiece of the receiver on the other end of the line, muffling the voice that spoke to someone else. A second later the same rasping voice returned to the line. “There's no one here by that name."

  “Wait a minute,” Shannon said quickly, in case the man intended to hang up. “Do you have a phone number where I could reach him?"

  There was another lengthy pause. “We don't have his phone number."

  “Can you tell me how I might contact him?” she persisted.

  “Miss, I really don't know.” The voice sounded indifferent and dryly amused.

  “How do you get hold of him?” There had to be some way.

  “Why would we want to?"

  “He works for you,” she replied, and began to wonder if she wasn't being given the runaround as a kind of joke.

  “What?” The man sounded startled. “What did you say his name was?"

  “Rick Farris."

  “We don't have any pilots working for us by that name. You probably want one of the other charter outfits,” came the patient yet gruff reply.

  “No.” Shannon glanced at Rick's letter again. It plainly read Steele Air. “This is Steele Air, isn't it?"

  “Yes, but there's no Rick Farris here,” he stated, very positively.

  It finally sank in that he meant it. “Thank you,” she murmured, and heard the click of the phone being hung up. Slowly she replaced the receiver on the cradle.

  Tiny lines creased her forehead as she picked up Rick's letter and began reading it through again word by word. It was filled with information Rick had gleaned about the owner/operator of the service—a man named Cody Steele. Nowhere did it say that Rick had been hired, yet the implication was strong.

  Her frustration mounted. The letter was a month old, but it was the only clue she had. Someone with Steele Air had to know something about Rick. If not the man who'd answered the phone, then someone else.

  Shannon started to reach for the telephone to call back, then changed her mind and scribbled down the address of Steele Air on the back of the letter's envelope. Grabbing her purse, she slipped the leather strap over her shoulder and dropped the room key inside.

  Five minutes later she was in the hotel lobby downstairs, requesting a taxi. One responded immediately to the call. As she crawled inside and gave the driver the address at Marrill Field, Shannon was almost sorry she hadn't asked for the young driver named Andy, for moral support.

  Instead of taking her to the Anchorage International Airport, where she had arrived by jet, the cab drove to another airfield closer to the heart of the city. Shannon couldn't recall ever seeing so many small planes in one place in all her life. They passed row after row of hangars, with single and twin-engine aircrafts parked inside or tied down on the concrete aprons outside. There was a multitude of aviation companies, so many that the names began to run together in her mind.

  When the cab turned and stopped in front of one of the hangars and its attached office, Shannon stared at the sign across the front that read Steele Air. It was a full minute before realization sank in that she had reached her destination. Except for the sign, there was nothing to distinguish this outfit from any of the other flying services.

  With the fare paid, she stepped out of the cab into the misting rain. After a second's hesitation she walked toward the door of the concrete-block building that adjoined the metal hangar. Her boots made small splashes in the gathering puddles of water, ripples ringing out from her footsteps.

  Entering the building, she paused inside the door to wipe her high-heeled boots on the bristled mat—a consideration others hadn't observed, judging by the muddy tracks on the tiled floor. Her entrance had brought a halt to the conversation in the small office area.

  The long room that ran the length of the building was decidedly informal, more of a waiting area than an actual office. Aeronautical charts were tacked on the walls along with photographs, plaques and a bulletin board crowded with cards, advertisements and notes scribbled on torn slips of paper. There was a desk, its metal sides scratched and dented. The swivel chair behind it was vacant and sh
owed signs of wear.

  The coffee table was littered with aviation magazines and overflowing ashtrays. One of the men sitting on the green vinyl couch was using the table for a footstool, his feet propped on top of it. Another, older man was leaning forward, braced with his arms on his thighs, while a third man sat in a cushioned chair covered with dark gold vinyl. In the corner of the room near the couch, a chipped enamel coffee urn sat atop a table surrounded by cups in assorted shapes and sizes, as well as a stack of Styrofoam cups. There was also a container of sugar and a powdered cream substitute with a couple of community spoons.

  Two doors opened into the long room. One of them was ajar, giving Shannon a glimpse of another room that more closely resembled an office than this one.

  All three of the men were staring at her with open speculation. Shannon had the impression that it wasn't every day a female invaded their domain. The older man in the red plaid flannel shirt finally straightened to his feet. Age had thickened his figure somewhat without taking away from his muscled physique. His tanned face was craggy but pleasant, for some reason reminding Shannon of a stuffed teddy bear. His dark hair was graying, giving him a grizzled look, but there was a gentle quality in his blue eyes.

  “Can I help you, miss?” he inquired in a gruff voice that Shannon instantly recognized. This was the same man she had spoken to on the telephone.

  “Yes. My name is Shannon Hayes. I talked to you a little while ago—inquiring about a pilot named Rick Farris,” she explained, and noticed the man's eyebrow shoot up.

  “I remember, but like I told you, miss, we don't have anybody here by that name.” He repeated his previous answer with a show of patience.

  “I know you did, but—” she paused to reach inside her purse for Rick's letter “—I just flew into Anchorage this afternoon. I'm trying to locate Rick. He's my fiancé. I received this letter from him indicating that he planned to go to work here for a man named—” she got the letter out to recheck the name “—Cody Steele. I understand he is the owner, is that right?"

  “Half-right. Cody and I are partners,” he rasped out the correction. “It doesn't really matter what he wrote you, miss. I'd know if we had anybody working for us by that name—and we don't."