Meet Me in Savannah
The Runway Rogue Series
Book ONE
Second Edition
A Romantic Adventure
Of Love, Legacy, and Flight
By Kevin Seney
Lucas Publishing – Lucas Media Company
Kalispell, Montana
Copyright © 2025 Kevin Seney
First edition published May 7, 2025
Second edition (hardcover) published May 27, 2025
ISBN: 979-8-2838-3946-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design by Lucas Media Company
Published by Lucas Publishing
ISBN: 9798283839462
Lucas Publishing – Lucas Media Company – since 1899
Kalispell, Montana
For Hunter and Jasmine, my cowgirls,
and the Wyoming wind that carries our stories…
Acknowledgments
To my family—thank you for being my home, my compass, and the truest part of every journey.
To my wife, Carrie—my brave beauty. Thank you for your patience, strength, and unwavering support. Your grace and grit light every chapter of my life.
To Alicia and Jessica—my first copilots. We learned to fly together, through laughter, storms, and all the hard-earned joy in between. Watching you grow into the women you are is my greatest pride.
To Emma, Katie, Gwynn, and Rachel—your curiosity, spirit, and kindness echo through these pages. You remind me daily that storytelling isn’t just a craft—it’s a way of loving the world.
And to Maggie and Aspen—our loyal, joyful German Shorthaired Pointers. You are the wild heartbeats of our days, teaching us to chase the wind and love without hesitation.
This book carries a piece of each of you.
With all my love,
Dad
Chapter 1
Coastal Fog – San Diego – March
The sun had no chance that morning. It hadn’t risen—it had surrendered. Low clouds crept over the cliffs, smothering the palms, the red tile rooftops, the surf below. Nothing golden about this dawn. Only gray.
Kade Vance didn’t mind. He liked the fog. Always had. It gave the world an edge-softening blur, like a secret it didn’t want to share.
He stepped barefoot onto the iron-grate balcony that jutted from the second floor of his airplane hangar. A coffee mug warmed his hand; steam curled into the chill. From up here, he could see all the way across Montgomery Field—rows of general aviation aircraft lined up like silent sentries.
His own Piper Saratoga sat front and center inside the open hangar doors. White with blue and gold stripes, the plane was older than it looked. Maintained like it mattered. Like everything else Kade touched.
Below, the ramp was empty. The world hadn’t woken up yet. Just the sound of palm fronds clicking in the breeze and the occasional whine of tires out on I-805. San Diego wasn’t the city it used to be, but this view—the airport, the coast beyond it—still felt like his.
Behind him, Maggie stirred. She stretched out on the leather couch beneath the mounted propeller Kade had pulled off a wrecked Beechcraft three years ago.
Two years old and always listening, the German Shorthaired Pointer had the blood of a hunter and the soul of a sentry. Liver patches over white-ticked fur, amber eyes that watched everything.
She padded to the balcony door, then settled at his side without a sound.
Kade took a sip of coffee. He wasn’t hungover, but close. The previous night had ended late, the way too many did—at Duke’s in La Jolla, where the bar stools were worn smooth by regulars who never asked questions.
That was the point. In a town built on image and reinvention, Kade Vance fit right in. Rugged, tanned, clean-shaven when it mattered, not when it didn’t. Aviator sunglasses, black t-shirt, jeans that always looked pressed even when they weren’t.
But none of that told the truth.
The truth was more complicated.
By 40, Kade had already burned through one marriage, two businesses, and a mile-long list of things he didn’t talk about. His daughters—Hunter and Jasmine—were back in Danville, just east of San Francisco, growing up faster than he could fly to keep up.
Hunter was fourteen. Jasmine eleven. He saw them every other weekend—when the courts said he could—and every summer for two straight months, they lived with him here at the hangar. Days were spent flying to Catalina, pulling the RV up the coast, sightseeing from 2,000 feet. He spoiled them with memories. Tried to make up for the rest.
He flew north to San Francisco often—for work, for visitation, for the illusion of consistency. Sometimes the girls flew back with him. Sometimes they didn’t.
He tried not to count the times he said he’d call—and didn’t. Or the messages left unread. Or the birthdays where he showed up late but never missed.
He’d built a life in San Diego—hangar living, client work, late-night flights, early-morning regrets. His name was clean on paper. The rest? Well. That depended on who you asked.
The phone buzzed.
He glanced down. Just a name and a number. No context. No memory attached.
Claire Weston
Even now, the name carried weight. Not because she could take something from him—but because she already had.
He hadn’t spoken to her in months. Not since the fundraiser. Not since she strode across the ballroom floor, her smile sharp as the diamonds on her wrist, and confronted Dawn, Kades date: “So which one of Kade’s little girls are you?”
She had loved him. In her way. Their years together had been a whirlwind of black-tie galas, beach villas, and passport stamps. Laughter in first class, kisses beneath chandeliers. But Claire had never loved the real Kade—just the version she could dress, direct, and control. When he stopped playing the part, she turned. Criticism became her currency. Spying, her defense.
He’d walked. Not to punish her—but to save what little of himself was left.
Now, as the sun tried to break through the marine layer, Kade stared at the message. He didn’t open it. He didn’t need to.
She wasn’t after anything he owned. Claire had her own fortune. Her own name. But she’d be damned if she let him move on without a scar.
He stared at the runway. Took another sip.
Somewhere out there, the next thing had already begun—something quiet but certain, like the sound of a checklist clicking into place before takeoff.
Maggie nudged his knee. He reached down, ran a hand along her back.
“You’re the only one who never asked me to be anything else,” he said softly. “You and this place. That’s it.”
The fog held steady. So did he.
For now.
Chapter 2
Return Flight
Kade Vance sat alone in the cockpit of his Piper Saratoga, slicing through the high blue hush above California’s spine, the San Francisco skyline shrinking behind him like a life he didn’t live anymore.
The autopilot was set, but he flew by hand. He needed to feel it—the tremble in the yoke, the hum in the bones. He needed something that wouldn’t lie to him.
Golden light spilled across the Pacific like oil on glass. Half Moon Bay sparkled below, waves gnawing the cliff line in steady rhythm. From altitude, it all looked serene. But Kade knew better. Still water held deep stories. So did he.
Hunter’s laugh. Jasmine’s starry-eyed questions. They used to fill this cockpit with stories, snacks, giggles. Even Maggie, perched between the seats, ears up, eyes scanning the skies. Those flights were chapters of scripture—rituals of love and motion.
Now the cabin echoed. No chatter. No laughter. Just Kade. And silence. The kind that doesn’t comfort. The kind that haunts.
He reached for the seat-back pocket. Found it again—the envelope. Yellowed. Frank’s blocky handwriting across the front. Still sealed. Still waiting. He hadn’t opened it. Couldn’t. Ghosts have mass. Memory even more.
He slipped it back.
“NorCal Approach, Saratoga Six-Niner-Kilo, level one-zero thousand, direct Oceanside.”
His voice was clipped. Automatic. The headset crackled back.
“Six-Niner-Kilo, NorCal. Roger. Expect SoCal handoff in twenty.”
“Any traffic out there?”
“Just a Cessna off your three. Clear skies, cowboy. You’ve got the air.”
Kade smirked. “Appreciate it, NorCal. Six-Niner-Kilo out.”
That language—the rhythm of airspace—it was clean. Honest. You either flew straight or you didn’t fly long.
He flicked off the comm and let the soundscape return. The Saratoga hummed beneath him. Every panel, every gauge, exactly where it should be. He traced the California coastline southward in his mind. Hearst Castle. Big Sur. Monterey. Memory braided into sky.
His phone buzzed.
Text. No name. Just:
You still flying. I hear you are.
He stared at it. The number was familiar. But it didn’t matter.
The Saratoga rolled gently through the thin blue miles. Kade glanced to his right—empty seat. Jasmine used to call it the magic chair. Hunter once said, “It’s not flying unless we’re chasing clouds.”
They weren’t in that seat anymore.
And the truth was… neither was he.
He banked slightly. Felt the left rudder dip and return. Fluid. Solid.
He used to fly this route every other weekend. San Diego to San Francisco and back. The girls in the back. Maggie curled between the seats. Weekend visits. Summer escapes. For two months every year, the hangar was alive—disco ball above the bunks, Catalina picnics, pink sunglasses in the glovebox.
Now the bunk beds upstairs were made with military corners. The disco ball hadn’t spun in two summers.
He tapped the fuel gauge. Still full. Like always.
San Diego shimmered up ahead. Spring haze rolling over the hills like velvet. Lake Murray flashed silver through the broken light. The ocean beyond it, wide and indifferent.
His jaw tightened. Claire had texted again.
Nothing legal. Nothing new.
Just her signature brand of presence. Distant. Entitled. Still sharp enough to draw blood.
He didn’t answer.
He’d left her behind once already. The passport stamps, the villas, the chandeliers—they didn’t matter. Claire never loved the man who flew. She loved the way he looked in her light.
His watch ticked loud in the stillness. His father’s old Rolex. Scratched. Honest. Like him.
“SoCal Approach, Saratoga Six-Niner-Kilo descending to five thousand. Home stretch.”
“Six-Niner-Kilo, cleared direct Montgomery. Maintain VFR. Contact tower one-two-zero-point-one.”
“Thanks, SoCal. One-two-zero-point-one.”
He brought the Saratoga lower, flaps prepped. The airport came into view like a memory: long, narrow, striped in light. Familiar.
“Montgomery Tower, Saratoga Six-Niner-Kilo, Lake Murray, with Tango, requesting runway two-eight right.”
“Saratoga Six-Niner-Kilo, cleared to land, runway two-eight right.”
Wheels down. A kiss to the tarmac. Smooth. No bounce.
He taxied toward the hangar. Shut her down. Avionics silent. Prop still.
The moment he stepped out, Maggie met him. She’d waited, nose to the hangar door.
Inside, everything was where he left it. Frank’s truck. The Harley. The couch beneath the loft. The photo of the girls taped to the corkboard.
He slid the journal from his flight bag. Wrote without thinking.
March 16. Full pattern. No wind. Just ghosts.
Claire texted again.
But the only voice I heard was Hunter’s:
“Grease the landing, Dad.”
I did. For once.
The hangar was quiet.
Then, the sound of tires on gravel.
Jenna.
Maggie’s tail thumped once. Then again.
Kade closed the book.
He stood, stretched once, then turned toward the light coming through the open door.
Journal Entry:
Clear skies don’t always mean peace.
Some ghosts ride thermals.
But this time, I landed anyway. —K.V.
Chapter 3
Sanctuary
The Saratoga’s engine ticked as it cooled, the sound hollow and honest in the echo chamber of the hangar. Outside, the sky was washing itself from lavender to ash-blue. San Diego exhaled behind the hills, the kind of sunset that made you forget how fast light disappears.
Kade slid down from the wing. Maggie was already there, nose to the concrete, tail sweeping slow. She bumped his leg once and settled at his feet. No bark. No leash. Just loyalty.
“You and me,” he said, scratching behind her ears. “Still standing.”
The hangar was half-dark. He didn’t flip the lights. The place knew him too well to demand ceremony.
He walked the Saratoga slow—checking her outboard edges, trailing his fingers across rivets and leading edges like prayer beads. She’d flown true. Again. Still.
Inside, the familiar waited.
Frank’s old F-250, chipped and sky-blue, sat in its place like a monument. The Black Harley Heritage Classic, hidden under canvas, kept its secrets. The Coke machine buzzed its neon heartbeat. The couch beneath the loft gave a creak as he dropped into it, boots off, shoulders slumping.
Maggie leapt up beside him. One exhale and she was out.
Kade reached for the journal. Opened it to a clean page.
March 16 Wheels down. Catalina was clean. Claire’s text came through mid-approach. I didn’t read it. Don’t need to. I can feel her even when I don’t look.
He tapped the pen to the page. Thought about that night in La Jolla. The fundraiser. The glare of chandeliers and tailored spite.
“So which one of Kade’s little girls are you?”
Jealousy, cloaked as elegance. Claire’s specialty.
They had loved each other once. Or tried. But her love had rules. His didn’t. That’s why it failed.
He took a long pull from the beer he’d pulled from the Coke machine earlier. Wrench-cap still on the floor.
Upstairs, the fairy lights blinked—soft constellations over the bunks his daughters hadn’t used in months. The disco ball hung like a joke no one was ready to laugh at again.
He looked up at it. Whispered, “We’re still here.”
The quiet settled deep. Thick. Right.
Journal Entry:
Something’s moving.
Not Claire. Not Jenna. Not even me.
Something older. Deeper.
Like a hum under the floorboards.
I don’t know what it is.
But it’s coming.
—K.V.
Chapter 4
Wildfire Arrival
The hangar had settled into its evening hush—the kind of quiet that follows both a storm and the silence after it. San Diego was low-lit now, washed in that final streak of twilight before everything turns navy.
Kade sat cross-legged on the cool concrete, back leaned against the Saratoga’s left wing. His journal lay shut beside him. The bottle in his hand was sweating warm. Maggie lay a few feet away, curled near the toolbox like a sentry who’d earned the right to rest.
Above them, fairy lights blinked across the loft rails. Below, the scent of jet fuel, leather, and dust hung like incense in a sanctuary made of rivets and memory.
Claire’s text was still in his pocket. Unread. But screaming.
She wasn’t after property. She wasn’t even after truth. Claire had always played for leverage. Money, image, control. And when those failed—jealousy.
He had once loved her. Maybe still did, in that bruised, flickering way people love the past. But Claire didn’t want Kade back. She just wanted him to remember she still mattered. That she still could hurt him. And she could.
But not here.
Not in this hangar.
The Saratoga had taken every hit, every story, every escape. She was his refuge. This place—half garage, half chapel—was his.
He ran a hand along the wing’s leading edge.
“You’re the only one who never asked me to change,” he murmured.
A low hum broke the moment.
Tires on gravel.
Not fast. Not loud. But familiar.
He rose without hurry. Walked across the hangar and reached up to flip off the fluorescents. Let the fairy lights hold the space. Soft. Dim. Reverent.
The matte-black Sprinter van rolled into view. Lifted, dusty, California-legal by a thread. Headlights flashed once, then again. The unspoken knock.
Then the door opened.
Boots hit the ground first—scuffed, tan, road-worn. Then legs. Long. Bare. Frayed denim hugging them like sin with a smirk. A white tank top. A sun-kissed blur of blonde tied up high. Sunglasses pushed into her hair like a crown that didn’t ask permission.
Jenna.
She didn’t knock.
She never did.
She walked in with a bottle of Shiner Bock in one hand and a bag of gas-station snacks in the other. Her eyes swept the hangar like she was checking for ghosts—and then she found him.
“Well,” she said, voice low and teasing. “If it isn’t the cowboy philosopher. You fixin’ the world or just hiding again?”
Kade smiled, slow. “Bit of both.”
“You rollin’ through?” he asked. “Or stirrin’ up trouble?”
“Trouble is the roll-through,” she said, setting the bottle down with a soft thud. “Van needed a break. Figured I’d check on the hangar’s heartbeat.”
Maggie had already wandered over, tail wagging like a metronome. Jenna knelt, whispered something, scratched behind her ears, then stood and walked to the couch like she owned it.
“I missed this place,” she said, dropping into the cushions. “Smells like truth and jet fuel.”
“Don’t forget the grease.”
“Never do.”
Kade walked over, grabbed a beer from the Coke machine, opened it with the wrench. Handed it to her without ceremony. Their fingers brushed. Old tension. Still warm.
She took a sip. Leaned back.
“Girls okay?”
“Growing too fast. Still love the hangar. Still think you live in a movie.”
She smiled. “Close enough.”
He didn’t say it, but he missed their chaos. Missed summer flights. Missed Jenna at the grill while the girls hung a disco ball from the ceiling.
“So?” she asked. “What’s next?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do,” she said. “You just haven’t said it out loud.”
He looked around. At the board with red string. The folded map. The compass sketch.
“Something’s calling me,” he said. “But it’s not a person.”
She nodded. “Then it’s real.”
She stood. Walked toward the loft stairs.
At the top, she turned.
“I’m crashing here tonight,” she said. “In case you feel like not thinking for once.”
Then she disappeared upstairs.
But she left something behind.
Motion. Momentum. The slow burn of change.
Journal Entry:
She never stays long.
Just long enough to remind me I’m not dead yet.
She’s wildfire.
And I think I’m finally ready to burn.
—K.V.
Chapter 5
Wildfire Wings
The scent of fresh coffee drifted down from the loft like a promise, curling through steel beams and morning light, blending with the warm dust of jet fuel and sunbaked concrete.
The Saratoga sat quiet in the hangar, wings still wet from dew, her fuselage catching gold like a girl dressed up for one last dance.
Kade stirred on the couch beneath the loft. One boot on, one off. Arm flung across his face. The kind of sleep that doesn’t rest you, just stops the noise for a while. Maggie had moved sometime before dawn, now curled like a question mark at the base of the stairs.
Above, bare feet crossed the catwalk with a steady rhythm. Then came her voice.
“Rise and shine, cowboy. Coffee’s hot. You snore like a backhoe. Maggie wants me to file a noise complaint.”
Kade grunted. “You slept with her last night. That’s your problem.”
Jenna appeared at the rail, steam curling off the mug in her hand. She wore his black t-shirt—knotted high at the waist—and those cutoff jeans that looked like they’d survived three music festivals and one brushfire. Her blonde hair tumbled from a loose knot, catching morning light like static.
“You look like hell,” she said.
“I feel like it too.”
She raised the mug in a half-toast. “Then drink up. We’re flying.”
He blinked. “We are?”
“You promised me Catalina.”
“That was years ago.”
“Time’s a construct,” she said. “And I packed snacks.”
Kade pulled himself upright, stretched once, then padded barefoot toward the kitchenette. She met him halfway with the coffee. Their fingers brushed. Not a spark. A memory.
He took a sip. Strong. Hot. No cream. Just like he liked it. Like she remembered.
Outside, the hangar doors were cracked open. Light spilled in across the tarmac, wide and soft, painting the Saratoga in sepia tones. She gleamed back like she knew it was her moment.
Kade turned to look.
“She wants out,” Jenna said, behind him. “So do you.”
“She’s old.”
“She’s loyal.”
“I’m trading her for a Malibu. G1000 panel. Pressurized cabin. Longer legs.”
Jenna raised an eyebrow. “Foxtrot Bravo upgrade?”
He nodded. “Tail number’s already assigned.”
She exhaled, slow. “Well, hell. One last flight, then.”
He grinned. “Thought you said time was a construct.”
“Constructs still need closure.”
They moved together through the preflight rhythm—checking fuel caps, control surfaces, the walkaround like muscle memory shared in silence. Jenna knew enough to keep up, just enough to challenge.
She brushed a hand along the trailing edge of the left wing. “Still smooth.”
“She’s been good to me.”
“She still is.”
Maggie loaded into the back like she’d done it a hundred times. Because she had.
Inside the cockpit, Kade powered up the avionics. The hum filled the space like something sacred. Jenna strapped in beside him, headset on, bare feet tapping the floor. She was quieter now.
He glanced over. “You good?”
She nodded. “Just listening.”
“To what?”
“The part where everything changes.”
He smiled. “That’s not here.”
“Sure it is,” she said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
He keyed the mic. “Montgomery Tower, Saratoga Six-Niner-Kilo, taxi with Juliet. VFR to Catalina.”
“Six-Niner-Kilo, cleared to taxi. Runway two-eight right.”
The plane rolled forward. The sky opened wide.
At the hold-short line, he turned to her.
“Still want the right seat?”
She grinned. “You askin’ or stalling?”
He pushed the throttle forward. “You’ll know at rotation.”
The Saratoga surged down the runway. The wheels left earth. They climbed into clean morning air like they meant it.
Jenna let out a whoop in the headset. “God, I missed this.”
He glanced over. The sun caught her profile. And for just a second, the weight of everything—Claire, the map, the silence of his girls—lifted.
The sky had him. So did she.
And that was enough—for now.
Journal Entry:
Last ride in the Saratoga.
Jenna flew better than she remembers.
The sky still knows my name.
Catalina next. After that? I don’t know.
But I’m finally moving.
—K.V.
Chapter 6
Catalina Flight
The hangar doors groaned as they rolled wide, sunlight spilling across the concrete like a slow drumroll. San Diego’s coastal haze lifted just enough to let the morning turn golden—warm, wide, and cinematic.
Kade walked the Saratoga forward, tow bar in hand, the aircraft gleaming like a coiled promise. The wax still held. Her wings caught the light with quiet pride. Maggie padded at his side, tail ticking, nose twitching at the scent of motion.
Near the workbench, the flight bag waited. Inside, Frank’s note remained untouched—its compass rose folded deep in the leather pouch like a dare no one wanted to read. Not today.
Today was for flight.
“You want to fly, Jenna?” he called, not looking back. “It starts on the ground.”
She stepped into view, coffee in one hand, barefoot in the other. His black T-shirt knotted high at her waist. Those Daisy Dukes looked more outlaw than fashion. Her blonde bun barely held, wild strands catching breeze like they were ready to run.
“I thought this was a joyride,” she said.
“It’s never a joyride.”
She smirked. “That’s what makes it one.”
He handed her the clipboard. Checklist. The corners oil-stained, edges bent like they’d lived too many lives.
“Walk me through it,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want a lesson this early in the day?”
“I’m sure I want a copilot who earns the right seat.”
She mock-saluted. “Yes, Captain.”
They moved in rhythm. Wings first. Fuel caps checked. Tanks sumped. Lights inspected. Her fingers skimmed rivets like reading braille.
“You memorize all this?” she asked.
“You don’t memorize sky,” he said. “You listen to it.”
They crouched beside the landing gear. Checked brakes. Tires.
“Feels like the plane’s got history,” she said.
“She does.”
“You naming her?”
“I already did.”
She glanced up. “Let me guess. Something sentimental?”
He smirked. “Call sign. Sierra Tango. But she’s always been just ‘The Saratoga.’”
At the engine, he opened the cowl. Oil level good. Prop clean. No nicks. Static wicks intact. The checklist faded, but his mind remembered every line.
They paused at the tail. The airfield was quiet.
“This bolt,” he said, pointing. “If it fails, none of this matters.”
Jenna touched it, lightly. “Small hinge, big cost.”
He nodded. “Same with people.”
Maggie climbed in before them, curled behind the seats like a dog who’d flown more than most.
Inside, the cockpit came alive with switches and hum. Kade flipped the avionics on. Jenna sat right seat. No jokes now. Just presence.
He handed her the mic.
“Montgomery Tower, Saratoga Six-Niner-Kilo, taxiing to Runway Two-Eight Right, VFR to Catalina with Juliet.”
She repeated it perfectly. Her voice clear. Confident. Real.
“You’ve done this before,” he said.
She looked at him. “Not like this.”
They taxied out, runway stretching ahead like invitation.
“Run-up complete?” he asked.
“Checklist done. Mags checked. Prop cycled. Flaps ten. Trim set.”
“Good. Hold centerline. You’ve got rotation at seventy-five.”
“Copy that.”
He advanced the throttle.
The Saratoga leapt forward, tires hissing on tarmac, the wind clawing past the glass.
Airspeed alive.
“Rotate,” he said.
And she did.
The wheels left earth. The plane climbed.
Below them, La Jolla unrolled in layers—cliffs, coves, roads weaving like veins. Jenna leaned into the climb, hands light on the yoke. Her breath came steady, but her smile betrayed the rush.
