“Crew. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I guess I’m unloading trucks.” He chuckled.
“We can sure use the help.”
Another guy exited the building, and Gabe waved him over. Crew had seen a lot of men from all branches of the military, but this guy was the type they put on recruitment posters.
From his alert, watchful eyes to the Navy insignia inked along his thick forearm and all the way down to the polished military-issue boots, the man practically screamed SEAL.
“Upchurch. Meet Crew Diaz.”
He sauntered over at a pace that implied he’d already switched to operating on slow mountain time. His eyes were frosty blue and sharp as a blade.
Crew stuck out his hand, and the guy gave a single, hard pump. “How’s it goin’?”
“Grant Upchurch. People call me Church.”
Funny that they had a Pope and now a Church. Maybe the pair would become friends.
He nodded in greeting. “Church.”
Gabe went on. “Church is spearheading the mountain ops training. Winter warfare and teaching men to survive rough terrain and conditions.”
Crew took in the information Gabe provided, surprised to feel the tug of interest inside him—something he hadn’t felt since his days in the cockpit learning maneuvers that would make the toughest pilots puke.
Church stepped back and fished a pair of dark glasses from his shirt pocket. He didn’t respond to Gabe’s introduction, just slipped his glasses on and turned to the trucks. “These boxes won’t move themselves.”
Crew jumped on the tailgate and drew a box into his arms. Church was standing at the door with his arms out. He took the box from Crew and hoisted it onto his shoulder before carrying it into the building.
By the time Crew got the first row handed off to the guys on the ground, he was working up a sweat. The sun was hot on his face, his muscles pleasantly burning with hard work.
After both trucks were unloaded, Gabe passed out bottles of water. Crew jumped down and leaned against the tailgate, sipping the cool drink. But he was aware of everyone looking at him. Eyeing him up.
He straightened, lowering the water from his lips. “What is it?”
Church spoke up. “Heard you can fly.”
His stomach did a nosedive. “Yeah,” he grated out.
“Choppers?”
His training was extensive and included several aircraft. “Yeah.” The word had a metallic taste. It tasted of smoke and ozone and pain.
Church twitched his head for Crew to follow.
For a beat, his boots were rooted to the dusty earth. He could get in the truck and head back to the ranch. Work with the horses. Hide in the rec room with a book. Anything but follow.
But his feet moved anyway.
Gabe jogged up to keep stride with him. “Crew, you don’t have to.”
Those words steeled something inside him, something that hadn’t been ignited since Conner’s death.
He didn’t respond, just circled the building behind Church. His feet slowed without him willing it to happen, and he felt a fist clamp around his heart so tight that it skipped beats.
Crew wet his dry lips. “What do you need?”
“The chopper came in on a flatbed truck. It needs to be moved over there.” He pointed to a big helipad.