“You okay?” he asked.
She laughed into the headset. “I’m better than okay.”
The Pacific opened wide beneath them. Blue to the edge of the world. Sailboats like splinters. Dolphins moving like commas in the sea.
Catalina rose ahead. Green spine. Craggy cliffs. Runway perched like a dare.
“Three thousand feet,” he said. “Uphill. No go-around.”
“No pressure,” she muttered.
“Ride the crosswind. Drop flaps to twenty. Airspeed at eighty-five.”
Jenna flew the approach tighter than he expected. Her fingers didn’t tremble. Her eyes didn’t leave the threshold.
They descended. The cliffs flashed close. The slope rose to meet them.
“Flare… now.”
The tires kissed the pavement.
Smooth. Clean.
Jenna whooped. “Did you see that?”
“I did.”
They rolled out. Parked at the ridge. The sign ahead: Welcome to the Airport in the Sky.
Kade powered down.
Silence replaced the prop’s hum. Just seagulls and sunlight now.
Maggie barked once, nose pressed to the window.
Jenna leaned forward. Her eyes wide. Her hair wild.
“That was the best thing I’ve done in five years,” she said.
Kade nodded. “You’re not done yet.”
She grinned. “Good. I’m starving.”
“Greasy burgers. Cliffs. Cold Coke.”
She was already unbuckling. “Lead the way.”
They stepped out into the wind.
Kade looked back once at the Saratoga, framed in sun.
She’d done her part.
And so had he.
Journal Entry:
Catalina: wheels down, hearts up.
She flew better than expected.
So did I.
—K.V.
Chapter 7
Duke’s Dive
Some nights don’t ask for permission—they just tear across the horizon in steel and fire and memory.
Kade’s ’65 F-250 roared down La Jolla Boulevard like a hymn with exhaust pipes. The V8 snarled in rhythm with the surf below, that low Pacific rumble that always sounded like it had something to say.
Sunlight dipped behind the cliffs in a burst of orange and copper. Foam misted the guardrails. The whole coastline felt like a memory being rewritten.
Jenna sat shotgun, boots on the dash, aviators low. Her hair whipped wild in the wind, barely pinned by one of Kade’s old ball caps turned backward. She looked like summer rode shotgun in denim and dust. One leg crossed, tank top knotted high, a grin on her lips like the road had dared her to blink first—and lost.
Maggie hung halfway out the back window, tongue lolling, tail a metronome of approval. Kade glanced over once, just to feel the heat of the moment. Jenna caught him. Didn’t look away.
“You get quiet before you disappear,” she said.
“Maybe I disappear to get quiet.”
“Same damn thing.”
His phone buzzed. Screen face down. He didn’t check it. He didn’t need to.
Claire.
That name could set fire to calm water. She wanted control. Not reconciliation. Not redemption. Just leverage. He still hadn’t opened Frank’s note. Still hadn’t traced the compass lines. But she had. Or was trying to. Vance Point was just a location. For Claire, it was a warning label.
Jenna reached out and flipped the radio knob. Blues poured through the speakers like bourbon and confession. The kind of song that makes you want to take the long way and let someone else steer.
“You sure Duke’s is still standing?” she asked.
“Only thing left that hasn’t changed.”
“That’s what you said about love.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
The truck pulled into the gravel lot with a hiss and a grunt. Tesla chargers glowed in the back like sterile regrets. But front row? The F-250 made the whole place feel like a dive worth remembering.
Valet didn’t even offer to park it. Just gave a respectful nod.
“Mr. Vance.”
“Keep it up front,” Kade said, flipping him a twenty.
Jenna dropped down from the cab like trouble with good posture. Boots hit gravel. Hips caught the string lights. Heads turned.
Maggie landed behind her. No leash. No rules.
Inside, Duke’s pulsed with neon and Friday tension. Surfboards lined the ceiling. The bar glowed like a shrine to bad decisions. Pilots. Lifeguards. Flight attendants on layover. Everyone half-lit, full-tilt, and trying not to look like they were waiting for someone.
Jenna walked through it like she owned the lease.
“Two top-shelf tequilas, Danny,” she said, slapping her sunglasses onto the bar like a badge. “And one for the dog if she asks nicely.”
Kade took the stool beside her. Let the hum find his rhythm. Duke’s always had a way of adjusting your speed.
“You bringing the heat tonight?” he asked.
She smirked. “I thought you were.”
They clinked glasses. Salt. Lime. Fire.
Claire’s text buzzed again. This time he turned the phone off. No sound. No light. No war tonight.
The jukebox shifted into something slow and real. Chris Stapleton, maybe. Something with gravel and hurt in it.
“Why haven’t you opened it?” Jenna asked. Voice lower now.
He knew what she meant. Frank’s envelope.
“Because once I do, I can’t go back.”
“You’re already gone.”
Maggie curled at their feet, her breathing slow and certain. Like she trusted the floor not to fall out from under them.
Jenna scanned the crowd. “You ever feel like everyone else is running toward something, and you’re the only one standing still?”
“All the time.”
She looked at him. Really looked.
“You ever going to let yourself want something again?”
Kade didn’t answer.
Not with words.
Then she leaned close. Whispered, “Three o’clock. Black jeans. Red heels. Russian Barbie vibe.”
Kade turned just as the woman stepped into the room. Six feet of steel and silk. Dark braid. White blouse. Eyes like green glass over cold vodka. She didn’t hesitate. She made her line.
“Is she friendly?” the woman asked, crouching to meet Maggie.
Maggie gave a single tail-thump. Approval, or curiosity.
“Very,” Jenna said. “Just like him.”
The woman smiled like she didn’t buy it.
“Natasha Mila Antonov,” she said, sliding a card across the table. Marvel Entertainment. Senior Strategic Development.
“Call me,” she added, brushing Kade’s hand. “Somewhere without history.”
Then she was gone.
Kade stared at the card like it might explode.
“Damn,” Jenna whispered.
“I think that was a test.”
“Or a warning,” she said. “You always did attract fire.”
The band kicked into something dirtier. Louder.
Jenna didn’t ask—just pulled him to the floor.
They danced like they used to. Fast. Unapologetic. The kind of dancing that made people watch but not interrupt.
When the song slowed, they didn’t.
Back outside, the salt air cut the heat.
They stood on the deck under the crescent moon. Waves rolled below like they didn’t care who was listening.
“You going to pick up the Malibu tomorrow?” she asked.
“I am.”
“You going to open the envelope?”
“Eventually.”
“Don’t wait too long,” she said. “The compass only works if you use it.”
Back at the hangar, she crashed on the couch again.
Kade stood by the Saratoga. His hand on the nose like it could steady him.
Claire’s war. Frank’s map. Natasha’s card.
He breathed deep.
And for the first time in a while, it felt like a countdown had started.
Journal Entry:
Duke’s still stands.
So do I.
Barely.
But tonight was real.
And that’s enough.
—K.V.
Chapter 8
Malibu Run
Dawn cracked open the San Diego sky like a soft match strike—rosy, golden, warm as memory. The hangar doors rolled back with a familiar groan, letting the light spill in across chrome and concrete. Kade stood at the threshold, steaming coffee in hand, the airfield before him bathed in morning glow.
Maggie sat at his feet, nose high in the salt breeze, her coat shimmering in the rising sun. Her tail swayed like a metronome—steady, certain. The kind of rhythm that let a man know he was home. Even when everything else was changing.
The Saratoga sat on the ramp, waiting for one last ride. Her waxed skin caught the light like polished nostalgia, her wings stretched wide like a loyal friend about to be left behind.
Behind them, the EarthRoamer hulked in the corner—ready for Florida, spring break, the road ahead. A house on wheels. A declaration of movement. Inside the flight bag slung over the workbench, Frank’s old letter still burned: The truth lies at Vance Point. Trust the compass. Coordinates scrawled across yellowed paper. (44.459767, -106.728913). A Wyoming ghost. Not today.
Today was about a new bird.
The Piper Malibu waited in L.A.—black and silver, sleek as sin, more Bond car than airplane. N69FB. Foxtrot Bravo. His next chapter.
Jenna’s boots thudded on the loft stairs like a drumline.
She landed barefoot and grinning, Daisy Dukes slung low, his old tee knotted at her ribs. Hair messy, golden, catching dawn like wildfire.
She whistled at the Saratoga. “Last ride in the old girl?”
Kade nodded, sipping his coffee. “Time to pass the torch.”
“Foxtrot Bravo, huh?” she said, padding across the hangar barefoot, eyes gleaming. “You always did like naming your rides.”
“Only the good ones.”
“And this one’s yours?” she asked, cocking her head.
Kade grinned. “Bought through a Cayman trust. Claire can chase all the ghosts she wants.”
Jenna laughed. “She’s gonna be so pissed.”
They rolled the Saratoga onto the apron together—Maggie trotting alongside, tail high, soaking in the morning buzz. Kade’s hands moved with practiced precision, checking fuel sumps, control surfaces, prop. Jenna mirrored his motions, checklist in hand, no longer faking it—focused, sharp. Catalina had shifted something. She wasn’t just here for the ride anymore.
“She’s got the sky in her now,” Kade muttered under his breath.
“Montgomery Ground, Saratoga Six-Niner-Kilo, taxi from West hangars with Kilo, VFR to LAX,” he radioed, voice calm, eyes steady.
Jenna followed up on comms, clean and smooth. “Taxi to Two-Eight Right.”
“Like a pro,” Kade said, giving her a look. Her grin lit up the cockpit.
The tower cleared them. Claire’s text buzzed his phone.
Saratoga’s liened. Dealer confirmed. It’s mine now.
He didn’t flinch. He’d expected it. She was too late. The Malibu deal had been sealed three weeks ago. Registered offshore. Untraceable.
“Full power. Centerline. Rotate at seventy-five.”
The Saratoga surged one last time—wheels lifting over La Jolla’s glittering coast, the ocean unrolling beneath them like a story just starting. Waves shattered on rocks. Sailboats scattered like stars.
Maggie barked once. Jenna whooped. Kade smiled.
Goodbye, old friend.
An hour later, Los Angeles crept up like a slow boil—its sprawl of smog and steel rising beneath them in haze and tension. The Pacific shimmered west. Griffith Park flickered. Kade banked low over the basin, bringing them into LAX’s general aviation ramp.
The hangar was all brushed steel and money—glass windows and fresh concrete, clean lines in a city built on noise.
And there she sat.
N69FB.
The Piper Malibu. Black on silver. Angled and elegant like an Aston Martin DB5 on wings. Pressurized cabin. Turbocharged power. Garmin G1000 lit like a command center. Extended tanks. Custom interior. Every curve said go farther.
The dealer met them on the ramp, aviators hiding a too-white grin.
“She’s all yours,” he said, handing Kade the keys. “Built for the long haul. Handles like silk. Or fire. Depends on how you touch her.”
Kade ran a hand along the wing. “She got soul?”
The man nodded. “She purrs at altitude.”
As Jenna circled the plane, Kade opened the flight bag to swap the Saratoga’s logbooks—and something shifted. A new envelope, stiff and sealed, had slipped from a side pocket. Frank’s scrawl on the front. Different ink. Different tone.
When you reach the second bird, the real journey begins.
He slid it back into the bag. Not yet.
Jenna climbed up beside him, boots thudding on the step, sunglasses in place. “She’s sexier than your truck,” she said, giving the Malibu a long once-over.
“Don’t let the Ford hear you say that.”
Kade fired her up. The engine’s growl was deeper. Throatier. Power with purpose.
Cleared for departure, they climbed hard out of LAX, sunlight catching the Malibu’s polished skin. Maggie curled in the back like she belonged there.
Jenna leaned into the Garmin panel. “Okay, now this is cockpit porn.”
Kade laughed. “She flies like a dream. Climbs like she’s got somewhere to be.”
They sliced over the hills, the Pacific glinting to the west, the city sprawling to the east, Catalina a ghost on the horizon now. Jenna pressed her palm to the glass, eyes wide with the kind of joy only altitude gives.
“You’re gonna fly the hell out of this thing,” she said, awed. “She’s all you.”
He glanced over at her—sunlight painting her skin gold, hair whipping loose under her headset, grin locked in. And just behind her, Maggie. Steady. Watching. Safe.
This was the cockpit he didn’t know he needed.
Kade leveled off. Headed east.
Toward spring break. Toward the girls. Toward whatever Frank had left buried in the mountains of Wyoming.
But first—Florida. Family. The road.
And this bird?
She was ready for all of it.
Journal Entry:
Saratoga flew her last.
Malibu flies first.
The map waits.
So does spring break.
One ghost at a time.
—K.V.
Chapter 9
George’s Rooftop
Two nights after Duke’s, Kade’s phone lit up on the hangar couch. Maggie lifted her head, eyes catching the moonlight streaming through the loft windows.
The text glowed like heat in his palm:
Fun meeting you (and Maggie).
Drinks at George’s at the Cove?
Rooftop, 7PM.
I’ll behave. Mostly. Dress optional. Charm required.
— Natasha Antonov
He read it twice. Then a third time.
Across the hangar, Frank’s envelope waited in the flight bag. The coordinates were burned into his mind, the weight of it like altitude pressure he hadn’t fully acknowledged. But the mountains could wait.
Tonight, the compass pointed west.
“She’s bold,” Kade muttered.
Maggie offered a low huff and closed her eyes.
By 6:58, Kade stood three stories above the Pacific, boots clean, shirt crisp, leaned against the rooftop railing at George’s. The sun lit La Jolla on fire—molten gold on wave tips, glass, skin. The Rolex on his wrist ticked with steady patience, inherited time wound tight.
Down below, a black BMW M3 nosed into valet like it had a standing reservation. Sleek. Controlled. Trouble by design. The valet didn’t just walk—he sprinted.
Then she stepped out.
Natasha Antonov.
Black dress. Backless. Sharp as a blade drawn slow. Her braid caught the wind, lips set like a line only fools crossed. She looked up, sunglasses slipping down just enough to find him.
Kade didn’t wave. Just met her gaze.
She smiled like she’d already won.
The rooftop glowed with candles in glass cylinders. Soft music, ocean haze, and the kind of crowd that spoke softly and carried platinum cards. Kade was seated before she arrived—two-top, edge table, the sea dropping off behind him.
“Nice view,” she said as she approached, her heels singing across the stone.
“Best in the house,” he replied. “Until now.”
She tilted her head, amused. “Good line.”
“It’s earned.”
She sat. Effortless. Confident. Set her clutch down like a chess move.
“Negroni, up,” she told the server. “And he’ll have a bourbon, neat.”
The server vanished.
Kade raised a brow. “You always order for your enemies?”
“Only the ones worth watching.”
Their glasses arrived like old habits. They drank like they’d done this before in another life.
“You live in a hangar,” she said, sipping. “Real pilot stuff.”
“Shower. Stove. Tools. Dog. Freedom.”
“Sounds wildly inconvenient.”
“Sounds honest.”
She studied him. “You don’t apologize for who you are.”
“Not anymore.”
Her smile bent. “Altitude with attitude. That should be your brand.”
“Working on it.”
His phone buzzed again. Claire. Her lawyer. New threat.
He powered it off.
Natasha caught the gesture. “That bad?”
“That predictable.”
The moment stretched between them. La Jolla’s rooftops blushed under the last of the sun.
“You’re Marvel,” he said. “Strategic development?”
“Storytelling. Licensing. Turning myth into markets.”
“You think I’m a myth?”
“I think you’re sitting on one.”
She leaned forward.
“Frank Vance. Legacy. Oil. Maps. Family name. You think no one’s watching that land? Wyoming’s heating up again.”
Kade met her eyes. “You here for me or the story?”
She didn’t flinch. “I’m here because I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
He let that sit. Let her feel the pause. Then he said, “You always come this hard?”
“Only when I want the truth.”
They finished their drinks slowly, in silence, as the ocean exhaled beneath them.
Eventually, she stood.
“Walk me down?”
He did.
At the valet stand, the M3 purred, ready. Natasha turned to him in the shadow of the palm trees.
“No music,” he said.
“There’s always music,” she whispered.
Her hands found his chest.
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet.
But he didn’t let go.
Journal Entry:
George’s. Rooftop. Sunset and smoke.
She asked questions I’m not ready to answer.
But the sky’s not the only place with pressure.
—K.V.
Chapter 10
Altitude With Solitude
The next afternoon, light slanted through the hangar’s high windows, catching in the golden dust that drifted like memory through steel rafters.
The sun hit the Malibu’s cowling just right—chrome catching fire, her curves glowing like a secret she was daring you to keep.
Kade crouched beneath the open cowl, grease on his knuckles, fine-tuning the throttle linkage. Maggie snoozed on the couch, her ears flicking toward the roll-up door every few seconds like she already knew what was coming.
His phone buzzed on the workbench.
Natasha Antonov
I’m curious. How does one live in a hangar?
He grinned. Wiped his hands. Texted back:
Then come see. Bring your curiosity. And an appetite.
Another ping lit the screen—Claire’s attorney.
Saratoga lien confirmed. Fraud filed.
Kade didn’t flinch. The Malibu, locked in a Cayman trust, was untouchable. Claire was clawing at shadows. Let her scratch.
The flight bag sat heavy by the couch. Inside, Frank’s note—still unopened. The truth lies at Vance Point. Trust the compass. Coordinates etched into his mind like a scar.
But today wasn’t about riddles.
At 6:12 PM, a black BMW M3 rolled up, low and clean, purring like sin. The golden hour bent across its hood like a lens flare, throwing fire up the hangar walls.
Natasha stepped out.
Black leather jacket over fitted jeans. Aviators that mirrored the sky. Her braid tight. Controlled. Tactical. She walked like she knew how to turn every head without needing to try.
Kade met her at the threshold. Maggie at his heel.
She scanned the space—the gleaming Piper, the loft lights warm above, tools and maps neatly arrayed like altars to motion.
“This isn’t a hangar,” she said, sliding off her glasses, eyes sharp as glass. “It’s a cathedral.”
Kade leaned on the Malibu’s spinner, smile lazy. “Altitude with solitude.”
Natasha trailed her fingers along the wing, her touch slow, reverent. “You really live here?”
“Every damn day I can,” he said, eyes steady. The truth lives here too, he thought.
“This bird yours?” she asked, eyeing the plane’s polished flanks.
“Brand-new Piper Malibu. Pressurized. Garmin suite. Extended tanks. Call sign N69FB.” He smirked. “Foxtrot Bravo. She’s a beast.”
Her laugh was low. Dangerous. “That’s sentimental, cowboy.”
He arched a brow. “Tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
She followed him past the corkboard—maps, coordinates, flight paths in red string. Tucked photos. Kade, younger, with two laughing girls beneath a small-town runway sign.
“Your daughters?”
“Hunter and Jasmine,” Kade said, his voice softer now. “Maggie rides shotgun when they’re not here.”
She glanced at the dog, then back to the map. “You built this to run, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” A pause. “You want a ride?”
Her grin flashed. “Sunset’s calling.”
Minutes later, they rolled out.
The Malibu gleamed on the apron, a symphony in black and silver. Sun melting across her wings. She looked ready to break the sound barrier just standing still.
Natasha climbed aboard like she belonged, slipping into the right seat, eyes wide as she took it all in. “Okay,” she said, voice quieter now. “This is… serious.”
“Not a toy,” Kade replied, handing her a headset. “Buckle up.”
The run-up was surgical. Kade’s hands moved like music—switches, checks, throttle. Garmin G1000 glowed green like a countdown to something big.
Maggie curled in her nest behind them, chin resting on a rolled flight jacket. Her eyes tracked the skyline.
“Montgomery Tower, Malibu Six-Niner-Foxtrot-Bravo, VFR departure, northbound. Two-Eight-Right.”
Cleared.
Throttle full.
The Malibu roared.
They lifted over the cliffs of La Jolla, sunlight flooding the glass, the coast painted in bronze and sapphire. The ocean caught fire beneath them. Shadows stretched long and fast behind them.
Kade glanced sideways. “Want to see what she can do?”
Natasha looked over, a challenge in her smirk. “Thought this was a date.”
“Date with gravity.”
He banked left, nose rising. Pulled a crisp 2G hammerhead. At the apex, silence.
Weightless.
Then the drop.
A slow roll, G-force pressing them into their seats, sky spiraling into sea.
Natasha gasped—raw, real, unfiltered. Then she laughed, that precise Russian poise cracking open, wide-eyed and alive.
“Helluva cowboy,” she said, breathless, adrenaline laced through every syllable.
Kade leveled off, smile playing at his lips. “Altitude changes everything.”
They circled back, twilight bleeding across the horizon, the Malibu slicing through it like a scalpel.
On final, the tires kissed asphalt. The hum of the engine faded as they taxied in. Maggie barked once—somewhere between approval and celebration.
Back in the hangar, silence settled like dust.
Natasha leaned against the Malibu’s wing, sipping a cold Shiner from the Coke machine. Her braid had come loose. Her eyes sparkled under the hangar lights.
“This place,” she said. “It’s not just a hangar. It’s you.”
Kade didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He watched her trace a fingertip along the flight map pinned to the wall.
“I was supposed to be gone by now,” she said softly. “Fly to New York tomorrow.”
“You always do what you’re supposed to?”
“Not when altitude’s involved.”
Maggie flopped beside her on the couch, tail wagging once. Natasha glanced down, smiled, ran a hand over the dog’s fur like it grounded her.
Kade stayed quiet, the flight bag’s weight like gravity behind him. Frank’s truth waiting.
But tonight? This moment was hers.
She rose, slowly, eyes never leaving his. Wandered toward the loft stairs. The fairy lights cast a soft halo above her—like stars deciding where to land.
“Do I get to see up there?” she asked.
He stepped forward, closing the distance with measured calm. “Only one way to find out.”
She reached the bottom step. Turned back. Her smile slow. Electric.
“Careful, cowboy,” she said, voice molten velvet. “I’m hooked on altitude.”
Chapter 11
Throttle and Flame: Red Bull Air Races
The Malibu purred on Montgomery Field’s taxiway, black and silver gleaming like a predator, her wings cutting dawn’s rose-gold haze. The call sign N69FB flared sharp on the tail, a subtle flex. She was a million-dollar missile waiting to fly, and today? She would show off.
Kade rolled toward the hold-short. His phone buzzed—Claire’s lawyer again.
Lien threat. Fraud claim.
She was clawing at a ghost plane, blind to the fact the Malibu was untouchable—hidden in a Cayman shell tighter than a Swiss vault.
Kade silenced the screen and tossed it aside. Frank’s flight bag sat behind him, the coordinates to Vance Point still etched in his bones. But not today.
Maggie shifted in her cargo nest, tail thumping once—ready.
In the right seat, Natasha Antonov adjusted her four-point harness, her high ponytail threaded through a Red Bull cap. Aviators covered her eyes, but the curve of her smirk said plenty.
“You always name your planes after call signs?” she asked, fingers brushing the glowing Garmin panel.
“Only the worthy ones,” Kade said, flipping switches. “N69FB. Foxtrot Bravo. She earned it.”
Her smile turned feline. “What do I call her?”
“Malibu works. Unless you’ve got a better name.”
“Mistress,” she purred, the word curling like smoke. Her tone was amused, but her eyes—hidden though they were—cut deeper than flirtation.
Kade chuckled. “Careful. Maggie’s territorial.”
“She’s not the only one,” Natasha murmured.
He keyed the mic. “Montgomery Tower, Malibu Six-Niner-Foxtrot-Bravo, VFR departure, northbound. Runway Two-Eight-Right.”
Cleared.
The Malibu rolled, tail low, throttle full.
They launched.
Wheels lifted like a whispered dare, and suddenly, they were above it all—La Jolla cliffs gleaming, Pacific surf shattering below like diamonds on blue silk. The horizon flared gold and violet.
Natasha gasped, the Gs flattening her back, her cool cracking with the thrill. “Airspeed alive,” Kade called. “Seventy-five. Rotate.”
They soared.
“This is unreal,” she whispered, her voice caught between awe and arousal.
Kade banked hard over Carlsbad, a 60-degree roll, two Gs pressing them tight. Natasha’s hands gripped the seat. She laughed—sharp, raw, unfiltered.
“Holy hell!”
Kade steadied them, grin wide. “Still calling her Mistress?”
Natasha’s laugh rolled out. “You shattered my force field, cowboy.”
“I thought it was bulletproof.”
“You’re a puzzle I’m not supposed to want,” she muttered, breath still uneven. “But I do.”
I know, Kade thought. But I don’t know your endgame.
They vectored toward downtown San Diego, cleared into Bravo airspace. Below, the city shimmered—skyscrapers, bayfront, Coronado Bridge framed like a postcard.
“SoCal Approach, Malibu Six-Niner-Foxtrot-Bravo requesting VIP Bayfront arrival.”
“Cleared direct Bayfront. Contact tower one-two-zero-point-one.”
The private landing strip glittered beside the bay, tucked just off the Red Bull Air Races pit line. Pylons rose like toothpicks against cobalt sky, planes slicing through gates in controlled violence, their engines screaming with precision.
Kade greased the landing. The tarmac caught the tires like a secret. Smooth. Surgical.
They taxied past a Gulfstream G650 and a P-51 Mustang. Red Bull girls swayed between aircraft—retro miniskirts, winged pins, oversized shades, all gloss and heat. They laughed like they owned the air. Men watched.
Natasha stepped out like Cannes had landed on the runway—white halter dress swaying, heels sharp, her shades hiding a storm. Every head turned. The flight line paused.
She’s a force, Kade thought, watching her navigate the crowd like a missile in heels. But what’s driving her?
“This isn’t a hangar tour,” she said, scanning the pylons, her voice low and intrigued.
“Altitude,” Kade replied, “with flashier fuel.”
VIP security waved them through. A black lanyard slid onto his wrist:
KADE VANCE – PIT ACCESS
“Mr. Vance, you’re up in twenty,” someone called, clipboard in hand, voice clipped.
Natasha leaned in, her lips near his ear. “You’re not just some hangar hermit, are you?”
Kade shrugged, eyes scanning the tarmac. “I show up when it counts.”
The paddock pulsed with energy—Rolex wrist candy, aviation tycoons, champagne flutes, pilots in Nomex. The kind of place where speed is worshipped and money breathes louder than engines.
Mike from High Performance Aircraft caught Kade at the gate, sunglasses sharp, handshake firm.
“Kade Vance, you son of a bitch. And you brought trouble.”
“This is Natasha Antonov,” Kade said, brushing her fingers as he introduced her. “She’s… observing.”
Mike’s grin widened. “Malibu’s clean. Pitting her?”
“Maybe Reno,” Kade said. “She’s ready.”
They climbed to the suite. A shaded deck overlooked the pylons—Red Bull stewardesses flanked the railings, winged pins catching sunlight, cameras flashing. One of them asked for a photo.
Kade stood with Natasha and Maggie—Maggie in her vest, grinning like she knew she was famous.
Mid-shot, Natasha’s hand brushed his chest. Subtle. Possessive.
“My friends,” she whispered, “will say I’ve lost my mind. Or found it.”
Kade’s voice was low. “Which is it?”
“Both,” she said, her eyes never leaving his.
Engines screamed. A racer sliced the gates below. Pylons rippled in its wake. The crowd roared. Natasha leaned on the railing, wind catching her dress.
“I grew up at Indy,” she said. “Burnt rubber. Noise. Dust. But this? No brakes. Just guts.”
“Only one gear,” Kade said. “Fast.”
A pilot fist-bumped him on the way to staging. “That Malibu yours?”
“Fresh off the line,” Kade answered, arm still around Natasha’s waist.
“Bring her to Reno. She’ll own it.”
Natasha’s hand lingered. Her voice dropped. “You think I’ve caught the big fish?”
Kade met her gaze. “You’re just realizing it?”
She didn’t answer. Her hand stayed on his chest. Her thoughts unreadable.
Below them, a plane banked so hard it grazed vapor—smoke trailing, wings slicing sky.
The race roared. The crowd rose to its feet.
And Natasha?
She leaned into him, lips close. “Altitude,” she whispered, “with no safety net.”
Kade didn’t flinch. His smile? Pure fire.
Chapter 12
The Turn: Del Mar High
Mid-laugh, Natasha curled deeper into Kade’s hangar couch, her second glass of wine in hand, Maggie snoring softly at her feet. The loft’s fairy lights cast a golden halo across the twilight steel and shadows, jet fuel and vanilla coffee still lingering in the air like memories. Outside, the San Diego airfield murmured its quiet lullaby, the hum of distant propellers underscoring their growing intimacy.
“Next time, you come to my place,” Natasha said, almost a dare. Her jade eyes glinted with something between curiosity and control. “I’ll cook.”
He’s not just a mark, she thought. Her heart tugged, startled by the sincerity she couldn’t shake. He’s real. That’s dangerous.
Kade tilted his head, the warm hangar light pooling across his weathered features. His dad’s Rolex GMT ticked faintly on his wrist, the second hand sweeping through the quiet like a countdown.
“That a challenge?” he asked.
She smiled, smaller this time. Softer. “An invitation,” she said, her Russian accent a velvet spark. “I don’t offer those often.”
He watched her, trying to read the flicker behind her eyes—the shadow of Marvel, or something deeper.
Her Del Mar home was perched like a secret above the coast, tucked behind sliding gates and towering palms. Minimalist, but warm. White stucco glowed in the amber fire of sunset. Below, the Pacific roared in slow, restless waves, a symphony for whatever this was becoming.
The turquoise F-250 looked almost out of place among the sleek black Teslas and silver Range Rovers. Kade parked, buzzed the gate, and waited. His phone sat face-down on the dash—Claire’s lawyer had buzzed again. Another lien threat. But the Malibu was still safe. Cayman trust tight. Claire was clawing at shadows now.
Natasha answered the door barefoot.
Jeans hugging hips. A Black Widow sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. Hair twisted into a messy bun. No lipstick. No filters. Just a woman, raw and radiant in golden hour.
“You’re late,” she said, leaning against the frame, jasmine curling through the air.
“You’re barefoot,” Kade replied, his boots solid on the cobblestone.
“Exactly,” she grinned. “Come in.”
Inside, palm shadows danced across hardwood. Art lined the walls—half of it abstract, half of it maybe stolen. The kitchen was warm, something savory simmering on the stove. A bottle of red breathed on the counter. The music was jazz. Low. Sultry.
“My cave,” she said, gesturing. “No guests. No press. Just me.”
“Thanks for the breach,” Kade murmured, his eyes lingering on a minimalist charcoal sketch of a ballerina mid-pirouette. Raw. Off-balance. Beautiful.
She poured wine, handed him a glass, her hand brushing his. The electricity was there. Still.
Dinner was elegant but effortless—seared ahi, jasmine rice, grilled squash, a fig and arugula salad. They ate barefoot at the island, shoulder to shoulder. No flash. Just heat.
Later, the couch. Maggie at their feet. Music still humming.
Stories surfaced.
She spoke first.
A childhood of contradictions—a Russian father who vanished early, a Beverly Hills mother with more diamonds than stability. Boarding schools. Runways. Brand deals. Betrayals. “I learned to build walls,” Natasha said, voice low. “They don’t always hold.”
Kade shared his own. Wyoming. Hunter and Jasmine. Summer nights at Flat Creek. Frank’s flight lessons, the way his voice never wavered even when the plane did. “Flying was always about freedom. Until it wasn’t.”
Their fingers touched. Lingering. Then retreated. Then touched again.
“I get bored easy, cowboy,” Natasha said, her smile teasing. But her fingers didn’t move.
“Good,” Kade replied, voice soft. “I’m not easy.”
She stood. Slowly. Turned.
“Come on.”
The stairs creaked beneath their steps. Upstairs, the lights were low. The windows open. The Pacific’s moonlit breath swirled through gauze curtains.
There were no lines. No speeches.
Just hands. Breath. Heat.
And the quiet, slow dance of letting go.
Morning broke like a whisper.
Sunlight spilled gold across the tiles. The ocean shimmered just beyond the glass.
Natasha moved through the kitchen in yoga pants and a worn sweatshirt, hair piled high, feet bare. She poured two coffees, handed him one, her fingers brushing his again. Still electric.
“Farmers market’s around the corner,” she said. “You need some real food. Sunshine. Color.”
“You always this bossy?”
“Only with the ones I want to see again.”
He smiled. Followed her out.
They strolled the stalls—citrus bright against blue tarps, ocean breeze knotting her hair. She knew the sourdough guy. The flower girl. Bought olive oil like it was a treasure map.
At one stall, she pressed a peach into his hand.
“Try this. Warm from the sun.”
He bit. Sweet. Messy. Real. Juice down his chin.
“You always burn this fast?” he asked.
She paused. Looked at him. Really looked.
“Only when I don’t want to lose momentum.”
Back home. Music on. Wine open. Lunch barefoot. Warmth in her movements, but shadows in her eyes.
Kade watched her from the island, the moment fragile.
“What are we doing, Natasha?”
She leaned on the counter. Silent. Then:
“Trying. Isn’t that what people do?”
He wanted to believe it. But Hunter and Jasmine’s laughter tugged at his gut.
“Trying’s the scariest thing.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.”
That night, back at the hangar.
She was gone.
The map in the flight bag untouched. The compass rose still waiting.
Claire’s lawyer buzzed again. Wyoming Minerals circling. Demanding.
Kade sat still, Maggie beside him.
Then boots hit the floor.
Jenna.
Hair wild. Eyes blazing. Wind at her back.
“You’re stuck, cowboy.”
Kade looked up.
“Get that EarthRoamer rolling. Florida’s waiting. Your girls are waiting.”
His jaw tightened. The fog thickened.
“Soon,” he said.
Jenna stepped close, her hand gripping his shoulder.
“Before you rust.”
And just like that, the match was lit again.
Chapter 13
The Spark and the Signal
The turquoise F-250 rumbled up the Del Mar coast, its engine low and sure, rolling under the weight of too many thoughts. Kade gripped the wheel, sunglasses low, Maggie’s nose pressed to the wind, ears catching the morning breeze. Behind him, the hangar already felt like a memory. Ahead, something stirred. Something old. Something waiting.
He pulled off near the bluffside café—weathered wood, chipped paint, perched like a stubborn truth above the crashing Pacific. Jenna was already there, one boot propped on the chair across from her, Shiner in hand, blonde bun defiant in the wind.
“You’re late,” she said, smirking. “Rough night?”
“Let’s call it complicated.”
Maggie launched from the truck and claimed the space under Jenna’s chair like she’d been there all morning.
Kade slid into the chair opposite her, took the coffee waiting on the table. Black. Strong. Familiar. The ocean pounded below. Foam sprayed the cliffs. The air was thick with salt and coming change.
“You look like someone chasing something that might not want to be found,” Jenna said.
Kade didn’t flinch. “Claire’s tightening the screws. Lawyers, liens, the whole circus. Vance Point’s on the chopping block.”
Jenna’s eyes sharpened. “She can’t touch the girls, right?”
“She won’t. That was never her angle. It’s about leverage. Power. Always was.”
He reached into his jacket, pulled the folded map. Frank’s handwriting. Coordinates etched in memory. Beware the circle.
“She left a mark, huh?” Jenna asked, nodding toward the silence Natasha had become.
“More than I expected. Less than I hoped.”
Just then, his phone buzzed. One line. No name.
Meet me. Solana Beach. Noon. About Vance Point.
Jenna leaned over, read it. Her expression shifted. “You think that’s her?”
Kade shook his head. “No. This feels older.”
“Then we’re not going in blind.”
They rolled into Solana Beach just before noon. The F-250 growled against the boardwalk’s calm. Surf shops. Taco joints. Sand and sea and reggae drifting on the wind. A place that hid secrets in sunlight.
Kade parked. Maggie stayed close. Jenna scanned the street like a heat-seeking missile in Daisy Dukes.
“She said noon,” Kade muttered. “She didn’t say where.”
“Then let’s find the shadow that doesn’t belong.”
They found her on a bench near the rail. Linen dress. Hair pinned up. Sunglasses large enough to hide behind. Still, something about her posture gave her away.
Not a local. Not relaxed. Not here for fish tacos.
“Kade Vance?” she asked.
He nodded. Maggie sat at attention. Jenna stayed close.
“Elena,” the woman said, sliding her sunglasses down. Her eyes were cold slate. Eastern European edge—something between Warsaw and a war.
“I knew your grandfather. Frank.”
Kade tensed. “Go on.”
She reached into her bag, pulled a folded paper. Weathered. Real. She passed it to him.
A compass rose. Coordinates. Frank’s handwriting.
Kade unfolded it slowly. Same numbers. Same direction. But this time, a new line had been added.
The safe holds the legacy.
Jenna stepped forward. “You got a last name, Elena? Credentials?”
“I worked with Frank. Years ago. Before the corporations. Before it got… dangerous.”
Kade looked up. “What’s in the safe?”
“Proof. Of sabotage. Land theft. Illegal mineral contracts. If Claire gets Vance Point, they’ll bury it forever.”
Jenna’s voice dropped. “This feel like a trap to you?”
“Maybe,” Kade said. “But so did the truth.”
Elena nodded once. “You need to leave soon. They know you’re close.”
She stood. Didn’t say goodbye.
Kade folded the map. Tucked it into his flight bag. Jenna said nothing, just placed her hand on his shoulder.
“You ready?” she asked.
He stared out at the waves crashing like prophecy.
“Yeah. Let’s go find it.”
They climbed back into the truck. Maggie settled behind them, loyal and certain. The Pacific slipped behind. The road opened in front.
And Vance Point—whatever it was—called from somewhere deep in the mountains, where truth waited like a safe buried in the past.
Chapter 14
Desert Crossroads
The EarthRoamer LTx thundered east along Interstate 8, its 500-horsepower diesel heart devouring asphalt and horizon alike. Chrome flared in the Arizona sun, reflecting a sky so wide it felt like a dare. The desert stretched in every direction, scorched gold and rust-red, dotted with saguaros like watchmen on a frontier no map could define.
Kade Vance gripped the leather wheel, sunglasses low, Maggie curled in the passenger seat with her head out the cracked window, ears flapping in the dry breeze. She was his compass, his constant, her joy a quiet balm against the firestorm brewing behind and ahead.
In the rear cabin, Natasha Antonov sat cross-legged on the couch, one boot kicked off, her hair braided down one shoulder, a black binder open in her lap. Jade eyes scanned the documents, but her focus strayed—to the back of Kade’s head, to the desert blurring past, to the choices she hadn’t meant to make.
The map from Elena lay pinned under the binder. The riddle at its center pulsed louder with every mile: The safe holds the legacy.
Behind them, Jenna’s Sprinter van hugged the road like a wildcat on a leash, headlights steady, her loyalty louder than any engine rumble. Kade glanced at the mirror. She’s still here. Always is.
Yuma shimmered on the horizon—railcars rusted to history, wind-burnt signs fluttering on bent poles. The kind of place where truth either dried up or set its boots and stayed.
Jenna signaled, peeling off onto a dirt road just past a shuttered gas station. Kade followed.
The EarthRoamer crunched into a circle of dust and camp smoke. Vanlifers lounged around smoldering fire pits, barefoot and sun-creased, rigs of all kinds ringed like wagons against the wind. Sagebrush swayed like gossiping ghosts, and somewhere, a steel guitar plucked a haunted lullaby.
Maggie leapt out first, darting toward a rescue pig with a flower collar. Jenna stood barefoot near the largest pit, Shiner Bock in hand, arms spread like she ruled the apocalypse.
“Welcome to the edge of the map, boys and girls,” she grinned. “Where the beer’s warm, the stories are wild, and nothing matters but the horizon.”
Natasha climbed down slowly, her white blouse catching the light like fire. She scanned the crowd—a drifter symphony of tattoos, dogs, guitars, and laughter.
“Thought you’d be in a penthouse by now,” Jenna teased, tossing her a beer.
Natasha caught it clean, popping the cap with her boot heel. “Even I need to touch the earth sometimes, Wildfire.”
Kade cracked a grin, the first in hours. The desert cracked him open. These women kept him that way.
Night fell fast, flames rising. Stars burst open above like truths too big for daylight.
Around the fire: Sage the UFO chaser, Carla with her pig named Disco, Robbie the tornado-chaser with tales stitched into his Airstream’s aluminum skin. Laughter echoed off dunes that had swallowed empires.
Kade passed around a photo of his girls—Hunter mid-cartwheel, Jasmine in pink boots by Flat Creek.
“They’re why I fight,” he said simply.
Natasha leaned close, voice low. “And who’s fighting for you, cowboy?”
He met her gaze. Held it.
“You still figuring that out?” she asked.
“Every mile.”
Mezcal passed. Sage howled a coyote call. Jenna danced barefoot on a picnic table, firelight sparking off her eyes like rebellion.
Then—headlights. A black SUV parked at the edge of the camp. Too still. Too clean. Tinted windows like secrets.
Maggie growled. Kade stiffened.
“Wyoming Minerals,” Natasha said under her breath. “They’re watching.”
Jenna hopped down, firelight flickering across her jaw. “Time to bounce, boys. We ride at dawn.”
Later, in the quiet of the Roamer, Natasha stood by the open door, the wind tangling her braid.
“I’m going back with Jenna tomorrow,” she said. “San Diego needs closing chapters. You need open roads.”
Kade didn’t argue. He didn’t beg.
“You helped me aim truer,” he said, stepping closer, his hand brushing hers. “But this path—it’s for them.”
Her eyes glistened. She nodded.
“Go find what your grandfather left. Find your girls. Then maybe, find me.”
She kissed him once—not a promise, not a goodbye. Just a fire lit for later.
And in the dark, Kade turned to the wheel.
Vance Point was calling.
And the road was just warming up.
Chapter 15
White Sands Whispers
The EarthRoamer LTx roared east on Interstate 8, its 500HP diesel heart thundering beneath the desert sun, chrome flaring like a mirage against the scorched sky.
Arizona stretched wide and unforgiving ahead, all gold dust and raw promise, its air humming with heat and fate.
Kade Vance gripped the wheel, sunglasses low, jaw set. Maggie sat shotgun, nose twitching at the breeze slipping through the cracked window, her tail keeping rhythm with the road’s thrum.
Behind them, silence. Natasha and Jenna had peeled off at Yuma—Natasha with her parting words, Find your truth, cowboy, and Jenna’s punch of loyalty, Don’t screw this up, Kadester. Both women were heat and gravity, but now the road was his alone.
White Sands loomed ahead—a pale, glowing sea in the New Mexico twilight. It shimmered like something pulled from a dream. The dunes had always called to him. Now, they whispered louder.
He slowed as the National Park entrance came into view, the ranger’s booth empty, wind snapping the flag above. He coasted to a stop, Maggie sitting up alert, ears pricked. The sun was bleeding into the western sky. He cut the engine, stepped out, and stood in the hush.
Gypsum dust curled around his boots. The desert smelled of heat and ancient things. A tattered copy of National Geographic lay on the dash, its frayed pages folded to a photo of sledding kids—White Sands glowing beneath their cookie sheets, all laughter and lunar light. It was the exact issue his father had kept in the Winnebago.
“You’d love this rig, old man,” Kade said softly, scratching Maggie’s ears. “And you’d tell me not to wait. Not when the truth’s burning.”
He walked the dunes, letting the silence pull the weight from his chest. Each step deeper into the white void stripped something off—Natasha’s lips still burning against his memory, Claire’s threats coiling in his pocket, Jenna’s fire flaring from afar. But out here, none of them had voices. Only the wind.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered.
“Vance?” A woman’s voice, dry and urgent. “Lila. Cousin by blood, trouble by nature. Ralph’s ‘34 crash? Not an accident. Wyoming Minerals made sure of it.”
Kade’s spine straightened. “You sure?”
“I’m damn sure,” she replied. “Frank hid the proof. It’s in the pharmacy in Buffalo. Safe in the floorboards. You’re the last Vance that can stop this. The land, the rights—they’re yours if you’re fast. Claire’s not working alone.”
“What’s the circle?” he asked.
“Claire’s just the tip. There’s more. Old money, old power. They’ll kill to keep what’s stolen.”
Kade ended the call, staring into the white abyss. A dune shifted in the wind. Maggie pressed her nose to his leg. He crouched beside her.
“I need to finish this,” he said, eyes burning. “For Dad. For Frank. For the girls.”
A ranger approached, silver braid catching the breeze. She looked like she belonged to the desert.
“These dunes move every day,” she said, eyes scanning the shifting horizon. “But they never lose their shape.”
“Like truth?” Kade asked.
She smiled. “Exactly.”
That night, the EarthRoamer parked alone among the dunes. Kade lit the desk lamp, opened his notebook, and wrote:
Feb 23 — White Sands. Cold as Wyoming, warm as memory. Thought about driving past. Ten-year-old me would’ve smacked me. Found my dune. Cookie sheet and all. Dad’d be proud. Girls are waiting. Gotta finish this clean. Can’t let Claire take it all. Can’t let her win.
He stared out the window as Maggie curled beside him, her steady breathing a quiet compass. The moon cast silver fire across the dunes, and in that sacred silence, Kade made a promise:
Florida for Spring Break with Hunter and Jasmine next.
And after that—Vance Point.
The legacy ends where it began. And this time, he’d be ready.
Chapter 16
Direct Dallas
The EarthRoamer LTx roared into Dallas at noon, its tires hissing on sun-bleached asphalt. The skyline loomed ahead—glass and steel jutting from the plains like defiance, the city pulsing with heat and rhythm, neon veins glowing through Deep Ellum’s gritty sprawl.
Kade Vance eased the rig into a shaded bay off I-35, the diesel beast purring as he handed the keys to a wide-eyed shop tech. “Oil, fluids, filters, and check the fuel line—she’s got a long haul ahead.”
“Hell of a ride,” the tech said, wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s it built for?”
“Everything,” Kade said, his voice low, steady. Claire’s latest message burned in his pocket: Sign or lose everything.Savannah loomed like a storm. The truth was calling, and so were his daughters.
He grabbed brisket tacos and a Topo Chico from a food truck under a corrugated metal awning. The scent of mesquite and smoke curled through the air. Maggie trotted beside him, tongue out, tail wagging, her presence steady.
Downtown shimmered under Texas heat. At Dealey Plaza, the white “X” on the road glared like a scar. Ghosts drifted in the air—the shadow of JFK, his father’s NASA dreams, the flicker of Hunter and Jasmine around a campfire. “This city doesn’t forget,” Kade murmured, kneeling to scratch Maggie’s ears. “And neither do I.”
His phone buzzed.
WYOMING BUDDY: Two VIP tix. Zac Brown Band. House of Blues. Backstage passes. Bus lot entry. Ask for the tour manager. 8pm. Find a brave Dallas girl.
Kade smirked. The road had a sense of humor.
He opened Match: Two VIP tickets for tonight. Zac Brown Band. Need a brave Dallas girl. Heading east to meet my girls in Florida.
A ping.
FEARLESS: ER nurse. Mom of three. Those passes real? Or is this some drifter game?
He grinned.
Real as diesel. Heading for my daughters’ spring break. Thought I’d take one night to breathe.
FEARLESS: Tell me something true.
Kade leaned back against the Roamer, sunlight cutting through the skyline. Stood on a dune in White Sands. Remembered my father. I’m just trying to do right by my girls.
A pause.
FEARLESS: Okay, cowboy. Off at 7. Meet me at 7:30. House of Blues. Don’t be late. Call me Alex.
Kade’s grin widened. He typed:
Kade: How long does it take you to shimmy into your tightest jeans?
ALEX: 23 seconds.
He chuckled. “She’s got fire,” he said aloud, Maggie’s ears perking.
That night, twilight lit the city in copper and fire. Buses idled behind the venue, their engines humming, spotlights lancing the sky. Inside, the House of Blues thrummed with voices, scent of whiskey and sweat, hope and heartbreak thick in the air.
Kade stood at the VIP balcony, beer in hand, Zac Brown’s “Highway 20 Ride” rolling slow and deep through the speakers like a hymn for wanderers. I ride east every other Friday, but if I had it my way, there would be no distance between us…The lyrics curled through his ribs, carving open places he kept guarded.
She stepped into the balcony glow at exactly 7:30.
Leather jacket. Tight jeans. Auburn waves loose around her shoulders. Her eyes—steel and fire—searched for him with the precision of a woman who’d raised three boys and knew how to spot trouble dressed in charm.
“Thought you might be a catfish,” Alex said, sliding up beside him.
“Real as gravel,” Kade said, handing her a drink. “You’re braver than I expected.”
She smiled, slow and assessing. “You’ve got eyes like somebody who’s been through it. And hands like someone still fighting.”
“I’ve got two girls who think I hung the moon. Heading to Florida to prove ’em right.”
“Divorced?” she asked, voice low.
“Yeah. And you?”
“Left a man who forgot who he was. Trying to remember who I am.”
Their beers clinked. The crowd roared as the band lit into “Free.” The city pulsed around them, hot and alive.
By encore, they slipped out. Maggie greeted them by the Roamer, tail wagging like a slow drumbeat.
Alex knelt, scratching behind Maggie’s ears. “She’s got good taste.”
“She approved you before I did,” Kade joked.
Alex rose, kissed him. Not fast. Not slow. Just real.
“You kissed me?” Kade said, caught off guard.
“Text me from Florida,” she said, climbing into her truck. “And don’t disappear.”
“Savannah’s next,” he called.
Her taillights winked goodbye.
He texted: You’re beautiful, Alex. Savannah. Promise.
She replied: Stay real, cowboy. We’ll see.
That night, in the EarthRoamer, Kade scratched in his notebook:
Feb 25 – Dallas. Found something honest. Zac Brown Band. Highway 20. Feels like home. Alex—Fearless. Three boys. Spring break’s next. Savannah after. Truth waits.
Outside, the Dallas skyline burned red. Maggie curled beside him. The compass in his chest pointed east.
Savannah was calling.
So was she.
Chapter 17
Highway Miles & Heartlines
The EarthRoamer LTx roared east from Dallas at dawn, tires whispering over smooth asphalt as Kade Vance slipped past the city’s sleeping sprawl. In the rearview, the skyline fractured gold against retreating stars, while ahead—Louisiana’s wetlands waited, draped in moss and memory.
The rig’s polished chrome caught the sun like a blade. Maggie panted happily in the passenger seat, nose at the cracked window, reading road secrets only dogs could smell. Her tail thumped—a metronome to Kade’s quiet thoughts.
Alex’s kiss still lingered, a spark in his chest. Stay real, cowboy, she’d said under the neon haze, and he’d believed her. Her voice, her laugh, the way she said You kissed me? like it was a dare she meant to win. He hadn’t expected her. He hadn’t known he needed her. And yet… Savannah.
He tapped his phone at a red light just outside Shreveport.
Kade: You ever been to Georgia?
Alex: Only in dreams. What’s in Savannah?
Kade: Maybe you and me.
There was a pause.
Alex: Don’t make promises you can’t keep, cowboy.
Kade: How long would it take you to pack?
Alex: Twenty-three seconds. I’m efficient.
Kade: Thought that was just for tight jeans?
Alex: That too.
He chuckled, flipping the phone face down. Maggie gave him side-eye. “I know, girl. But she’s got fire.”
The rig sliced through the lush green blur of East Texas and crossed into bayou country, where the air thickened with salt and the scent of crawfish boils and brackish tide. Louisiana’s wetlands unfurled around him—live oaks arching over two-lane roads, cypress knees breaking through black water, egrets lifting like silk over still marshes.
Kade didn’t need music. The engine, the wind, the weight of the road—they played the only song he trusted. Still, when he glanced at the dash, Zac Brown’s “Highway 20 Ride” queued itself without asking, the melody folding into the scenery like a memory he didn’t know he’d written. I ride east every other Friday…
I’m riding east for more than that, he thought, eyes narrowing as a black pickup loomed in the rearview. Tinted windows. Wide grille. Wyoming plates.
Maggie growled low, hackles stiffening.
Kade eased the rig’s speed, letting the truck pass. The driver’s face was a blur, hidden behind polarized glass—but his stare lingered as he moved past. Cold. Deliberate.
“They’re watching,” Kade muttered, his hand on the console’s edge. Elena’s voice echoed: They’ll kill for that land, Kade. Claire’s text from yesterday was still pinned on his screen:
Sign the deal or lose it all. You’ve been warned.
Vance Point’s coordinates pulsed in his flight bag. The safe. The legacy. It was all closing in.
That night, he parked the Roamer under tangled oaks just outside Baton Rouge, at a quiet state campground where fireflies blinked like lost stars and the air buzzed with cicadas and slow gospel from a nearby radio.
Maggie chased frogs through the marshy grass while Kade dropped into a folding chair with a cold beer and a sky full of questions.
He clicked his recorder:
March 1. Near Biloxi. Long stretch from Dallas. Natasha’s gone. Jenna’s back in San Diego. Alex… Alex kissed me. It wasn’t just a goodnight kiss. It was a maybe. That might be the most dangerous kind.
Still chasing the girls. Florida’s close. Savannah after. Claire’s bluffing. But Minerals ain’t. Gotta stay sharp. The safe is the key. And the key is back home.
His phone pinged.
Alex: Boys said to tell Maggie we’ve got beef jerky. Also, they think you’re a cowboy astronaut.
Kade: Tell them she prefers venison. And I only land in soft sand and trouble.
Alex: Savannah’s got both. You ready?
Kade: More than I thought I’d be.
He looked down at Maggie, who had collapsed at his boots, panting, her eyes still tracking shadows in the woods. “She’s worth it, huh?” he asked. Maggie thumped her tail once. Agreement.
He scratched in the notebook:
March 1 – Bayou country. Road’s whispering louder. Alex is real. She sees me, and I don’t want to disappear.
Savannah’s calling. Claire’s pushing. But I’ve got a girl in Florida and maybe one in Georgia. Let’s ride.
He closed the book, leaned back, and watched the stars rise through the trees.
Savannah was next. Alex was waiting.
And the road… the road was finally starting to feel like home.
Chapter 18
Salt and Stories
The highway carved Kade Vance thin, Louisiana’s swamps giving way to Alabama’s pine-studded blur, the EarthRoamer’s diesel growl a weary hymn beneath a sun that baked the road into a shimmer, heat lines dancing like ghosts across the Gulf plain.
Maggie sighed at a Waffle House outside Mobile, her nose twitching at hash brown grease, tail tapping a lazy beat against the console, her fur catching the dashboard’s warm glow. The rig’s chrome reflected blue sky and bug guts, streaked with miles and memory.
A battered sign—Dauphin Island Scenic Byway—crooked on its post, called to Kade like a hymn. He turned south, tires crunching gravel, instinct chasing salt air, the Gulf’s whisper tugging him from the edge of burnout.
Trailers leaned against million-dollar views, beach grass waving over storm-battered decks, driftwood fences broken like bones. The ocean unfolded—wide, teal, unapologetic. A crooked mailbox read: Private RV Camp – Ask First.
Kade killed the engine. Maggie hopped out, nose to the breeze. The salty wind carried brine, fried shrimp, and sunblock.
A screen door creaked. Tom appeared.
Red flannel, navy cap. Skin like leather, hands like he carved the Gulf himself. His eyes were the color of old sea glass.
“What’re you after?” he asked, voice full of gravel and half-forgotten storms.
“Quiet. And maybe coffee in the morning.”
Tom gave him a long look, then nodded. “Power’s spotty. Water’s stubborn. Raccoons own the joint. But you’re alright. For tonight, and so forth.”
Kade smiled. “Appreciate it.”
Tom’s minivan—ancient, dented, bumper dragging like a sea anchor—led him down a dune trail, past derelict kayaks and sun-bleached beer cans. “Park here. The Gulf’s louder than the highway, and the stars don’t lie.”
That night, Maggie snored beneath the awning while Kade sat in a folding chair, a Lone Star sweating in his grip. The waves whispered, silver under a crescent moon. The sand was warm under bare feet. A breeze rustled the palms.
Natasha’s spark was gone. Jenna’s Don’t screw it up, Kadester echoed like a laugh on the wind. But Alex’s kiss—Stay real, cowboy—burned like a match, her promise in Savannah bright on the horizon.
His phone pinged.
ALEX: Gulf got you dreamy, cowboy?
KADE: Island’s alive with stories. You ready for Savannah?
ALEX: Chaos, but I’m set. Boys are at their dad’s this week. Don’t keep me waiting.
He stared at the screen, heart thudding. Her spark was real. Maggie rolled over and huffed.
Tom appeared, thermos in hand, silhouette framed by stars.
“Figured I’d bring the good stuff,” he said, settling in beside Kade. “Coffee’s all I got to trade for silence.”
Kade took the cup, nodded thanks.
Tom stared at the horizon like he was reading a story only the Gulf could write.
“Raised three kids right on this stretch. Youngest ran off with Jimmy Buffett for a year. He and Jimmy grew up together. Played rhythm guitar. Never came back the same.”
Kade blinked. “The Jimmy Buffett?”
Tom shrugged. “He still owes me a boat.”
He sipped. “People think the ocean’s peace. It ain’t. It’s truth. Just louder.”
Then the stories poured out—WWII tanks rusting offshore, a hurricane wedding, a son lost to a misfire, a wife to cancer, a rescue dog who never left.
“Most folks don’t listen,” Tom muttered. “But you—you carry things. Like your dog knows.”
Kade’s throat tightened. “I do.”
Tom nodded. “Don’t carry it forever. There’s a tide to every weight. Let it go when it’s time.”
Behind them, a dark SUV idled beyond the dune line, its windows black, its engine silent. Maggie’s growl rose, soft but certain.
Kade’s stomach knotted. A Wyoming plate glinted.
Minerals is watching.
He took a long pull from his beer, then pulled out the journal.
March 2 – Dauphin Island.
The Gulf rolls like truth. Tom says don’t carry it forever. I believe him.
My girls fly in soon. Florida next. Then Savannah. Alex’s fire is waiting.
Time to be their harbor.
The Gulf shimmered, endless and honest.
Savannah was calling.
So was she.
Chapter 19
Fathers and Ghosts
The EarthRoamer LTx rolled into New Port Richey under clouds swollen with Gulf humidity, its diesel growl softer now, like an old man sighing through salt-rusted lungs. Palm trees leaned into the coastal wind. The asphalt shimmered beneath misty light, and everything smelled like brine, rust, and rain yet to fall.
Maggie dozed in the passenger seat, paws twitching, ears flicking with every suspension groan. Kade Vance sat behind the wheel, hollowed and full at once. Hunter and Jasmine were flying in—California to Florida. The thought of hugging them made his ribs ache. That kind of love had weight. Real, beautiful weight.
Alex’s kiss still lingered in his chest. Stay real, cowboy. Her voice echoed between engine pulses. Her fire was guiding him east—toward Savannah, toward something that felt more like fate than chance.
An email had led him here. Garrett, a quiet follower of Kade’s old blog: Meet me at the Salty Anchor. First beer’s mine.
The sign was crooked, buzzing half-lit above a sagging plank bar that looked like it had weathered every hurricane since ’86. SALTY ANCHOR: COLD BEER, WARM LIES. Below it, pelicans skimmed the surf, indifferent to storms and stories.
Kade parked in the gravel. Maggie jumped down, nose to wind. The salt here was thicker. Wetter. Honest.
Inside, ceiling fans spun like tired secrets. The air was dense with fried shrimp, beer, old music, and older men. Waylon crooned from the jukebox, and Jimmy Buffett’s faded vinyl stared from a shelf like an old friend. It smelled like every dive Kade had ever found comfort in.
Garrett sat at the bar. Mid-sixties. Flannel sleeves rolled up. Hands like driftwood. Eyes like they’d seen war, love, and forgiveness—maybe not in that order. He smiled slow, raised a longneck. “Kade?”
“Yeah.”
Garrett motioned to the stool beside him. “Beer’s cold. Stories are hot.”
Maggie curled under Kade’s feet as he sat.
“You been writing less lately,” Garrett said, sipping. “I figured you were either in love or in trouble.”
“Both,” Kade muttered, smiling faintly.
Garrett nodded. “Same thing, some days.”
They talked. About daughters. Loss. The price of silence. Garrett had two girls. One died young. A car accident. The other, now grown, taught in Tampa and checked in every Sunday.
“She still makes me laugh,” Garrett said, staring at a faded Polaroid taped to the fridge behind the bar. “You hold onto that.”
Kade swallowed hard. “Mine fly in tomorrow. Spring break. Too long since I’ve seen ’em.”
Garrett set down his beer. “Then don’t waste a damn second.”
The door creaked. A man lingered just inside the frame—wrong clothes, wrong posture. Maggie’s growl was low. Kade followed her eyes. Black SUV. Wyoming plates.
Minerals.
“Friend of yours?” Garrett asked without looking.
“Not quite.”
They left it there. Some ghosts you stare down in silence.
Later, under Garrett’s rusted carport, they ate pizza and drank red wine from Solo cups. Garrett told stories about crabbers, Jimmy Buffett crashing a skiff into his dock, and his girls chasing blue crabs under the pier.
“They were fire,” he said, voice trailing off. “You know that kind of joy. Wild. Untamed. Pure.”
“I do.”
Garrett slid a napkin across the table, a quote scrawled in blocky handwriting:
No kind of affection so purely angelic as that of a father to a daughter. — Joseph Addison.
Kade tucked it in his journal.
Garrett leaned back, staring at the stars. “Get to your girls, cowboy. And don’t screw it up.”
Kade fired up the EarthRoamer. Maggie curled beside him. The SUV was gone. But the storm was still coming.
His phone buzzed.
CLAIRE’S LAWYER: Fraud escalates. Sign the papers. Or lose everything.
Kade stared at the screen. Then at the Gulf.
His voice memo app blinked red:
“Hunter. Jasmine. Met a man who reminded me how fragile it all is. I’m coming. Whole. Ready.”
He saved it.
Then opened his journal:
March 3 – Florida.
Garrett says don’t waste a second.
The Gulf speaks the truth.
Girls land in hours.
Savannah’s next.
Alex’s fire is waiting.
Time to be the man I promised.
The engine rumbled to life.
He was ready.Chapter 20
Seven Days of Stardust
The EarthRoamer LTx roared into the Orlando campground, sun torching palms into golden silhouettes, cicadas shrieking like a cosmic pulse, their song weaving through the humid air thick with jasmine and pine.
Maggie whined, nose pressed to the window, tail thumping the console, her fur glinting in the Florida dawn’s fiery glow, her eyes bright with anticipation. Kade Vance parked, heart pounding like a drum, the Gulf’s salt still clinging to his skin from New Port Richey, the weight of Garrett’s loss—Love ‘em like tomorrow’s gone—a vow etched in his soul.
Two whirlwinds in cutoff shorts and tank tops slammed into him—sandy arms, shrieking laughter, their sunburned hugs a lifeline that anchored him to the earth.
Daaaaaad!
Daddy!
Hunter and Jasmine, his girls, flying from California, their presence a fire in his chest, a blaze of love he’d chase through any storm.
I’m here, cowgirls, he thought…
Alex’s kiss—Stay real, cowboy—a spark flickering in the distance, Savannah’s promise a vow he’d keep, the flight bag’s map—coordinates 44.459767, -106.728913—a riddle pulsing with truth, Claire’s threat a blade he’d face later.
Kade staggered, coffee unsipped, laughing, the campground’s palm shadows swaying like a Disney dream, the air alive with the buzz of spring break families and the tang of charcoal grills.
Maggie leapt down, yipping joy, swarmed by the girls, her tail a metronome of glee, her paws kicking up sand.
He dropped to one knee, pulled them close, face buried in their hair, breathing life itself, their coconut shampoo and salty sweat a memory he’d carry forever. “Missed you, cowgirls,” he rasped, his voice raw, the world shrinking to their embrace, the Gulf’s echo fading, the mystery a shadow drowned by their light.
Hunter socked his arm—hard—then hugged tighter, her grin sharp, her hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re such a dork, Dad,” she teased, her tank top streaked with sand, her wit a spark that lit the morning.
Jasmine tugged his hand, eyes shining like the stars she chased, her braid bouncing, her voice a melody. “Ready, old man? We’ve got a list.” He’s here, really here, she thought, her NASA dreams soaring, and it’s gonna be epic.
“A list?” Kade smirked, standing, his boots steady on the sandy earth, the campground’s hum wrapping them in warmth, a family reunited under Florida’s endless sky.
“Huuuge list,” Hunter said, waving a crumpled paper—Disney, Keys, airboats, Space Shuttle, Edison’s Workshop, beaches, diners with pie bigger than heads, her handwriting a chaotic scrawl of adventure, her energy a wildfire he’d never tame.
Kade’s laugh roared, deep and free, the sound echoing through the palms, the girls’ excitement a spark that lit his soul. “Gassing up, then,” he said, his grin wide, the EarthRoamer’s chrome glinting like a promise, the week ahead a canvas of stardust and love.
The week kicked off at Disney World.
Jasmine’s “Mickey’s non-negotiable, duh” a battle cry as they stormed Magic Kingdom, its spires gleaming under a cotton-candy sky, neon lights swirling like a fairy tale, the air thick with popcorn and dreams.
They soaked on Splash Mountain, Hunter dousing Jasmine with a cotton-candy-fueled splash prank, her cackle ringing over the ride’s roar, water glinting like diamonds in the sun. “You’re so dead!”
Jasmine squealed, chasing her sister through the crowd, their neon mouse ears bobbing, parade floats trailing glitter, fireworks exploding like cosmic embers that painted the night in gold and crimson. Funnel cakes stuffed them silly, their fingers sticky with powdered sugar, Kade’s smile unbreakable, mouse ears be damned, the park’s magic a spell that drowned the world’s noise.
No Claire, no Minerals, no riddles, he thought, the flight bag stowed, Natasha’s spark dust, Jenna’s prod a faint echo.
Just Dad. Just here. Just happy.
A man in a dark cap lingered near the Haunted Mansion, his eyes too sharp, a Wyoming plate keychain glinting in his hand, Claire’s threat—Sign, or you’ll pay—a shadow in the neon glow.
Minerals, Kade thought, Maggie’s growl low, her eyes locked on the stranger, but Hunter’s laugh pulled him back, the threat fading in her light. “Chill, Dad, it’s Disney!” she teased, tossing a popcorn kernel, her grin a spark that banished the dark.
Midweek, a senator friend, Tom Reynolds, scored VIP passes to the Space Shuttle Discovery’s launch at Kennedy Space Center, his gruff call—Owe you one, Vance—a nod to old favors.
The EarthRoamer rolled toward Cape Canaveral, its coastal highway flanked by marshes and rocket gantries, Hunter and Jasmine juggling laptops, texting friends, nail polish fumes choking Kade, the air thick with acetone and sea salt.
“You’re a dork for stressing, Dad,” Hunter teased, her nails now electric blue, her grin sharp. “This beats TikTok!” Jasmine crowed, snapping photos of the VAB’s towering silhouette, her NASA dreams soaring, I’m gonna be up there someday, she thought, her eyes starlit with awe.
From the VIP area, the rocket’s roar shook their bones, flames searing the heavens, a pillar of light piercing the azure sky, the launch’s thunder a heartbeat that synced their souls.
Jasmine’s eyes glowed, her voice a whisper, “NASA camp’s my vibe, Dad,” her braid swinging, her dreams as vast as the stars.
Hunter gripped Kade’s arm, her grin wide, This is unreal, she thought, her wit softened by wonder.
Kade watched his girls, heart swelling, vowing never to lose them, Garrett’s Love ‘em like tomorrow’s gone a fire in his chest, the shuttle’s trail a vow etched in the sky.
They tore to the Florida Keys, windows down, Buffett’s Margaritaville blaring, the Overseas Highway stretching like a ribbon over turquoise waters, bridges glinting under a relentless sun.
Hunter’s stint behind the wheel of the RV had Kade praying, her “I’m basically a pro” met with his mock glare, Jasmine cackling in the back, Maggie’s head out the window, her fur rippling in the salt breeze.
Conch fritters at a dockside shack, its weathered planks creaking, fish fed off a pier—Maggie nearly dove in, her bark a spark of chaos.
A grizzled vendor, claiming to be a Lynyrd Skynyrd “roadie,” sold them cheap sunglasses, his wink a nod to the road’s magic. This is freedom, Kade thought, the girls’ laughter a melody, Alex’s Boys are staying at dad’s a spark he’d chase to Savannah.
A Keys campfire crackled under a crimson sunset, the Gulf’s waves glinting like molten silver, the air thick with smoke and salt.
Jasmine spun pirate ghost tales, her voice weaving shadows, This is better than any movie, she thought, her eyes glinting.
Hunter roasted marshmallows, her “Your dad jokes are tragic” met with Kade’s grin, stealing her s’more, their laughter tearing their ribs.
“You’re the worst,” Hunter teased, smearing chocolate on his cheek, her grin a spark that lit the night.
On the beach, the girls pressed close, sticky with salt, marshmallow smoke curling around them, the Gulf’s rhythm a steady pulse. Jasmine pointed at stars, their light piercing the velvet sky. “Wish, Dad,” she whispered, her voice soft, her dreams soaring.
Kade’s throat lumped, his eyes stinging, the stars a map of love. “Got mine, kiddo. You’re right here,” he said, his voice raw, pulling them close, I’ll never let you go, he thought, the reunion’s weight a vow that drowned the world’s noise.
The Everglades roared—airboats drenching them, their shirts clinging, Maggie barking at gators, their jaws thrashing in the swampy murk, the air thick with mud and adrenaline.
Hunter’s phone nearly sank, her “Oops!” met with Jasmine’s cackle, She’s such a mess, Jasmine thought, trying to smuggle a turtle, her grin wild.
A second ride chased a gator’s tail, the boat’s roar drowning their shrieks, Kade laughing till his sides split, the mangrove canopy a tunnel of green chaos.
A sunset chat by the mangroves had Hunter whispering, her voice soft, “This week’s fire, Dad,” her eyes glinting, He’s our rock, she thought, the Everglades’ haze a canvas of love.
At a diner off US-1, glass-bottle Cokes clinked, bare feet dangling, the air thick with grease and nostalgia, a waitress named Ruby winking as she slid cherry pie bigger than their heads, her “Y’all look like family” a spark in the haze. “Dorkiest dad ever,” Hunter nudged, stealing Kade’s fries, her grin sharp.
“You’re the dork,” Kade shot back, his laugh warm, the pie’s sweetness grounding him, the girls’ laughter a melody he’d carry.
“Family,” Jasmine said, dead serious, her eyes shining, This is us, she thought, her braid swinging.
Kade blinked at the sting, his throat tight. “Sure as hell,” he rasped, You’re my everything, he thought, the diner’s neon a spark, the reunion’s fire burning brighter.
The Edison and Ford Winter Estates glowed with history, lemon trees casting dappled light, sunlight filtering through banyan vines, the air thick with citrus and time. Kade traced dusty tools, girls flanking, their sandals scuffing the wooden floors, the estate’s quiet hum a canvas of dreams.
“Their dream factory,” he murmured, his voice low, “crazy ideas made real, built from grit.”
Hunter touched a battered desk, her eyes curious, This is where it started, she thought. “What’s your dream, Dad?” she asked, her voice soft, her wit softened by wonder.
“You two. Always,” Kade said, his voice raw, Jasmine snapping photos, her grin wide, He’s our hero, she thought, the estate’s glow a vow to chase their stars.
The final campground was a postcard—Key West marina, EarthRoamer pulled in beachside under lazy palms, pelicans diving like daredevils into the Gulf’s glassy waves, their splashes glinting under a crimson sunset.
“Are we allowed here?” Hunter asked, her eyes narrowing, her grin sharp.
Kade flashed a permit, his wink a spark. “No gators, we’re good,” he said, the marina’s hum alive with fishing boats and laughter, the air thick with salt and promise.
“Gators?!” Jasmine squealed, her eyes wide, He’s messing with us, she thought, her laugh a melody.
They grilled hot dogs under a sunset blazing crimson and gold, waves glinting like molten silver, the air thick with smoke and sea, the palms swaying like a lullaby.
Jasmine sculpted a sand mermaid on Kade, her hands quick, This is magic, she thought, Hunter filming, cackling, her “You’re a total loser, Dad” met with his grin, sand in his beard.
A sandcastle contest capped the week, Hunter’s fortress toppling Jasmine’s tower, Kade judging with mock gravity, his “It’s a tie” sparking their groans, their laughter a fire that lit the night. On the rig’s roof—blankets, cocoa, waves hushing—the girls curled close, their warmth a vow against the world’s noise, the stars above a canvas of stardust.
“My Dad’s ‘68 Winnebago was magic,” Kade said, soft, his voice low, the Gulf’s murmur weaving through his words. “Wyoming, Black Hills, Montana. I wanted the same for you, this week, this fire.” I’m giving you my heart, he thought, the memory of his dad’s laughter a spark in the coastal night.
“You’re 90% not a meme,” Jasmine said, marshmallow in cheek, her eyes shining, He’s our rock, she thought, her NASA dreams soaring.
“The other 10%?” Kade chuckled, his grin wide, the stars glinting like promises, the Gulf’s rhythm a steady pulse.
“You worry too much,” Hunter whispered, head on his chest, her voice soft, We’ve got you, she thought, her wit a spark that lit the night. “We’re right here.”
That cut deep, a vow he’d carry, the reunion’s weight a fire burning brighter than the stars. I’ll never lose you, he thought, his eyes stinging, the Gulf’s haze a canvas of love.
Night fell, the girls asleep like kittens under the rig’s awning, their breaths soft, their faces lit by the campfire’s dying embers.
Kade stood barefoot in cool sand, beer in hand, Maggie at his feet, her warmth a quiet anchor, the sea vast and wild, its waves whispering secrets under a star-blazed sky.
Failures shrank against their laughter, every mile forging this love, Garrett’s No kind of affection so purely angelic a vow in his chest, Tom’s Don’t carry it forever a spark in the dark.
A text pinged—Alex: my boys want to meet Maggie someday. 😉
Kade texted: Girls are my stars. Savannah’s next. Ready for you.
Her reply flashed: Counting the days. Stay real.
She’s my fire, he thought, her kiss a vow he’d chase, Savannah’s promise a beacon in the coastal night.
His phone buzzed—Claire’s lawyer: Fraud charges escalate. Sign, or lose your land. Kade’s jaw tightened, a shadow moving beyond the marina, a Wyoming plate glinting on a parked SUV, Minerals’ claws closer than he feared, Maggie’s growl low, her eyes locked on the darkness. They’re hunting, he thought, the mystery a fire he’d face, the Gulf’s rhythm a vow to protect his girls, Savannah’s fight a storm brewing.
Kade dug toes into sand, grinned at the universe, and whispered: “I’m here.” This week’s my forever, he thought, the stars listening, the Gulf’s waves a vow to his girls, Alex’s spark a fire he’d carry, the mystery a fight he’d win.
His journal scratched:
“March 4–11. Week with my girls. Jasmine’s hooked on the stars, Hunter’s my fire. Can’t lose them.
Alex’s kiss waits, Savannah calls.
Minerals’ claws are sharp, but I’m sharper. Love like no tomorrow, cowboy.”Chapter 21
Tides of Tomorrow
The EarthRoamer LTx crawled over the final ridge of soft sand and rolled onto the wide, untouched stretch of St. Augustine Beach. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving behind streaks of crimson and gold that painted the Atlantic in molten hues. The waves thundered softly against the shore, as if whispering secrets only the wind could carry. It was wild. Untamed. Perfect.
Kade Vance parked facing the surf, engine ticking as it cooled. The breeze carried salt and seaweed, thick and raw, cleansing in a way that only the ocean could offer. Moonlight had already begun to take over, casting a silver ribbon along the horizon that shimmered like a promise.
Maggie leapt down before the door had fully opened, her paws sinking into the sand. She barked once—joyful, alert—and took off in a full sprint toward the water, chasing gulls with no intention of catching them. Just running for the love of it.
Kade stepped out slowly, letting the warm breeze wash over him. He stretched, rolled his shoulders back, and inhaled deep. No traffic. No cell towers. No noise but the surf and the wind and the echo of children’s laughter that still lived in his bones.
Hunter’s grin. Jasmine’s stargazing questions. The late-night giggles and beach towel naps. Florida always carried their ghosts, but today it also carried something new.
Alex.
Her texts echoed in his head—Tomorrow, City Cowboy. The phrase had become a beat in his chest. A vow, not a tease.
He walked to the edge of the surf, boots sinking in wet sand. Maggie darted back toward him, drenched and panting, dropping a soaked stick at his feet with a triumphant tail wag.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, tossing it back into the foam.
She tore after it again, kicking up silver spray under the rising moon.
Behind him, the EarthRoamer stood like a lone sentinel. He glanced at the coiled hose, the tucked-away chairs, the slightly cracked windows, and felt the ache of quiet routine.
The Saratoga was gone—Claire’s legal hounds chasing paper trails like wolves through smoke—but the Malibu waited back in San Diego, gleaming, loyal. Pressurized. Ready. Like him.
A police truck appeared in the distance, its lights catching the glint of chrome on the Roamer. It rolled up slowly, sand crunching beneath the tires, window sliding down with a familiar Florida drawl.
“You good out here?” the officer asked, casual, smiling beneath the brim of his hat.
“All good,” Kade said. “Not camping. Just… parked.”
The cop grinned. “You sleep, it’s camping. You watch the stars, it’s freedom.”
With a tip of the hat, the officer rolled on, leaving only tire tracks behind.
Kade smiled to himself, brushing a hand through his wind-tangled hair. He pulled a folding chair from the back of the rig and set it beside the fire pit—unlit, just symbolic—and cracked a beer. No playlist. No conversation. Just the sound of the ocean and the moon rising higher into the night sky.
Maggie eventually wandered back and dropped down next to him with a wet sigh, her eyes soft and satisfied. The tide rolled in, steady and slow. The stars above brightened, one by one, until the sky glowed with constellations. No light pollution. No static.
Only peace.
He thought about his daughters. About the night Jasmine asked if stars could hear wishes. About Hunter trying to balance sea shells on her head like a circus act. The ache came softly, not bitter—just part of him now. Like breath.
Then his phone buzzed.
Jenna: Kadester, Savannah’s waiting. Don’t screw it up!
He grinned. No screwing up, he texted back. She’s the real deal.
Another buzz followed.
Fearless: Tomorrow, City Cowboy. Ready for me?
His heart caught.
Been ready since Dallas, he replied. Bring that laugh.
Seconds later:
Fearless: Oh, it’s coming. Don’t ghost me.
No emojis. Just a message that felt like a vow.
Then one final buzz.
Claire: Sign, or regret it.
Kade exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. He didn’t respond. Not tonight. Not here.
He leaned forward, pulled his voice recorder from the console, and thumbed the mic on.
“Alex,” he said, voice low, cracked slightly from salt and feeling, “Your laugh. Your boys. Those stories. They’re pulling me to Savannah. I’m scared, yeah. But I’m ready.”
He saved it but didn’t send it. Some things needed to live in moonlight first.
He knelt down near the surf and traced K & A into the sand with a fingertip. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t performative. It was just for her. A simple vow where the tide might find it. Or not. Either way, it felt real.
Maggie circled once and dropped beside him, muzzle in the sand, her breath heavy with trust. He chuckled softly, reaching down to scratch behind her ears.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
They sat like that for a long while, the surf growing louder, the moon climbing higher. When the beer was nearly warm and his blanket pulled snug around his shoulders, he reached for his journal.
March 12 – St. Augustine, two nights.
Hunter’s ache. Jasmine’s stars.
Alex’s glow.
Savannah’s calling. My heart’s ready.
Claire’s shadow fades.
Love’s the story.
Love like no tomorrow, cowboy.
He closed the book, leaned back in his chair, and let the rhythm of the sea carry him to sleep. Not alone. Not running. Not anymore.
Tomorrow, Savannah would wait beneath Spanish moss and magnolia trees.
And this time, he’d be ready.
Chapter 22
Meet Me in Savannah
Savannah unfolded like a Southern love story—magnolias in bloom, river salt in the air, and moss-draped oaks casting dreamy shadows over sun-warmed brick streets. The Savannah River shimmered beneath the midday sun, its slow churn reflecting the sky like a mirror framed in iron and ivy.
The EarthRoamer LTx rumbled onto a gravel path at Ivy Hollow RV Park, just a couple blocks off River Street but worlds apart in feel. This little sanctuary was hidden behind wrought iron gates and tangled honeysuckle. Gaslamps lined the walkways, glowing softly even in daylight, as if to say: you’re safe here.
Maggie stood on the passenger seat, nose to the window, tail thumping like a drum. Kade Vance eased the rig into a shaded spot beneath a canopy of live oaks. He cut the engine, the quiet that followed filled by the hush of cicadas and the distant hum of a boat motor.
His heart beat faster than he wanted to admit. Weeks of messages and midnight calls had built to this. Dallas had sparked it, but something deeper had taken hold since. Trust, maybe. Or the start of it.
Maggie let out a short, eager bark.
His phone buzzed.
Fearless: Here. Red sundress. Ivy Hollow dock. Ready, cowboy?
He smiled, thumb tapping back.
Kade: Born ready. Where’s that laugh?
Fearless: Coming for you. Don’t run.
He pocketed the phone, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled. “Alright, let’s go meet our girl,” he said to Maggie, who responded by whining, already halfway to the door.
Kade stepped out, gravel crunching under his boots. He adjusted his ballcap—Support Your Local Outlaws—and started toward the dock at the edge of the park. Oaks stretched overhead, branches creaking gently in the breeze. The sun filtered through like golden lace.
And then he saw her.
Alexandra
She stood barefoot on the weathered wooden dock, toes peeking out from beneath the hem of a flowing red sundress that danced lightly in the river breeze. Her hair was a storm of curls, caught in the wind. Her smile was instant.
Maggie took off like a shot.
Alex laughed, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her arms around the dog in a full embrace. “Hey, beautiful girl,” she cooed, nuzzling her. “Missed you.”
Kade paused for a breath. The scene in front of him pulled everything into focus. The scent of saltwater and magnolia, the deep green of the trees behind her, the way the sunlight painted her in soft gold.
“Getting cozy with my dog again?” he called out, voice low and teasing.
She stood and smiled. “Only when her cowboy looks like he’s about to turn and bolt.”
He grinned, boots steady as he stepped onto the dock. “Thought maybe you would ghost me. All those 2 a.m. calls… figured you’d realized I was more idea than man.”
“You were real enough to keep me up,” she said, brushing wind-tossed hair behind her ear. “And I liked the stories. Even the ones about power tools and teenage daughters.”
They met in the middle of the dock, inches apart. Her eyes held a glint of mischief, but something tender, too. Kade reached for her hand.
“Been counting days,” he said. “Your voice got me through some long nights.”
She squeezed his fingers. “You want honesty?”
“Always.”
“Your Wyoming stories… your girls, Maggie, the way you see the world—it stuck. The boys think you’re basically Indiana Jones.”
“Cowboy edition,” he said with a wink. “Tell them I moonlight as a fly fisherman.”
They both laughed. A freighter passed behind them, sending gentle waves lapping against the dock. The rhythmic knock of water against wood felt like the heartbeat of the city itself.
She nodded toward the riverwalk. “Let’s walk.”
They wandered past weathered boats tied to wooden slips, coffee carts set up beside iron benches, and couples swaying to a saxophonist playing under a shade umbrella.
“Savannah doesn’t do subtle,” she said, eyes scanning the skyline. “But it does charm.”
“I’ll give it that,” he said. “It brought you back.”
They passed a cart selling candied pecans and drifted toward a bench beneath a willow tree near the pier. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, watching the freighters glide by.
She rested her head briefly on his shoulder. “My ex wasn’t slow. He was lightning. And he burned everything.”
Kade didn’t speak right away. Instead, he watched the wind ripple across the river.
“I don’t want fast, Alex. I want real.”
She sat up again, met his gaze. “Then don’t vanish on me. I’ve had enough disappearing acts.”
“I’m right here,” he said. “And I’m not going anywhere—unless you’re in the passenger seat.”
Her smile was small, but full. She reached for his hand again. “You might be dangerous.”
“You might be the first safe place I’ve found in a long time.”
Her phone buzzed. She glanced down and laughed.
“Boys checking in?” Kade asked.
“They say to tell the cowboy not to blow it.”
His own phone lit up.
Jenna: Kadester, she’s a keeper. Don’t screw it up!
He texted back: Already know. Not screwing this up.
He snapped a photo of the two of them with the river behind, sent it to Jasmine.
Savannah magic. Love you, star-chaser.
A ping came back almost instantly: Jasmine: Miss you, Dad. Savannah looks like you.
He tucked the phone away, heart full. “You ready for this?”
Alex looked at him, serious now. “Scared out of my mind.”
“Me too,” he said. “But scared feels a lot better with you next to me.”
She leaned in. “Let’s make Savannah ours.”
They walked on as the sky turned peach and lavender, hand in hand beneath the oaks. The river whispered beside them. Behind them, Maggie followed, content and close.
And ahead—something new, something hopeful—waited just around the next bend.
Chapter 23
Night of Truths
Magnolia Brew Café sat tucked against Savannah’s River Street like a secret too sweet to share—its weathered brick glowing under flickering gaslights, the aroma of roasted beans and warm bourbon curling through the humid night. Ivy snaked up wrought-iron trellises, lanterns cast golden halos on the cobblestones, and the nearby river whispered promises into the dark.
Kade and Alex paused outside. Her red sundress caught the lamplight, fabric swaying around her knees, hair tousled by the breeze rolling off the docks. Jazz spilled from inside—slow, smoky, timeless.
“Perfect spot,” she said, hand on her hip, lips tugged into a grin. “Whiskey and jazz—our speed, City Cowboy?”
“Matches us just fine,” Kade said, his boots firm on the uneven stones. “You ready to lose at pool, Fearless?”
She raised an eyebrow, eyes dancing. “Lose? Dream on, cowboy.” She stepped past him toward the door, Maggie trotting alongside, tail swishing in approval.
The moment the café door opened, it was like stepping back in time. The scent of aged whiskey and tobacco mingled with river salt. Exposed brick walls bore jazz posters faded at the edges—Miles, Coltrane, Nina. A creaky wooden floor spoke with every step, and low conversation hummed beneath the saxophone melting through the air.
A grizzled bartender nodded as they approached. “Neat?” he asked, already pulling down two tumblers.
Kade nodded. “Make it two.”
He slid the glasses across the worn mahogany bar. “Corner booth’s yours if Maggie behaves.”
“She’ll nap,” Kade said, scratching behind her ears. “Long drive.”
They claimed a deep leather booth tucked under a gaslamp that flickered softly. Maggie curled at their feet, sighing in contentment as if she’d been there a thousand times.
Alex leaned across the table, cradling her glass. “Just us tonight. No ER. No road noise. No calls. What’s this night gonna be, cowboy?”
Kade tipped his glass toward hers. “Truth,” he said. “Dallas lit the fuse, but it was the in-betweens—your laugh on the phone, your stories, your boys—that kept the fire going.”
She held his gaze a beat longer. “Truth,” she echoed. “It’s been a while since I believed in that word. But you—your girls, your late-night voice when I was scrubbing blood off my shoes in the ER—you’ve been showing up.”
They sipped in unison, the burn smooth and clean.
“You scared?” she asked, fingers trailing the rim of her glass.
“Terrified,” Kade said. “Not of you—just… of feeling again.”
Her lips curved into something quiet. “Same.”
The music dipped low, a soft piano easing into a moody ballad. Outside, the river moved like slow velvet, moonlight catching its ripples. Inside, the warmth was thick with a kind of hush that came when two people stopped running.
Alex set her drink down and stood. “Alright, cowboy. Time to see if those pool stories were just hot air.”
The pool table sat near the back wall, its felt faded and well-loved. Cue sticks leaned against the wall beside a rack of chalk and mismatched balls. Lantern light hung low overhead, casting their shadows across the green felt.
“Your shot,” she said, chalking her cue, the dust swirling like mist between them.
Kade circled the table slowly, lining up with a half-smirk. “Don’t blink.”
He sank the first shot clean. Maggie gave a single bark of approval. Alex laughed.
“Lucky start.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he said, chalking up again.
Her next shot missed. “You’re trouble,” she said, nudging his arm. “Those calls—your girls’ dreams, my boys’ madness—it all wrapped me in.”
“What’s next, then?” Kade asked, lowering his voice. “More than a weekend? Something real?”
She rested her cue against the table and looked at him. “I’ve got three boys, a chaotic life, a past that’s not all pretty. But if you’re asking if I want more—yeah. I do.”
“Savannah,” he said. “Paris. Yearly meets. Texts. Calls. Pool and oysters and whatever else life throws. You in?”
Her laugh lit the space like a spark. “Yearly meetups with the mysterious City Cowboy? Sounds like a plan. But I’m warning you—next time, I’m picking the location.”
“Deal,” he said, offering his pinky across the table.
She linked hers with his, sealing it like a kids’ promise that mattered more than ink on paper.
His phone buzzed.
Jenna: Kadester, you’re glowing. Keep her.
He smiled. She’s staying, he texted back. Claire’s a shadow. This is light.
They stepped out into the soft night. Behind the café, a narrow alley called Cotton Row curved along the water’s edge. Cobblestones worn smooth by centuries glistened under streetlamps. A lone busker leaned against a lamppost, saxophone to his lips, playing a haunting version of Feeling Good.
Kade drew her close. She rested her head on his chest, the music, the heat, the promise of something lasting all wrapped around them.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered.
“Never,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. “You’re the one I didn’t see coming, but I’m not letting go.”
She looked up. “Stay real.”
“I promise.”
They stood together beneath the flickering light, framed by jazz and river mist, two hearts finding rhythm in the stillness.
Savannah held its breath.
Chapter 24
Gravity’s Pull
“Something always brings me back to you
It never takes too long
No matter what I say or do
I still feel you here ’til the moment I’m gone…”
—Sara Bareilles, Gravity
Live Oak Hollow stretched before them like a natural cathedral, the old oaks bending inward to form a tunnel laced with moss and moonlight. Just beyond the final bend, in a quiet moonlit grove, a single wooden swing hung from a twisted limb—gently swaying as if it already knew they were coming. The air smelled of cedar and rain-washed leaves, night-blooming jasmine rising around them like breath.
The EarthRoamer rumbled softly as Kade eased it off the park path and onto a patch of clearing. Maggie curled up on the back bench, belly full, already dozing. Her gentle snoring drifted between the front seats.
Alex reached over and rested her hand on his knee.
No words—just touch, and the familiar warmth between them.
They parked in silence, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light above the rig, moonlight streaming through the trees like silver threads. Kade let the quiet linger, watching how the shadows moved across Alex’s face. She looked peaceful. Grounded. Lit from within.
“The swing’s ours,” she said finally, nodding toward the grove, her voice low, like a secret meant only for him.
“You sure it’s not reserved for ghost lovers or wayward poets?” he asked, cutting the engine.
“If it is, they can wait.” She smirked. “I’ve got claims to stake.”
They stepped out. The air was still damp from the earlier storm, and the breeze carried the earthy perfume of wet bark and wild azalea. Gravel crunched under their boots as they made their way beneath the trees, leaves rustling above them like whispers.
Alex reached the swing first, running her fingers along the smooth, weathered wood before sitting, the chains creaking gently with her weight.
“Alright, City Cowboy,” she said, leaning back slightly, bare toes brushing the mossy ground. “Time to spill a secret.”
He stepped behind her, hands slipping onto the ropes, gently pushing the swing into motion. “You first,” he said, voice soft but playful.
She glanced back. “Rules of intimacy—you first.”
Kade exhaled, then nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s one. After the divorce, I stopped believing in much. I’d hear the wind at the hangar, the sound of a wrench on steel, but I was… just existing. Until those calls. Your laugh. The way you talked about your boys. It pulled me out of it.”
She was quiet a moment, letting the swing drift to a stop.
“Same,” she said. “After my ex, trust felt like a joke. I spent so many nights in the ER trying to hold other people together, and I was falling apart. Then you came along, talking stars and daughters and dog parks and missing coffee mugs. It made the world feel human again.”
They stayed like that, surrounded by the hush of oaks and the pulse of something invisible, strong.
“You scared?” she asked.
Kade moved to her side and sat, shoulders brushing. “Every day,” he said. “But not of this. Not anymore.”
“Then vow it,” she said.
He looked up at the canopy of stars overhead. “Savannah. Paris. Yearly meetups. The chaos of boys and girls and too many coffee cups and loud dogs. I vow all of it. You?”
She nodded. “Vowed,” she whispered, her voice catching with emotion. “Messy, loud, and real. I’m in.”
They sat in silence, letting it soak.
Eventually, they wandered back toward the EarthRoamer, but they didn’t go in. Not yet.
The rain had eased into a soft mist, the world glistening around them. Kade took her hand and led her through a side path where the park gave way to a tucked-away carriage house framed by jasmine and climbing ivy. They stepped into the narrow shelter of its alcove, the old brick warm and breathing with the storm’s memory.
Alex leaned back against the wall, water glinting at her collarbone. Her dress clung to her in the humid air, and the way she looked at him—open, fearless, and unhurried—told him everything.
He stepped close. Just inches.
“Still scared?” she whispered.
“Not of this,” he said, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek.
His hands found her hips. Her fingers trailed his jaw. The kiss started gentle—hesitant, searching—but deepened quickly into something slow, consuming, and real. The kind you feel in your ribs. The kind you remember when the world tries to make you forget.
She pulled him closer, her body fitting against his like a second vow. His breath caught as her hands explored him—measured, unhurried. They moved together like a memory they hadn’t made yet, the alcove wrapped in mist and shadow.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was two people who had bled enough, carried enough, healed just enough to try.
And when her dress slipped from her shoulders, and his breath caught against her skin—there were no scripts. Just rainlight and the sound of heartbeats syncing.
No one saw them. No one needed to. Savannah would keep their secret.
Later, under the sweep of moss and moonlight, they walked back toward the EarthRoamer without words. They climbed the steps quietly, Alex pressed to his side, their fingers still laced. The porch light above them cast a golden halo.
Inside, Maggie stirred, but didn’t rise. Just a sigh.
Kade and Alex curled together on the narrow bed. Not out of need. Out of knowing.
The stars blinked down with something that felt like approval
“He didn’t just survive Savannah. He was changed by it.”Chapter 25
Tides of Legacy
Starlight Café tucked itself quietly onto the edge of Chippewa Square, its wrought-iron tables glowing under the soft orange blush of gaslamps. The scent of fresh espresso mingled with river air, and a small fountain shimmered in the center of the square—its ripples catching the starlight like scattered wishes.
It was the kind of place that made goodbyes linger. The kind of place that felt like an echo.
Kade and Alex found a table near the edge of the plaza, where the trees parted just enough to give them a view of the fountain and the path they’d walked an hour earlier. The breeze carried the scent of wet stone and honeysuckle.
“Last coffee,” Alex said, easing into her chair. Her red sundress, now slightly wrinkled from the day’s wanderings, clung gently to her frame. “You ready to say goodbye, City Cowboy?”
Kade settled opposite her, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Goodbye? Not a chance. This is just a see you in Paris.”
Their hands met across the table.
Kade glanced at her fingers laced through his, the firelight of her smile steady, not blazing. That was what got him—it wasn’t flash. It was gravity. Savannah had slowed him down long enough to feel again. The runaway days, the shadows of Natasha and Claire, the sharp edges—they were dulling in her glow. This wasn’t escape. It was return.
“Besides,” he added, lifting his cup, “that waiter today? Definitely auditioning for something.”
Alex raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Auditioning?”
“‘Extra cream?’” Kade repeated in a theatrical whisper. “He delivered it like Hamlet.”
She laughed, soft and bright. “And that bench in the square? Creaked like it had a secret life.”
“Probably still talking about our oyster victory.”
“Victory?” she teased. “Please. You tapped out at five.”
“Pacing myself,” he said with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to get shown up on a fountain-side date.”
Their laughter faded into comfortable quiet, the music of the square filling in the spaces—clinking dishes, quiet conversations, a solo guitarist on the far corner plucking out something slow and nostalgic.
Alex traced the rim of her cup. “You serious about Paris?”
Kade nodded. “Savannah. Paris. Yearly check-ins. The chaos. The calls. The way you laugh when you talk about your boys. I want it all. If you’re in.”
“I’m in,” she said, no hesitation. “But I’m bringing the chaos. Three boys. Loud mornings. Burnt toast and baseball dirt. Still in?”
He leaned in, eyes steady. “That’s the good stuff.”
She softened. “You know… I didn’t think I could trust again. After everything. But then came those late-night calls. Your girls. Your voice when I needed it most.”
He reached for her hand again, squeezing gently. “Same. I thought I was done with all this. Love. Hope. But something about you… it felt like coming home.”
The fountain glittered behind them. The stars overhead blinked between the branches of the live oaks, as if listening in.
“I’m scared, Kade,” she said quietly. “This kind of feeling—it’s rare. And I don’t want to lose it.”
“So vow it,” he said. “Paris. Yearly meets. Texts. Real life. All of it.”
“Vowed,” she said. “But only if you keep that hat from earlier buried deep.”
“Deal.” He laughed. “That hat’s already in witness protection.”
They clinked coffee cups like champagne glasses.
His phone buzzed.
Claire: Last chance.
He didn’t open it. He didn’t need to.
He tucked the phone face-down on the table, then pulled it back up to snap a photo of the square—the fountain, the glow, her fingers laced with his—and sent it to Hunter.
Savannah’s magic, cowgirl. Love you.
A ping followed almost instantly.
Hunter: Don’t trip, Dad. Miss you.
His eyes closed for a moment. Then he smiled.
They stood and began walking the square slowly, past ivy-wrapped lampposts and empty benches. Maggie snored softly in the EarthRoamer, parked just up the lane. Her gentle rhythm was its own kind of punctuation—closing a night with peace.
“Text me,” Alex said, squeezing his hand. “Call me. Don’t ghost. Paris. Every year.”
Kade stopped walking. Turned to her. “I’ll write you if I have to. Hell, I’ll fly there with a paper map.”
“You better,” she said, reaching up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Because I already told my boys about the cowboy who talks stars.”
“And I already told my girls about the fearless one who beat me in oysters.”
They smiled, and the goodbye began to press against them.
He kissed her forehead gently, then rested his hand at the small of her back.
“You’re my tide, Alex,” he whispered.
“You’re my calm,” she replied.
The square blinked around them—stars overhead, gaslights below—and all of Savannah seemed to hold its breath.
Later, back in the EarthRoamer, he opened his leather-bound journal and wrote under the lantern glow:
March 14
Savannah’s goodbye.
Alex’s ache.
Hunter’s stars.
Love’s the story—worth every mile.
Claire’s shadow fades.
Paris calls.
Love like no tomorrow, cowboy.
He closed the journal and looked out at the square one last time.
The stars above Chippewa Square were still shining. They weren’t just overhead anymore. He was carrying them now. And wherever he went next—he’d bring that light with him.
Chapter 26
Outer Banks Reckoning
The Ocracoke ferry shuddered against the Atlantic’s wild churn, its diesel thumping like a second heartbeat under Kade Vance’s boots. Salt-laced wind tore across the deck, biting and raw, stripping everything down to bone-level truth. Pamlico Sound spread wide and unrepentant, a stretch of steel gray lit only by a distant smear of sunset fire.
Maggie stood at the bow, tongue lolling, eyes fixed on the horizon’s bruise of dusk. Her tail beat in sync with the waves, a quiet metronome of belief. She didn’t look back.
Neither did Kade. Savannah wasn’t behind them—not really. It was inside him now. A memory, yes. But also a fault line. And something more—a pull.
He leaned on the railing, the Cessna key in his pocket pressing against his thigh like a relic. Frank’s key. His map. His legacy.
But right now, it was Alex’s fire that filled him. That week in Savannah had cracked him open in ways he hadn’t known he was sealed. The laughter. The red sundress. The way she traced the rim of her coffee cup like she was drawing a map only she could read.
“You’re changing me,” he whispered into the wind, not sure if he meant Alex or the sea.
The ferry groaned as it neared Ocracoke’s dock, its spotlight sweeping across sand dunes like ancient sentinels. The land felt untouched. Pure. Kade drove off in silence, following a lonely trail until the trees gave way to wind-swept grass and unmarked sand.
He found a pull-off just beyond a slatted fence tangled in vines. Dune Hollow, the locals called it—a stretch of beach the tourists hadn’t found yet. There was no campground. Just wind. Sky. Ocean. And one man and his dog.
He didn’t unpack. Just walked. Maggie bounded ahead, chasing gulls with puppy energy and veteran rhythm. Kade moved slowly, boots leaving deep prints in the sand. The moon had risen—a high white coin in the violet sky—and the sea hissed against the shore like a confession it couldn’t keep.
He knelt near the high tide line, pulled a piece of driftwood from the seaweed, and scratched into the sand:
I LOVE YOU, ALEX.
The waves would take it, he knew. But for now, it was a vow.
He took a photo, the letters glowing faint in the moonlight. Sent it.
Fearless: Bold move, cowboy. You better be ready for Chicago. My boys already asked if Maggie likes bacon.
He laughed, aloud and honest. Maggie returned, wet and panting. She leaned into him, warm and real.
Kade journaled on the rooftop of the EarthRoamer, cheap red wine in hand, wrapped in a blanket with Maggie curled beside him:
March 15 — Ocracoke. The sea whispers and takes. I carved her name in sand, but it’s written deeper than that. Frank, I hear you. Girls, I’m flying home to you. Alex, you’re not just a spark. You’re gravity.
The wind lifted, carrying salt and silence. He looked up at the stars. Frank’s voice echoed, not in words, but in memory:
Fly, dammit. Fly.
Chapter 27
The Key to Life
The road from Ocracoke to Kill Devil Hills was a ribbon of wind and ghost light, the Outer Banks narrowing to a thin blade between sea and sound. The EarthRoamer moved like a pilgrim, not a tourist. Maggie snored softly on the bench seat, while Kade’s thoughts ran louder than the engine.
Hunter’s stargazing. Jasmine’s dreams. Alex’s fire. And Frank’s map.
When he reached the Wright Brothers National Memorial, the sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows over the dunes. The monument rose above the land like a stone prayer—part blade, part wing, catching the last of the gold light.
He parked near the Airstrip Grove, where markers lined the path showing each attempt—120 feet, 175, 200, 852. It wasn’t the distances that mattered. It was the try. The grit. The moment.
He walked the field slowly, boots crunching over packed shell and sand. The wind lifted his hat once and he let it go. Maggie chased it and brought it back, proud.
At the first flight marker, he dropped to one knee. Pressed Frank’s Cessna key into the earth. Not buried. Just offered.
“Not about flying,” he whispered.
“About knowing when to climb.”
The sky stretched purple above. The same sky Frank had flown. The same one Kade still chased. He stood, tears stinging but welcome.
His phone buzzed.
Fearless: Chicago’s waiting. You good?
Kade: Better than good. I’m remembering. And I’m ready.
He took a photo of the monument, stars just starting to show.
Hunter: Still flying, Dad?
Kade: Always. Tell Jasmine the stars over Kitty Hawk still shine.
He climbed back onto the Roamer’s roof. Maggie curled close. The wind spoke soft and true.
March 16 — Kitty Hawk. Where flight began. Where I remembered. I’m not running anymore. I’m flying. For Frank. For the girls. For her.
Tomorrow: Maine. Then Chicago.
But tonight? The wind remembers.Chapter 28
Kennebunkport Haven
Kennebunkport unfurled beneath a soft pewter sky, its gray-shingled cottages hunched beside the docks like old sea-watchers, lobster traps stacked like puzzle pieces against the tide.
The Kennebunk River shimmered beneath low clouds, fed by the Atlantic’s breath, salty and sharp, weaving through pine and cedar. The place felt suspended—between tides, between time.
The EarthRoamer LTx rolled into town beneath a veil of fog, its polished chrome catching muted light. Maggie snored beside Kade in the passenger seat, one paw twitching mid-dream, her coat dusted with travel and salt air. Her presence—constant, steady—was a rhythm he didn’t realize he needed until it became habit.
The town welcomed him with guarded charm. Narrow streets, shops with hand-painted signs, weather-beaten flags.
NO RVs
The placard blinked at him like an inside joke, but Kade kept circling, eventually spotting Tidewater Gallery tucked between two aging Victorians, its shingle sign creaking slightly in the breeze. Two open spaces waited like fate.
He parked, boots hitting the damp pavement with a crunch, and ducked inside the gallery. The air was rich with linseed oil, varnish, and salt. Abstract oceans and storm-tossed boats glowed under soft spotlights.
“You blocking my light, cowboy?” called a voice, rough and warm, from behind a half-finished painting of the harbor.
Kade grinned. “Kade Vance. Just passing through. That canvas—think the harbor’s flirting with you?”
Will Cunha turned, sweater unraveling at the cuffs, paint under every nail. “Flirting? Nah. Harbor’s always been high maintenance. Park out back. Fifteen a night. Don’t clog the fire lane.”
Kade nodded. A deal made, sealed, and Kennebunkport became his temporary haven.
He slipped easily into its rhythm.
Mornings with Maggie walking the river’s edge, gulls swirling overhead, lobster traps creaking in their cages. “That one’s definitely watching us,” he muttered. Maggie barked like she agreed.
Afternoons were quieter. He found sanctuary in the town library, nose deep in Hemingway or old newspapers. He scribbled thoughts in a worn journal—keep rollin’ still echoing from his old blog days, now more mantra than motto.
Evenings brought Tara.
Sharp-featured, dark-haired, and quick-witted, she tended bar at The Clam Up and quickly pegged him as “Wyoming’s quiet author dude.” She liked her whiskey neat and her sarcasm sharper than a fillet knife.
“That sign’s warning people about you,” Kade said one night, nodding to the “Clam Up or Shut Down” painted above the bar.
“Don’t tempt me,” she replied, sliding him a beer. “You haven’t earned the locals discount yet.”
He smiled, waved to the old-timers at the end of the bar who now tipped their hats when he walked in. Something about this place had roots that reached gently, but deep.
Then came the text from Vince:
Vince: Meet Elise Wadsworth. Property lead. Be nice.
Kade: Define nice?
Vince: Lord’s Point. Yacht kind. Next to the Bush Estate.
The Wadsworth estate stood regal on the cliff, pale clapboard and deep green hedges shaped like chess pieces. The Atlantic roared just beyond the bluffs, more presence than backdrop. Even the fog looked curated.
Elise Wadsworth
Elise met him barefoot at the edge of the gravel drive, a navy blazer over a silk blouse, tailored but effortless. Her blonde hair caught the breeze like something out of a campaign ad. Kade felt underdressed before he even stepped out of the Roamer.
“Kade Vance,” she said, eyes scanning him. “Vince undersold your… presence.”
“Didn’t get the memo,” Kade said, glancing down at his Pink Floyd shirt and camo shorts. “Maggie’s my stylist.”
Elise laughed. “A fine choice. Come on—there’s someone you should meet.”
She led him down a private path to her yacht—the Hatteras Eighty, gleaming like a gallery piece. Teak decks, polished chrome railings, champagne already flowing. Guests were in linen and navy, all crisp smiles and low murmurs.
Inside, the party buzzed with an energy too polished to be rowdy—moneyed, political, sharp. Kade immediately recognized a former ambassador. A biotech CEO. A woman from an NYU ethics board he’d once researched for a client.
“Elise runs this town,” someone whispered behind him. “And half of D.C.”
Kade kept his face neutral. He knew this type of crowd—strategic charm, coded jokes, veiled intentions. Maggie, of course, won them over in minutes. Tail wagging, she made a circuit of the deck, collecting compliments and bits of lobster roll.
Elise handed him a glass of champagne and leaned in. “They’re circling Vance Point,” she said quietly. “Claire’s name is floating around. So is yours. I’ve seen this before. Land, legacy—it draws sharks in silk.”
Kade didn’t flinch. “They can circle. Doesn’t change who holds the deed.”
She studied him, her expression shifting from amused to impressed. “That’s the right answer. But it’s not the one they expect. They think you’ll fold. Or lash out. They never count on someone who just… stays upright.”
“I didn’t come here to play defense,” Kade said. “I came here to remember who I am.”
“Then you’re already ahead of most.”
She leaned in, her voice just for him. “Let me give you something—free of strings. People will try to buy your silence, your loyalty, even your story. Let them talk. You hold your line. The moment you trade truth for comfort… they own you.”
Kade turned toward her, gaze steady. “That’s not for sale.”
A quiet smile touched her lips. “If you ever need the right door opened, I’ll be on the other side. Not to pull you in. Just to make sure you walk in standing tall.”
He nodded. “Alex isn’t part of this world. And that’s exactly why she matters.”
“She’s where your story leads,” Elise said. “Don’t let anyone rewrite it.”
They stood together for a moment longer, wind tangling her hair, the yacht anchored in calm water. No seduction. No ask. Just mutual respect.
“I’ll be around,” Elise added. “Quietly cheering for you.”
Kade looked past her, toward the dark Atlantic, and the sky beyond it.
“Thanks,” he said. “Some tides are worth catching. Some you watch roll by.”
She laughed lightly. “Spoken like a man who’s been both.”
Chapter 29
Tangled Threads
A thick fog draped Tidewater Gallery in a silver veil, the kind that quieted sound and time. Streetlamps glowed soft halos into the night.
Will Cunha’s spare keys had landed in Kade Vance’s palm with a gruff nod, granting him a haven after Elise’s dinner—a space that smelled of linseed oil, varnish, and something older, heavier.
A half-finished harbor painting stared back at him from the easel, brushstrokes frozen mid-motion. It looked almost self-aware, like it knew things it wouldn’t say.
Maggie lay curled on the floor nearby, ears twitching, nose to the boards, tail gently thumping like a metronome in sync with the room’s hush. She hadn’t barked once since they left Elise’s firelit porch.
Kade paced slowly, boots whispering against the worn planks. The night still held the warmth of Bordeaux, the lingering sting of whispered power, and Elise’s voice—You hold your line. That phrase swirled with Natasha’s compass rose, Fred’s letter, and the long pull toward Vance Point.
He paused at the painting.
“That thing’s mocking our lobster roll binge, Mags,” he muttered. Maggie gave a low sigh. Her look said you’re enough, the way only dogs—and certain women—ever could.
Kade exhaled, the fog pressing gently against the windows.
Elise’s text lit up.
Dinner? Just us. Dress warm.
An hour later, her black Defender growled up the lane, headlights brushing the fog like fingers parting smoke. Maggie leapt inside like she owned it. Kade climbed in, hat tipped low, shoulders steady with clarity.
Ocean Avenue wound along the cliffs like a secret path, past salt-blasted mansions and white-picket kingdoms. At the end sat Shadow Cove, Elise’s private retreat—an old inn converted into a modern sanctuary. Pines loomed around it like sentries. Firelight flickered on a porch table set for two. A bottle of Bordeaux breathed between them, its label so old it looked handwritten.
“That Defender,” Kade said as he stepped out, gravel crunching under his boots. “Looks like it’s hiding a second life.”
Elise smiled. “Don’t we all?”
She wore a crisp blazer over a cashmere turtleneck, her hair loose but windblown just enough to look cinematic. Candlelight caught in her eyes like the edge of a flame.
“You’re no accident,” she said again, this time without agenda. “The way you carry yourself. The way the town took to you. Vince said you were different, but I see it now.”
Kade poured the wine, the smell of cedar smoke and low tide swirling around them. “Just a fly fisherman with a dog and a truck,” he said. “And a pretty good memory for people’s tells.”
Elise studied him for a long moment. “I’ve known men with power—plenty of them. Some wore it like armor. Some used it like a leash. But the ones who impressed me most? They didn’t need a spotlight. They just stood their ground, quiet and unshaken. You’ve got that.”
He raised a brow, curious. “You saying I should run for office?”
She laughed softly. “God, no. You’re not nearly fake enough. But I am saying this—what you’re carrying matters. People will try to steer you, buy you, twist the story. Don’t let them.”
“I don’t bend easy,” Kade said.
“No,” she agreed. “And don’t lose that—not even for someone you love. The good ones won’t ask you to.”
They sat in silence for a moment. No seduction. No test. Just understanding.
“Elise,” he said finally, “you’re not what I expected.”
“I hope that’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
She slid a card across the table. Simple. Embossed. No job title—just her name and a private number.
“If the day comes when you need a voice on the inside, or just someone who knows how this world really moves—I’m your ally. No strings.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said. “But I’ve got someone waiting. Someone who makes the noise go quiet.”
Elise nodded, smile soft and real. “Then go. And keep her close.”
Maggie barked from the Defender, tail tapping the seat.
“You better listen to her,” Elise said.
“I always do.”
As he stepped back into the fog, Elise called out, “Kade?”
He turned.
“Hold your line.”
He tipped his hat in reply. “Always.”
Back at the gallery, his journal lay open on the easel bench. He jotted the date.
March 16
Shadow Cove.
No promises. Just clarity.
Elise—sharp eyes, steady hand.
Alex—brighter than ever.
Tides rise. Lines hold.
This time, I’m not drifting.
The tide outside pulled in stronger. But inside, Kade was steady.
And the fog, at last, began to lift.
Chapter 30
Kennebunkport Aftermath
The fog clung thick over Kennebunkport, wrapping the EarthRoamer like a damp warning. Tidewater Gallery stood silent behind it, the windows dim, the scent of linseed oil still ghosting the air. Dawn filtered in cold and gray, diffused through mist and clarity.
Kade Vance stood beside the rig, boots crunching over gravel. The fuel line was sliced clean. Sharp. Precise. Above the cut, two words were etched into the grime-caked panel:
Back off.
Maggie stood firm at his side, nose twitching. She didn’t growl. Just watched. Alert, aware.
Kade crouched and studied the cut. Clean work. A message, sure—but not fearsome. Desperate.
He straightened, calm as sunrise. “They’re getting sloppy,” he said, brushing diesel off his hands. “Good. Means they’re nervous.”
Maggie gave a soft huff. Not fear. Agreement.
This wasn’t paranoia. It was confirmation. The lines Elise hinted at weren’t theory—they were now drawn in dirt and blade. But Kade had weathered storms harder than this. And he wasn’t running.
At Dockside Hollow, Vince stood near the lobster traps, jacket zipped tight against the wind. No smirk. Just weariness.
“I screwed up,” he said, holding out a weather-worn USB. “I took their money. Thought I was just feeding curiosity. Didn’t think they’d push it.”
Kade didn’t take the bait. Just took the drive.
“They’re not after land,” Vince added. “They’re after silence. Vance Point’s part of a bigger play.”
Kade met his eyes. “They should’ve sent better scouts.”
A quiet pause. Vince cracked a tired smile.
“That trap over there?” Kade nodded at a battered cage. “Still holding. Bent, but not broken. Like you, maybe.”
Later, back at the Roamer, Kade’s phone buzzed.
Everett: Lila found something. Old photo from the crash. Doesn’t match the official story. Ralph knew. So did Frank.
Kade’s fingers brushed the Cessna key in his pocket. Cold metal. Familiar weight. The kind that didn’t lie.
Fred’s letter. Natasha’s compass rose. Elise’s insight. Vince’s regret. Every thread wove tighter now. Not a conspiracy. A reckoning.
And through it all—Alex.
Fearless: Cancun’s close, cowboy. Ready for fire?
Kade smiled. The kind of smile you earn.
Kade: All in. Maggie’s packed. You bring the stars.
Fearless: You bring the slow burn. I’ll bring the chaos.
He looked at Maggie. “She’s still got that spark.”
Maggie wagged once, tail like a metronome for forward motion.
Another ping.
Claire: Last chance.
Kade didn’t open it.
Not when the road ahead was lit with something stronger.
He started the Roamer. Diesel rumbled steady beneath his boots. Maggie jumped in, eyes forward.
One glance back at the gallery. At the cut line. At Elise’s harbor. No regret. Just resolve.
He called Alex as the fog began to lift.
“Cancun’s next,” he said.
“Busy itinerary for a cowboy,” she teased.
“I miss your chaos.”
“And I miss my dork,” she said.
“I’ll be there.”
He ended the call and opened his journal.
March 17
Fuel line cut. Message clear.
They want silence.
But truth’s louder.
Fred knew. Frank warned me. Elise saw it. Vince cracked.
Alex burns bright. Cancun next.
Love like no tomorrow.
He looked to Maggie. “Let’s ride, girl.”
The Roamer growled south, tires rolling easy.
Kennebunkport faded in the mirror.
But the mission—family, truth, love—was just getting started.
Chapter 31
Cancun Fire
Reagan National Airport pulsed with evening chaos—fluorescent lights buzzing, voices rising over gate changes, the smell of jet fuel, fried food, and impatience hanging thick in the air. But Kade Vance stood still in the middle of it all, leaning casually against a column near Gate 32, one hand resting on Maggie’s leash, the other tucked into his jacket pocket.
Maggie lay curled at his boots, eyes sharp, tail thumping slowly. She sensed something different. Something alive in the air.
And then Alex appeared.
She moved through the crowd like it parted for her. Wind-tossed hair, dark jeans hugging long legs, leather jacket draped casually over her shoulder. No makeup. No performance. Just her—radiant, real, and more dangerous to Kade’s resolve than anything he’d faced at 30,000 feet.
Their eyes met across the terminal and held.
Her grin broke first—sharp, mischievous, and warm all at once.
“You ready for trouble, Cowboy?” she said as she reached him, her voice a low spark beneath the terminal’s noise.
Kade smiled slow. “Fearless, you’re the only trouble I’d cross time zones for.”
He tipped his hat, and her laugh came easily.
She dropped her bag, knelt beside Maggie. “Princess,” she whispered, running her hands along the dog’s ears. “Still the best co-pilot?”
Maggie barked once in approval, then licked Alex’s cheek, sealing the reunion with trust and tail wags.
“Keep her,” Kade said, offering a hand, “and you’re in deep.”
Their fingers laced like they’d been made for it.
“That sign—‘Escape to Paradise’—think it’s aimed at us?” he asked.
“It’s aimed at you,” she said, bumping his hip with hers. “Let’s burn paradise down, Cowboy.”
First class to Cancun felt less like travel and more like foreplay.
Champagne before takeoff. Soft leather sleeper pods cocooned in cream linen. Maggie curled obediently beneath their feet, earning grins and compliments from flight attendants. Kade kicked off his boots. Alex curled beside him like she belonged there—because she did.
“You know,” she whispered, fingers tracing the stitching on his sleeve, “this is the kind of flight that starts love stories in movies.”
He looked at her. “Ours already started.”
She smiled, slow and warm. “Then let’s film the next scene.”
Midway through the flight, she climbed into his pod, curled beside him under the airline blanket. They shared earbuds and a playlist of lazy jazz and throwback country. Between sips of champagne, they traded soft touches and slow glances. Alex rested her head on his chest, heart syncing with the low thrum of the engines.
It wasn’t passion igniting. That had already happened.
This was something quieter. Deeper.
Sanctuary at altitude.
They landed to a night thick with warmth—Cancun’s air wrapped around them like silk. The scent of hibiscus, lime, and the distant sizzle of street tacos filled their lungs.
Their villa sat above the ocean, white stucco glowing in the moonlight, a private infinity pool disappearing into the turquoise sea. Inside, cool tile floors led to wide open spaces—a king bed dressed in linen, windows thrown open to the breeze. Bougainvillea spilled across the patio. A woven hammock swung lazily between two columns. Maggie claimed it immediately, sighing like royalty.
The concierge bowed. “Mi casa es su casa, princesa.”
Kade laughed. “She’s never leaving.”
The days that followed became a dream.
Sunrises began slow, tangled in sheets. Skin against skin. Whispered words beneath mosquito netting. Coffee on the terrace, her legs across his lap, the dog snoring in the hammock, a book open but unread between them.
They made breakfast barefoot, Alex in one of Kade’s t-shirts, humming along to a Spanish pop song while burning the eggs on purpose just to make him laugh.
Afternoons meant the beach.
She lathered sunscreen on his back—slowly, deliberately—fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his swim trunks as she murmured, “You missed a spot, Cowboy.”
He retaliated by lifting her and running straight into the surf.
They played like teenagers. Water fights. Sandcastles. Long walks with fingers interlaced, Maggie splashing nearby, her ears pinned back with joy. Vendors wandered by with chilled coconuts and churros dusted in cinnamon. They tasted everything.
Their first kiss underwater came after a jet ski crash—deliberate, of course. Kade flipped them both and pulled her in. The kiss was warm, desperate, and full of salt and sun.
She surfaced laughing. “You trying to drown me?”
“Trying to keep you,” he said.
Nights were fire.
They danced at Coco Bongo until the walls pulsed. Acrobats flew overhead. The crowd moved like a single heartbeat. Alex wore a crimson dress, lips red, skin glowing. She dragged him into the fray.
“That acrobat’s stealing our thunder,” she shouted.
“Then let’s steal it back.”
They danced until their clothes clung, until their bodies couldn’t help but find each other. His hands at her waist. Her lips at his ear. Every movement a promise.
Back at the villa, moonlight spilled across the bed. She traced the line of his shoulder, his chest, his scars.
“That tequila shot,” she whispered, “might be why I’m telling you everything.”
“Tell me anyway,” he murmured, kissing her collarbone.
“My last love broke me,” she said softly. “I didn’t think I could ever do this again.”
He looked into her. “Then let’s build something unbreakable.”
They made love slowly—under fans and moonlight and the sound of waves. There was no rush. No fear. Just skin and soul and surrender.
They swam in cenotes.
At Gran Cenote, water the color of emeralds cradled them. Alex cannonballed in, her laugh echoing in the stone cave.
“That vine’s judging my form!” she yelled.
Kade dove after her, surfacing beside her as she brushed hair from her eyes.
“You make me feel real,” he said, cupping her cheek.
“You make me feel safe,” she whispered.
On their final night, they built a fire on the beach.
Maggie snoozed in the sand. The stars hung low, like they’d come closer just to listen.
Alex curled into Kade’s side. “We could stay here forever.”
“We can come back,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He texted Jasmine:
Cancun’s magic, star-chaser. Love you.
Her reply was fast:
Dad, beach vibes? Miss you.
He closed his phone, pulling Alex closer.
“Chicago next,” he said.
“Family. A wedding. Real life.”
“Yeah,” he smiled. “Let’s burn that down too.”
She laughed. “Let’s rewrite everything.”
And they did—beneath a sky full of stars, wrapped in hibiscus, firelight, and a love no longer afraid of its own depth.
Chapter 32
Wedding Fire
O’Hare International Airport throbbed under overhead lights and restless chatter, neon arrows blinking like runway signals to nowhere. Rolling suitcases bumped through polished corridors. Children cried. Boarding announcements echoed like mantras for the lost and hopeful.
Kade Vance stood still.
Leaning against a pillar by baggage claim, his Support Your Local Outlaws hat tipped low, Maggie at his feet like a sentinel—tail flicking, nose twitching, alert. She felt the shift, too.
He’d come straight from Cancun’s turquoise glow, through Kennebunkport’s fog, carrying the salt of secrets and the ache of promise in his chest.
Then he saw her.
Alex moved through the crowd like she was leading a charge—black jeans and boots cutting clean through the noise, leather jacket slung over her shoulder like armor, her hair still tousled from wind and late flights. Her eyes locked on his—and the rest of the airport fell away.
That grin.
Sharp. Playful. Dangerous.
It sliced through the chaos like a bullet through silk.
“Ready for trouble, Cowboy?” she said, voice low and electric, dragging her duffel like it owed her rent.
Kade’s grin was slow and certain. “Fearless, you’re the only trouble I’d chase across continents.”
“That jacket,” he added, “think it’s planning a heist?”
Alex dropped to kneel beside Maggie, scratching behind her ears. “This princess? Already stole my heart.”
Maggie barked, thumping her tail in agreement.
Kade offered his hand.
She took it.
Their fingers locked—like memory and future choosing each other.
“That gate sign—‘Chicago Awaits’—feel like it’s aimed at us?”
“It’s daring you to keep up,” she said, bumping his hip with hers. “Let’s burn this wedding down.”
The Drake Hotel rose from the city like Gatsby’s final wish—crystal chandeliers dripping firelight, velvet drapes parted just enough to frame Lake Michigan’s dusky shimmer. Gilded ceilings arched over ballrooms alive with white roses, whispering waitstaff, and guests dripping in designer names.
Kade adjusted his open-collared shirt and slipped Maggie’s bowtie straight.
Alex?
She walked in like she owned it.
Her emerald satin wrap dress clung in the right places, shoulders bare, hair coiled in loose waves, every step a challenge. Her scent—jasmine and heat. Kade stared a half-second too long.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
“Trying not to fall.”
“Too late.”
They took the ballroom like fire—an unstoppable, untamed duo.
A Fortune 500 CFO spilled bourbon down his cuff staring at Alex. A fashion exec mistook Maggie for a celebrity therapy dog. Kade tipped his hat and let the rumors swirl.
“They’re judging us,” he whispered.
“Intimidated,” she shot back, raising her glass.
By the second course, they’d taken over the room. Kade’s Wyoming wit pinged off surgeons and senators. Alex spun stories from ER shifts and motherhood with the humor of someone who’s survived both bullets and middle school.
“You his nurse?” one man asked, eyeing her warily.
“When he’s bleeding,” she said, smiling over her glass.
Hunter spun Alex across the dance floor. Jasmine hugged Maggie under the table. Laughter and warmth and bourbon wove through everything. Kade texted Danielle: Chicago’s alive. Girls shine. Family. Fire.
Then she appeared.
Natasha.
Hair like shadows. Black power suit. Heels that didn’t make a sound. Her gaze cut straight through the laughter.
She didn’t belong. Which made her all the more dangerous.
Kade’s heart stumbled. Cancun flickered. So did the bourbon.
She walked straight to him.
“Elise sends her regards,” Natasha said smoothly. Her fingers dropped a small, matte-black card into his hand.
It was heavy. Brass. Etched with a compass rose. No chip. No logo. No name.
Circles within circles.
Then she was gone.
No small talk. No linger. No explanation.
Just vapor.
The Drake faded. The room buzzed. But Kade stood still.
Natasha’s card pressed into his palm like a threat—or a key.
His mind fired. Why now? Why here? Elise didn’t play games. This was a marker. A signal. Maybe a shield.
Jasmine’s laughter echoed from across the ballroom. Hunter danced with the ring bearer. Real life, unfolding.
Alex returned, two bourbons in hand. She caught it instantly—the shift in his stance, the flicker behind his eyes.
“You okay, Cowboy?”
He pocketed the card. “Just a ghost.”
She handed him a glass. “Then drink with me. That bartender—swear he’s mixing with holy water.”
“Lead or follow?” Kade asked, raising his glass.
Her grin was his answer.
TheWit Hilton’s Corner King Suite wasn’t just a hotel room.
It was a love letter in glass, chrome, and firelight.
Floor-to-ceiling windows bared the skyline—naked, unapologetic. A fireplace danced beneath a mounted mirror. The bed was wide and cloud-soft. The jacuzzi bubbled in the corner, already steaming with invitation.
Alex padded barefoot to the window, wearing Kade’s flannel shirt, half-buttoned, all intention.
“That fireplace,” she whispered, hand on the glass, “Think it’s burning for us, Cowboy?”
He stepped behind her, slid his hands around her waist, lips brushing the back of her neck.
“No doubt.”
Her head tilted. Her body leaned.
“That jacuzzi’s taunting us.”
“Lead or follow?” he asked again, heartbeat rising.
She turned, unbuttoning the rest of the shirt. “Lead. But keep up.”
Steam rose. Towels fell.
And they disappeared into fire.
After, wrapped in sheets and bourbon glow, Alex traced his scars.
“Don’t break me,” she said, voice raw.
Kade kissed her fingers. “I’ll break the world before I break you.”
She swallowed. “I believe you.”
He did too. For once.
They closed the night at Duffy’s Dive Bar.
Sticky floors. Pool tables with cracked rails. Jukebox stuck on Springsteen and Johnny Cash. A haven far from the Drake’s chandeliers.
Alex hustled Kade out of fifty bucks in a half hour.
“That cue ball’s rigged,” he muttered.
“You just can’t handle a girl who knows angles.”
She danced barefoot on the bar’s scuffed floor, hips swaying, voice rising with Born to Run. Kade joined her, laughter loud, hands tangled in her hair.
“I do love it,” he whispered, when she leaned in.
“God help me,” he added, “but I really do.”
Back in the suite, Natasha’s card still burned a hole in his jeans.
But tonight wasn’t about secrets.
Tonight was about Alex.
About fire.
And everything real.
Chapter 33
Chicago Farewell
Sunday morning unfolded like a sigh across Chicago, the sky brushed in soft pastels over steel towers and Lake Michigan’s sleepy shimmer. Inside theWit Hilton’s Corner King suite, the floor-to-ceiling glass walls held the golden hush of dawn, bathing the room in light too tender for words.
Kade Vance sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight.
Maggie lay sprawled on the floor, chin resting on her paws, eyes trained on Alex—watching, knowing.
Alex moved through the room slowly, duffel half-zipped on the velvet bench, her wrap dress from the night before tossed over a chair, his flannel shirt hanging from the door. She sipped coffee barefoot, hair tousled, silence curling around her like smoke. Her glow was dimmer now—not gone, just softened by the weight of parting.
He couldn’t look at her long without feeling the burn.
Her back was to him as she stood at the glass, city stretching beneath her, the lake catching early light like it might crack under the pressure of beauty.
“I hate this,” she said quietly, eyes on the skyline. “That jacuzzi—still steaming. Think it’s mourning us?”
Kade smiled, but his throat was tight. “Mourning? Nah. It’s begging you to stay.”
He rose and crossed to her. She leaned slightly, her shoulder brushing his chest, his warmth anchoring her.
“That coffee,” he murmured, “swear it’s brewing regrets.”
“Only regret,” she said, turning to face him, “is not stealing that bartender’s mezcal recipe.”
Her laugh cut the ache like a blade wrapped in velvet. Then she reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw, her touch feather-light and aching with intention.
Her kiss came slow. Deep. Intentional. Her mouth moved against his like a memory already fading, lips memorizing the shape of goodbye. When they pulled apart, they stayed forehead to forehead, breathing together.
“Don’t get lost, Cowboy,” she whispered.
“Not without you, Fearless.”
The ride to O’Hare was mostly quiet. Maggie sat between them in the back seat of the Lyft, head in Alex’s lap, her paw tucked in Kade’s. They watched the skyline fall behind them like a curtain closing.
At the curb, Alex paused before grabbing her bag.
“That terminal sign—‘Departures’—” she said, turning back to him, “—think it’s jealous of us?”
“Jealous?” Kade smirked. “It’s in mourning too.”
Alex pulled him into one last kiss, this one fierce. A vow. A spark. A surrender and a promise all at once.
“You’re fire, Cowboy,” she said. “Paris, after Wyoming.”
“Paris,” he echoed, fingers brushing the place behind her ear where her heartbeat pulsed. “Don’t be late.”
Then she was gone. Into the hum and heat of humanity.
Kade stood at the curb long after she vanished from sight. He turned slowly, breath thick, eyes glazed.
Her scent still clung to him—jasmine, fire, sleep, and something like home.
He returned to the suite to pack.
It felt different now. The light wasn’t as golden. The glass didn’t glow. Even the steam from the now-silent jacuzzi seemed muted.
He folded her flannel shirt carefully and tucked it in a side pocket of his duffel.
“Think this place misses us already, girl?” he asked Maggie, who gave a low huff and bumped her nose against his shin.
“I do too,” he whispered.
He took a long look around.
The sheets still rumpled from their last dance. Her water glass on the nightstand. A single hibiscus flower they’d brought back from Cancun wilting near the sink. Every corner of the suite held a memory—her laugh in the tub, her hips against his near the window, her breath catching as she said, Don’t break me.
He walked to the window and pressed his palm to the glass.
The skyline didn’t blink.
Later, on foot, he wandered the Chicago Riverwalk, the city alive around him—vendors shouting, seagulls circling, joggers weaving past with wireless earbuds and foam coffee cups. He walked slow, Maggie keeping pace at his side, the leash loose.
“That vendor—swear his cart’s a legend, girl,” he said, grabbing a hot dog and a ginger ale. She whined until he tossed her a bite of bun.
People stared at the man in boots and a cowboy hat with the sleek dog. Kade didn’t care. He let the stares roll off him like rain on waxed canvas. He didn’t belong here, not exactly. But that was the thing about mavericks—you didn’t need to belong to observe.
He strolled up the Magnificent Mile, neon signs glowing like heat lightning, people flooding sidewalks in late-winter coats and impossible heels. Storefronts sparkled—Rolex, Cartier, Zara—and somewhere in the middle of it, a man carrying his past and future in a duffel bag and a USB stick full of secrets.
“That window—think it’s selling our story, Mags?” he said, stopping to stare at a storefront display of a couple kissing under an umbrella. She leaned against him gently.
He thought of Natasha’s black brass card. Of Elise’s yacht and her circle. Of Fred’s letter. Of Vance Point’s safe. Of Claire’s ghost and what it would take to keep his daughters safe.
But mostly, he thought of Alex.
Her fingers on his jaw. Her kiss in Cancun’s surf. Her voice in his ear last night, whispering, You’re not broken. You’re mine.
Back at the hotel, Kade shouldered his gear. Tucked Natasha’s card deep in the side pocket with the USB. Turned the lights off one last time.
Then he dropped a generous tip on the pillow, left a note scribbled on the hotel pad:
We’ll be back. Save the view.
The EarthRoamer rumbled to life just after noon, vibrating through the underground lot as Kade drove east toward Indiana, toward a quiet detour in Amish Country—to Brooke, to reflection, to truths that needed air.
Wyoming was after that.
And Paris?
Paris was always a maybe.
But Alex—Alex was a certainty in his blood.
Her fire was the one he’d carry through every turn of the wheel.
Journal Entry: March 19
Chicago’s fire. Alex’s goodbye. Natasha’s card burns cold. Claire’s silence loud.
Hunter, Jasmine—my stars.
Fred’s truth waits at Vance Point.
I’m not running anymore.
I’m going home to fight.
And maybe… fly.
Chapter 34
The Road to Truth
Ohio’s backroads unfurled under dusk’s quiet hush, stretching flat and endless between golden cornfields and white-fenced pastures. The EarthRoamer LTx rolled steady over two-lane blacktop, tires humming like a hymn of purpose. The scent of hay drifted through the open windows—sweet, dry, familiar—mingled with the faint musk of turned soil and the lazy whir of cicadas.
Inside, Kade Vance drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Maggie snored softly in the passenger seat, her paw twitching in a dream, likely chasing echoes of Chicago’s wedding fire or Cancun’s surf.
He had the music low—Springsteen, mostly—and his thoughts loud. The brass card Natasha had dropped in his hand burned in his pocket. No name. No number. Just a compass rose. Circles within circles. A symbol without instruction, but full of threat.
Savannah’s softness. Cancun’s passion. Kennebunkport’s whispered warnings. And now Chicago’s dagger—a ghost reborn in lipstick and stilettos. Natasha. Elise’s name on her lips. Claire’s threat in the air. No sanctuary here. No rest.
Only the road. Only the truth.
Hunter’s grin. Jasmine’s dreams. Alex’s kiss. Their voices echoed through his chest, grounding him. They were the reason he kept rolling. The reason he had to find what was hidden.
The gravel driveway crunched beneath the tires as the EarthRoamer turned into Brooke’s farm—a ten-acre spread outside a town too small to name. A whitewashed farmhouse glowed in the twilight, its porch lit with amber lanterns. Quilts fluttered in the breeze like flags of peace. A copper wind vane spun slowly on the roof, whispering secrets in the breeze.
Brooke stood barefoot on the porch, mug in hand, a blanket draped over her shoulder. Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, and her expression held the warmth of memory and the bite of shared history.
“Took you long enough, cousin,” she said, voice low and steady.
Kade exhaled. Something in him softened.
Maggie leapt from the cab and bolted toward the porch, tail wagging like a metronome. Brooke crouched to greet her, rubbing behind her ears, nodding as if Maggie had confirmed what she already knew.
“She’s missed the hay,” Kade said, stepping out.
“She’s missed the quiet,” Brooke corrected. “And so have you.”
The porch creaked as he climbed the steps. They didn’t hug. They never had to.
Inside, the house was everything Kade needed and nothing he’d asked for—warm, slow, and safe.
The floors were worn pine. The scent of chili, cumin, and woodsmoke curled through the air like comfort. A Dutch oven simmered on the stove. A quilt lay folded on the couch. Maggie flopped down in front of the hearth with a satisfied grunt, tail thumping once before she dozed off.
They ate at the kitchen table, clinking spoons against pottery bowls. Wine glasses steamed slightly in the warmth. Outside, the last of the sun dropped behind the trees.
When they were two bites from finished, Brooke poured more wine and leaned back.
“Talk,” she said. “Don’t bottle it.”
Kade let it all go.
Savannah’s spark. Cancun’s flame. Chicago’s shock.
Alex’s kiss under moonlight. Hunter spinning under chandeliers. Jasmine whispering NASA dreams.
And then Natasha—ghosting him after La Jolla, reappearing at the wedding like it had all been arranged. Elise’s name on her lips. The brass card, too heavy for what it seemed. Claire’s lawyered threats—Sign or lose it all.
“It feels like I’m trapped in someone else’s play,” Kade said, voice rough. “No script. No exit.”
Brooke didn’t interrupt. She just watched. Her eyes—Frank’s fire reborn—held something Kade hadn’t seen in months: clarity.
“You’re in deeper than you know,” she said softly. “But not darker.”
Kade pulled the brass card from his pocket and placed it on the table.
Brooke studied it, then disappeared into the next room.
She returned with a photo—faded, sepia-toned—three men standing in front of a clapboard pharmacy: Ralph, Frank, and Everett. Their eyes sharp. Their shoulders square. Their expressions carrying legacy.
“Elise’s family,” Brooke said, pointing. “Tied to us. Old money. Old secrets. This didn’t start with Claire.”
She let the photo land with a soft thump.
“You show up, and it moves again.”
They moved to the porch as night blanketed the fields. Rocking chairs creaked under them. Stars blinked through a velvet sky. Maggie curled between them like a warm, breathing peace offering.
“That wind vane,” Kade murmured, nodding upward, “think it’s pointing toward Wyoming?”
Brooke smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening. “It’s pointing to wherever you’re afraid to go.”
They sat in silence for a long stretch.
“I’m not losing Vance Point,” Kade said finally. “Not my freedom. Not Alex.”
“Then don’t.”
“Natasha?” he asked. “Was she a setup?”
“She’s not random,” Brooke said. “Neither’s Elise. Neither are you.”
She held up the photo again. “Ralph’s crash wasn’t an accident. Minerals wanted his records buried. They’re coming for everything tied to that pharmacy, that land, that name.”
Kade tapped the compass on the card. “Then it’s time to open the safe.”
Later, as the fire in the hearth burned low and the stars pulsed above, Kade wrote in his journal:
March 20
Natasha’s card. Claire’s claws. Elise’s circle.
Brooke’s truth. Frank’s key. Vance Point’s safe.
Wyoming’s next. No running.
This fight’s for my girls, for Alex.
For me.
I’m not lost. I’m rising.
The next morning, Kade walked the Amish market, Maggie sniffing every stall, tail wagging at the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon.
Locals greeted him with nods and half-smiles—the cowboy and his dog, just passing through.
He bought two loaves of dark wheat, three jars of jam, and a handmade wooden box for Brooke.
“That bread,” he said, handing Maggie a crust, “think it’s trying to bribe us, girl?”
She barked once in agreement.
They climbed into the Roamer just before noon. Kade rested his hand on the dash, eyes on the open road ahead.
Wyoming called.
So did the truth.
And Alex.
The Roamer rumbled west, slow and sure, as the horizon cracked open like a promise.
He wasn’t running anymore.
He was going home.
To fight.
To fly.
To love.
Chapter 35
Wyoming – Somewhere Between Heaven and Home
Late June warmth settled over the mountains like a hush, golden light catching the jagged spires of the Tetons, painting them in fire and reverence. From the ridge above Flat Creek Ranch, Kade Vance downshifted the EarthRoamer LTx, the engine rumbling low, dust curling in its wake. The RV looked battle-worn, road-tested, and heavy with truths it had carried across the country.
Maggie sat tall in the passenger seat, ears pricked, eyes alert, tail flicking with expectation. Her posture said it first: We’re close.
Below them, nestled between cottonwood groves and sagebrush meadows, the ranch came into view—five cabins weathered to perfection, a red-roofed lodge tucked beneath a cottonwood stand, corrals lined with split rail fencing, and the silver thread of Flat Creek cutting through it all. And beyond, Sleeping Indian Mountain loomed—his profile a sacred silhouette under a sky cracked open with light.
San Diego’s haze, Savannah’s kiss, Cancun’s fire, Chicago’s ache—they all lived inside him now. Natasha’s brass card still weighed down his pocket. Circles within circles. But here, in this crisp morning breath of Wyoming, there was stillness.
There was home.
On the porch, Trey raised a longneck beer in greeting, a sly grin tucked under a ballcap sun-bleached from years of summer branding seasons.
“Still drivin’ that armored RV, Kade?” he called, voice carrying with the ease of someone who’d waited patiently.
Beside him, Shelby, hands dusted in flour, leaned into the railing and squinted into the sun. “Better than your beat-up Tacoma, babe.”
“That porch—think it’s welcoming us, girl?” Kade asked Maggie, killing the engine.
She leapt down with a bark, nose to the wind, tail now a blur.
And then came the sound that cracked Kade wide open.
“Daaaad!”
Two rockets of barefoot joy hurtled toward him across the open pasture—Hunter, freckles and fire, and Jasmine, her long braid streaming like a comet’s tail. They tackled him full force, arms wrapped tight, laughter bubbling up from someplace sacred.
He dropped to his knees, hugging them so tightly his breath caught.
“Missed you, cowgirls,” he whispered, kissing Jasmine’s crown and bumping foreheads with Hunter. His throat tightened. My anchors. Their Wyoming skin smelled of horsehair and sun.
Behind them, dust kicked up as Alex’s Jeep crested the hill, her boys whooping in the backseat. She parked and stepped out in denim, boots, and sunglasses, the sunlight catching her dark hair like a flame.
“Wyoming,” she said, eyeing the valley, “is the most honest place I’ve ever been.”
Kade met her halfway.
Their hug wasn’t public affection. It was a return—soul meeting soul under a sky too wide for lies.
“That Jeep—outrunning trouble?” Kade asked with a grin.
“Trouble?” Alex smirked, hips brushing his. “It’s chasing you, Cowboy.”
The days blurred.
Mornings began with Trey’s flapjacks, Shelby’s thick cocoa, and Maggie slurping from a tin bowl like royalty. Horses snorted at the fence line, eager for company.
Rides along Flat Creek turned into splash wars, kids screeching with glee, Maggie barking like a drill sergeant. Afternoons were for wildflower hikes and creekside knots—Hunter teaching Alex’s youngest to tie a Wyoming hitch, Jasmine gathering river stones for NASA experiments.
“Think that pebble’s skipping for you, Jasmine?” Kade called from shore.
“It’s sending a signal to space,” she yelled back.
He laughed. My star.
One night under cottonwoods, they built a fire pit circle—lanterns swaying, chili bubbling, bourbon burning slow.
Alex sat next to him, legs tangled over his, her head on his shoulder. “This week,” she said, voice low, “has been the only time in years I didn’t feel like I was surviving.”
He wrapped his arm around her. “You’ve always been more than surviving, Fearless.”
She pressed her lips to his collarbone, breath hot. “Don’t say goodbye yet.”
“I won’t,” he said, but the ache was already rising.
Ralph and Karen arrived from Buffalo near week’s end—older now, but sharper than most lobbyists he’d ever met. They brought stories of Frank E. Lucas, of the Lazy LU Ranch, and of Ralph Sr.’s pharmacy in the 1930s—rumors of a safe no one could open, a ledger that could unravel half of Wyoming’s politics.
Karen handed Alex a glass of red and murmured, “He’s better with you.”
Alex nodded, but her eyes betrayed doubt. Can we survive geography?
Then came Natasha’s text:
Wyoming Minerals sent enforcers. Ledger = leverage. Stay safe.
Kade’s chest tightened. He could see her in La Jolla again. On that rooftop. At the wedding. Slipping him the card. Circles within circles.
He stepped away from the fire that night and walked the ridge alone. Maggie followed, silent. He stared out at the valley, a quiet prayer tightening behind his teeth.
No messing with my family.
Not now. Not ever.
On their final night, Alex sat beside him on the lodge porch, rocking chair creaking, stars burning overhead.
Her fingers laced with his. “My boys can’t uproot. Not yet.”
“I know.”
“But this…” She looked out at the mountains. “Every minute meant something.”
Kade pulled a folded map from his back pocket. Dog-eared. Red ink circled Jackson, Dallas, Paris.
“Wishful thinking,” he said.
“Don’t ruin this with what-ifs,” Alex whispered. “Paris is ours.”
Their kiss was slow. A memory being sealed.
Morning came too fast.
They walked the Jackson Market, bought raspberry jam and cinnamon bread. Locals waved, nodding at the cowboy and the nurse with the kids and the dog.
At the Jeep, she held his hand. “Paris?”
“Booked,” he said, voice cracking. “For us.”
“You’re my home, Cowboy.”
He watched her drive away—Jeep kicking up dust like a comet’s trail.
Kade stood a long while. Maggie pressed against his leg. He bent down, kissed her head.
“That Teton,” he whispered. “Think it’s waving goodbye?”
Maggie barked once.
Journal Entry: June 28
Flat Creek. My daughters’ laughter. Alex’s fire.
Claire’s shadow. Natasha’s card. Elise’s circles.
Everett’s safe. The ledger.
This land.
Our name.
This fight is mine now.
Trey clapped his back at the barn. “Go finish it, brother.”
Shelby handed him a jar of jam and a quiet nod.
Kade climbed into the EarthRoamer, exhaled deep, and rolled south toward San Diego.
He wasn’t chasing ghosts anymore.
He was chasing truth.
For Hunter. For Jasmine.
For Alex.
For the name Vance.
A slow-burn fight unfolding—
Beautiful and real.
Chapter 36
San Diego Shadows
San Diego’s August sun melted into the Pacific, casting long golden streaks across the tarmac at Montgomery Field, where the heat of the day lingered in oil-slick concrete and the steel ribs of the old hangar glowed amber in the light.
Inside, it smelled of salt air, avgas, and old stories.
Kade Vance leaned against the EarthRoamer LTx, arms crossed, boots dusty, Maggie sprawled at his feet. The breeze slipped through the half-open hangar doors, rattling a windsock overhead and fluttering a faded Stars and Stripes flag pinned to the cinderblock wall.
This place had always felt like sanctuary. Like truth. Like Frank.
“Daaaad!”
“Daddy!”
The shout echoed off steel beams just as Hunter and Jasmine burst into view—Hunter skidding across the concrete in her mismatched socks, Jasmine trailing close behind, Flat Creek’s pinecone still clutched in one hand like it carried a constellation.
Their laughter bounced around the hangar rafters, stirred the dust, lit Kade’s chest like wildfire.
He smiled wide. “This is home,” he murmured.
Next door, tucked into the shadow of a corrugated partition, stood Frank’s 1965 Cessna 210, white with a brown-and-red sweep, tail number N1814F. It had arrived weeks ago, trailered out of a Colorado field, stripped of its paperwork but heavy with memory. The prop hung still. The cowling sat open like a broken mouth mid-confession.
In its baggage compartment, hidden behind cracked insulation and rusted screws, waited the truth—the rest of Frank’s story.
“Fly us to Catalina, Dad,” Hunter said, tugging his sleeve.
“Like old times,” Jasmine added, eyes shimmering with hope.
Kade crouched down, one arm around each of them, and looked over at the Cessna.
“Soon, cowgirls. She needs a little love first.”
He stood and rapped his knuckles on the nose cone.
“That prop,” he whispered conspiratorially, “you think it’s hiding secrets, Jasmine?”
Jasmine giggled. “It looks guilty.”
“Real guilty,” Hunter agreed.
They laughed, and Kade’s chest ached with how much he loved them.
Out on the edge of the tarmac, Danielle spread a red-checkered blanket under the shadow of the wing. The picnic was simple but perfect: sandwiches, grapes, lemonade in mason jars beading with condensation, slices of chilled watermelon wrapped in foil.
Maggie trotted over, tongue hanging out.
“That blanket,” Kade said, settling beside them, “you think it’s hosting royalty, girl?”
Maggie barked once and dropped beside Hunter.
“They’re happy,” Danielle said softly, eyes on the girls.
Kade followed her gaze. Jasmine was showing Hunter how to tie a Wyoming loop knot, their fingers awkward but determined. The sun caught their hair, turned it to gold.
“I don’t say it much,” Danielle added, “but thank you. This—what you give them—it matters.”
Kade nodded, heart full. “They matter.”
As the sun dipped lower, the hangar turned to bronze and rose. Kade sat on the tailgate of the Roamer, legs stretched, sipping a ginger ale from the shop fridge. The clink of ice and the far-off rumble of a departing twin-engine punctuated the quiet.
He thumbed out a message to Alex:
San Diego’s grounding me, Fearless. I’ll see you in Paris. One last beautiful chapter.
Her reply came fast:
Dallas is calling me too. My boys need me whole. But yes—Paris. You and me. Let’s do it right.
Kade stared at the screen.
Their story wouldn’t end in bitterness. It would end in person.
A goodbye they both earned.
He texted Jasmine:
Stars are clearer near the ocean, cowgirl. Meet me at the wing in five.
As Maggie chased the girls across the concrete, tails and laughter flying, Kade stood beside the Cessna, his hand resting on the cool aluminum skin.
He whispered to the plane like it could hear him.
“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”
The brass card from Natasha—a compass rose etched into black metal—still pulsed in his pocket. Circles within circles. He could feel Claire’s legal pressure building. Could hear Everett’s voice: The 1934 crash wasn’t chance.
Everything pointed here.
To the Cessna. To Vance Point. To truth.
Danielle waved goodbye at sunset, hugging the girls tight. “Catalina next week,” she reminded, brushing hair from Jasmine’s face. “You promised.”
“I keep promises,” Kade said, voice even, kissing both girls on the forehead.
Hunter rolled her eyes. “Even to dorks?”
“Especially to dorks.”
Later, the hangar was still.
A cooling silence settled over the tools, the charts, the suspended memory in every screw and stain. Kade climbed into the Roamer with Maggie, switched off the last light, and watched the Cessna’s silhouette glow beneath a single dusty skylight.
He journaled:
August 19 – San Diego
Hunter’s laugh. Jasmine’s stars. Danielle’s peace.
Natasha’s warning. Claire’s claws.
The Cessna hums. The hangar breathes.
Paris next. A promise. A farewell.
Buffalo after. Vance Point waits.
The safe will open. The truth will rise.
He pulled the Roamer’s curtain closed. Maggie sighed at his feet.
“One more night, girl,” he whispered, hand brushing her head. “Then we go.”
Outside, the Pacific whispered behind the trees. Catalina shimmered in the distance. And far across the ocean, Paris waited—no longer a dream.
But a destination. Whole, honest, and necessary.
Chapter 37
Paris Adieu
Paris draped herself in velvet that September evening.
Twilight bled into the Seine like spilled wine, the sky above bruised with stars, and the stone shoulders of Notre-Dame glowed soft with centuries of secrets. The street lamps flickered to life one by one, casting halos onto cobblestones slick from the river’s breath.
Kade Vance stood on Pont Neuf, hands in his coat pockets, the collar upturned, his silhouette tall and still against the iron railing. Maggie trotted beside him, her gait relaxed, tail swaying like a metronome to the hum of passing boats below.
The city pulsed like a heartbeat—baguette warmth in the air, espresso on every corner, violins in the Metro.
Kade exhaled. The breath left him slow.
From behind, soft boot steps clicked—measured, sure.
Alex.
Jeans that hugged like memory. A charcoal scarf fluttering against her throat. That same confident stride. And eyes—still blue like the dawn in Savannah, still fire like the dance floor in Chicago.
Her smile shattered his composure and rebuilt it all at once.
“Fearless,” he whispered, voice catching like wind against stone.
She didn’t slow.
She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close, kissed him like the bridge might collapse beneath their feet and they didn’t care if it did.
The world blurred.
Maggie sat down with a sigh.
“Cowboy,” she said against his mouth, her voice smoky from red wine and train sleep, “Didn’t think you’d show.”
“You sent the map,” he said, pulling the weathered paper from his coat. It was creased at every corner, worn soft from his back pocket. Jackson. Dallas. Chicago. Wyoming. Paris. Each red circle a vow.
She traced one with her finger.
“Still think it’s wishful thinking?”
“No,” he said. “Now I think it’s prophecy.”
They strolled east, past Shakespeare & Co, where warm light poured onto the street and accordion notes wove into the night air. Maggie trotted ahead, pausing to sniff and glance back, like she knew this was their last lap.
Alex looked back at Pont Neuf, her voice low and certain. “That bridge will always know what we were.”
Kade met her gaze. “And I’ll never forget what you are.”
She laughed, and he felt the sound deep in his chest.
They climbed the hills of Montmartre, cobblestones clicking beneath their boots, lamps glowing like fireflies. The wind carried roasted chestnuts and fresh crepes. They stopped at a tiny café, tucked between two shuttered bookstores. Inside, candlelight flickered off wine glasses, shadows danced across crooked walls.
Kade lifted his glass, studied the deep red. “To us,” he said simply.
Alex touched her rim to his. “To what we found. And what we’ll carry.”
They sipped slowly, speaking without hurry.
“Wyoming was honest,” she said finally. “But Paris? Paris is grace.”
He reached across the table, took her hand, turned it palm up. His fingers traced the life line, slow and reverent.
“My girls… they’re my stars. Hunter and Jasmine.” He swallowed. “But you, Alex—you were the fire. You reminded me I was still alive.”
The map crinkled in his coat pocket. The ledger, the safe, the fight waiting back in Buffalo… all of it pulsed. But right here, right now?
Only her.
“You’re part of me,” he said.
Alex looked at him like she wanted to cry, but smiled instead.
She squeezed his hand gently. “We could force it. Commutes. Calendars. Meet halfway.”
He shook his head. “We’d break it trying to hold it too tight.”
“I want you to chase your truth,” she whispered. “Not stretch yourself thin trying to keep me in your sky.”
“You’ll always be in my sky,” he said. “But some stars… they guide. They don’t stay.”
“My boys need roots,” she added. “And I need to be strong for them. I can’t run anymore.”
“I know,” Kade said.
“We’re not a mistake,” she whispered. “We’re a moment. The kind you never forget.”
They danced later on the steps of Sacré-Cœur, alone except for the stars.
An old man played accordion nearby—La Vie en Rose—slow and trembling. Kade wrapped his arms around her waist. She rested her hands on his chest. They swayed without music, without rush, the lights of Paris spilling below them like a dream.
“That moon,” she whispered, “You think it’s dancing with us?”
“I think it’s jealous of us,” he murmured, forehead against hers.
She looked at him through the quiet. “This has to be enough, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. “It is. Because it was real.”
She leaned in. “Then hold on to it. All of it.”
“I will,” Kade said. “Every step forward, I’ll carry you with me.”
They kissed once more—slow, sealed with memory and fire—and then parted.
Paris held them both for a moment longer.
Then let them go.
He turned once at the café’s edge. Paris shimmered.
But Buffalo waited. And this time, he wasn’t flying blind.
Journal Entry:
September 2 – Paris
Alex’s goodbye. A final chapter written in stars.
Montmartre. Accordions. Candlelight. Closure.
She was the storm and the shelter.
I was the compass. She was the map.
Now I return home to finish the story.
Buffalo next. The safe. The ledger. The truth.
But part of me will always walk these Paris streets,
Looking for a fire I’ll never forget.
Chapter 38
Vance Point Reckoning
Buffalo’s October breath arrived sharp and sobering, coiling around Lake DeSmet in tendrils of frost and silence. The early light bled like watercolor across the still surface, mirroring the worn bones of Vance Point Resort, where ghosts clung to the walls and secrets never died clean.
The EarthRoamer LTx crunched up the gravel, headlights cutting through mist. Maggie growled low, fur bristling as the rig slowed to a stop in front of the boarded Vance Point Resort Lodge, the centerpiece of the long-silent Vance Point estate.
Kade Vance stepped out slowly.
The ground felt sacred. Hunted. Ready.
He scanned the warped wood siding, the faded paint on the hand-lettered sign. Est. 1903. Below it, someone had etched in rust: Your pain is remembered here.
Kade took a breath, clutching Frank’s old Cessna key in one hand, the compass rose card from Natasha heavy in his pocket. Circles within circles.
“Think it’s guarding our truth, girl?” he said to Maggie.
She barked once, tail stiff, eyes locked on the building.
“Thought so.”
The screech of tires signaled Brooke’s arrival, her old pickup coughing gravel as she hopped out with a crowbar slung over one shoulder.
“Safe’s in the floor behind the main counter,” she said, eyes flaring. “Granddad Frank had sealed it before Ralph Sr.’s crash.”
“You bring fire?” Kade asked.
Brooke smirked, cracking her neck. “I am fire.”
Before either could move, Natasha Antonov stepped from the fog, leather coat tight, the brass card glinting in her hand like a shard of fate.
“You’re not alone, Kade.”
“You ever not arrive like a Bond scene?” he asked, half-grinning.
Her lips curled. “Vance Point was always the lever. The ledger’s real. Minerals thought it was buried with Ralph Sr.and the crash.”
Kade held her gaze. “Think Claire’s gonna cry when she sees it?”
“Only if she survives it.”
Inside, dust shimmered in shafts of broken sunlight, the smell of linseed oil and cinnamon ghosting the old wood shelves. The Vance Point Resort Store hadn’t just closed—it had waited.
Kade knelt behind the warped counter. Maggie sat beside him, silent sentinel.
The hidden floorboard gave way with a groan, revealing a rusted safe etched faintly with Ralph Seney and a tiny compass rose carved into the corner.
The combination wasn’t written down. Kade didn’t need it. He dialed in the code Granddad Frank once whispered during night flights over Wyoming, his boyhood heart thumping with pride.
Click.
The door swung open.
Inside lay a cracked leather ledger, dust-covered but intact, with Ralph’s signature—and dates, maps, and transfer deeds naming Vance Point as rightful claim holder to vast mineral rights now tied up in dirty deals and false titles.
Beside it, an envelope:
To my grandson.
When you find this, it means you’re finally flying for the right reasons.
The sky still holds what I couldn’t say.
Go.
Kade held the letter to his heart. “Thanks, Frank.”
Footsteps crunched outside.
Then—Claire.
She stepped through the broken threshold like a villain in a forgotten Western. Flanked by two security goons, cold-eyed, manicured, smirking.
“Sign the property over,” she spat, holding papers aloft. “Or lose everything. I’ll burn you in court, Kade.”
Kade stood.
Maggie growled.
“You’re standing on my family’s bones,” he said. “You really want a fire? Try kindling this.”
Brooke tossed him a USB stick—the one from Vince. Kennebunkport’s dirty proof. Email threads. Payment trails. Blackmail receipts.
“Claire,” Natasha said, voice like frozen steel, “the feds are listening now.”
Sirens howled on the horizon.
Claire hesitated. Then she ran.
The enforcers vanished like shadows in smoke.
Silence fell like snow.
Kade exhaled.
“We won,” Brooke said.
“No,” Kade replied, cradling the ledger and Frank’s letter, “we just started.”
But something inside Kade stirred. Something not finished.
Then his phone vibrated.
Unknown number. No message. Just a voice mail icon.
He played it.
A clipped voice, formal and familiar.
“Mr. Vance. This is Julian Vega. You were recommended through Foxtrot Bravo. A discreet assignment. San Salvador. High-security wedding. Bitcoin CEO. No drama—just eyes and instincts. Expense-paid. Light footprint.”
Pause.
“We’d prefer someone who understands how to disappear. Call me back if you’re interested.”
Kade stared at the screen. Maggie huffed.
“Back to work, girl?”
She stood, stretched, and walked to the hangar edge, tail high.
Kade followed her gaze to the sky.
It was wide open.
THE END
Epilogue
One Week Later — San Diego
The morning marine layer rolled in soft over the Pacific, blurring the line between ocean and sky. Kade stood at the hangar door, coffee in one hand, Maggie at his heel. The Saratoga gleamed just beyond the threshold, fueled, checked, waiting.
No calls. No clients. No plan.
And for the first time in a long time… that felt right.
He scratched Maggie’s ear. “Where to, girl?”
She wagged once, then stared out past the runway, as if she already knew.
Kade glanced at the old brass compass hanging from the cockpit yoke. It didn’t point to North anymore. But maybe that wasn’t the point.
He stepped inside, slid the canopy closed, and turned the key. The engine roared to life like an old friend clearing its throat.
Some people needed a destination.
Kade just needed a heading.
And the sky didn’t care where he’d been—only that he was still flying.
About the Author:
Kevin Seney is a pilot, investigator, and lifelong storyteller whose adventures span from the skies above Wyoming to the airstrips of Mexico and Central America. A former mortgage banking CEO turned security consultant, Kevin draws inspiration from his own 15,000-mile solo journey across the U.S.—a road trip that became the heart of Meet Me in Savannah.
(Yes, he also lived in his Aircraft Hangar)
Through his imprint Lucas Publishing and family-owned Lucas Media Company, Kevin continues the storytelling legacy passed down through generations of newspapermen, aviators, and quiet rebels.
He lives in the Park City, Utah with his wife Carrie, 6 daughters, and two German Shorthair Pointers, Maggie and Aspen—writing fiction that blends romance, mystery, and the kind of truth you can’t shake loose.
Kade Vance:
The Runway Rogue
One man’s road to redemption winds through love, loss… and the secrets buried in his family’s past.
After a high-stakes career and a failed marriage, pilot and investigator Kade Vance hits the road with only his dog Maggie, a hangar full of memories, and a mission to rebuild his life—mile by mile. From sunlit airstrips to haunted Southern coastlines, his journey draws him back to the truth he thought he’d buried: a long-lost love, a family ledger sealed since 1934, and a map hidden in his grandfather’s forgotten plane.
But when a mysterious call from Paris collides with a threat to his Wyoming legacy, Kade must decide—run from the past or fly straight into it.
Meet Me in Savannah is a gripping, slow-burn romantic adventure that blends rugged wanderlust with emotional depth, perfect for fans of Nicholas Sparks, Rebecca Yarros, and Taylor Sheridan.
Sometimes the road home… is the one you never planned to take.
Meet me in Savannah 
Leave a comment