Flyover Country Ch. 02

"You don't look like a pilot," she commented, looking me over from head to foot.

"My pilot's suit is in the cleaners right now," I told her with only a faint smile on my lips, "...along with my Superman suit, and my Batman cape and..."

She slapped lightly at my forearm. She'd been drifting closer for the last several moments—or was I slipping closer to her? I truly didn't know which, but the touch of her hand on my arm was electric. I wanted more.

"I really am a pilot," I continued. "I just flew down from the ranch to get some of Jesse's barbeque ... 'cause I love it and I've been having dreams about it for the last three nights." I smiled happily.

"It is good," she concurred with a firm nod.

"So ... wanta go for a ride?" I asked brightly.

"A ride?" she repeated. "You want me to go for a ride in your little bitty airplane?" she asked in a cute tone. It occurred to me she'd been waiting for the offer for a while now and had that line all prepped and ready. Which might mean her mind and mine were tending in the same direction? I knew damned well where my mind was headed—I wanted very badly to get to know her better...

"Sure," I replied. "I have a mustang out at the ranch ... we can be there in twenty minutes in the plane ... and I'd sure love to see you on her with that beautiful hair of yours streaming out behind you at a hard gallop!" I told her sincerely. I meant what I said—every word of it. I really could envision it happening. Boy, could I ever see that in my head.

She looked me in the eye, then turned away and trotted back toward the group of yuppies she'd come with. "JULIEEEEEE...!" she wailed. The girl had great lungs. I thought the drivers in a couple of big rigs a mile or so down the road could hear her.

Julie sure heard her without any difficulty. A short, busty brunette disentangled herself from the crowd and walked a couple of steps in our direction.

"THROW ME MY STUFF—I'M GOING ON A PLANE RIDE!" my beauty yelled. Apparently that meant something to Julie because a leather clutch purse was quickly in the air, coming to rest only a couple of yards in front of my Latina copilot-to-be. The busty brunette had an arm on her—I was impressed.

After picking up the clutch, my girl sauntered back in my direction with it tucked securely under her left arm. She had her phone out of her back pocket and was looking intently at the screen while I watched her. She touched a couple of icons and then held it to her ear. The little cloud of dust caused by the impact between clutch and Texas dirt began to drift slowly away.

"Stephie?" she asked whoever was on the other end, "...Mercy ... hey, I'm going go on a plane ride with Cowboy ... yeah, a plane ride ... and we're gonna go see his ranch and stuff, okay?"

Mercy, eh? We hadn't actually gotten around to exchanging names yet. I'd been wondering. And I didn't know who Stephie was. I knew who Julie was—the girl with the major league arm—but that was all.

"Yeah ... I'm gonna be fine..." Her eyes flicked up to look into mine. "It'll be fun ... yeah, Cowboy is really nice ... no, you don't know him ... he's..."

I sensed someone was giving my gal "Mercy" the third degree about just who the heck she was flying off to an unknown ranch with. I stepped close to her and grinned. I loved being closer to her—she smelled great. I dug my wallet out of my left rear pocket, extracted my private pilot's certificate, and held it up in front of her eyes.

"Yes I know ... hold on ... I do know that, yes. STEPHANIE! ... quit talking, dang it...!" she said exasperatedly. "Listen ... write this down, Mommy ... I know you worry about me, but listen, okay? You have something to write with?" There was a short silence. "Mercy" rolled her eyes at me, then rocked her head from side to side as she waited impatiently.

She'd taken off her sunglasses to read the card I was holding up for her to read. God, really beautiful blue eyes, a cute nose with just a hint of freckles across it, high cheekbones, and a full mouth with imminently kissable lips. I was able to look more closely, now that the giant shades had been removed and her eyes were unfocused while she was talking to her far away "Mommy?"

"Okay ... his name is Matthew James Singletary ... uh huh, Matthew ... and his pilot's license—"

"Certificate...," I whispered, interrupting.

"His ... uh ... private pilot certificate number is 5555555." She continued, recovering fast from my interruption. I liked that. She was smart and agile.

She listened again. "Yeah, that's it and if I should wind up dead or something and the cops have to track Cowboy down, that's how they'll know who did me in ... 'cause he's wearing a big cowboy hat, that's why!"

Mom—or Stephie or whatever—on the other end of the conversation, took over for a moment. "No ... I don't know yet...," my beautiful Latina said quietly, "...I'll call you later, okay?" She closed her eyes and bit her lips while she listened for a long moment. "Okay, Mommy ... I'll be careful ... love you, too, BYE!" The girl I knew now as "Mercy" stabbed at the disconnect icon and shoved her phone into her a rear pocket.

I ushered her through the gate, glancing back at the picnic table where I'd been talking with Faye. She wasn't there, and I couldn't find her with a quick look at the crowd of people at the two tables. I didn't look that hard. I was busy tucking Faye back behind a door in my mind marked, "Do Not Open! Ever again!"

"Mercy ... you always talk to your mother like that?" I inquired with a casual grin. I unlatched the wide gate and opened it.

"That was not my mother!" she shot back. "That was my roommate, Stephanie," she explain, "but sometimes she acts just like my mom!"

"Well ... just shows she cares," I commented, latching the gate after she passed through.

"She calls me Merci ... M e r c i 'cause she heard my real Mom call me that one time ... it's kinda a short form of "Mercedes," she told me.

I considered the change in names as we walked to the passenger door to the old refurbished Cessna 172. "Mercedes..." I said slowly, relishing each syllable, as she climbed into the passenger seat. "Do you mind if I call you 'Mercedes' instead of Merci? It's a pretty name ... and different—kind of exotic—and it suits you," I commented, closing the cockpit door for her and securing it carefully. I very carefully didn't look to see if she minded me calling her by her full name, but she didn't protest, so I guess it went over okay.

I removed the chocks from around the left wheel, tossed them in the luggage compartment and latched the door closed before climbing up into my seat. I gave her the passenger side headset and set it for intercom only, started the engine and let it idle for a few minutes while adjusting my own headset and testing the intercom by chatting with her.

I taxied away from the barbed wire fence on the oversize tires of the tricycle undercarriage, pointed the old girl into the wind and accelerated away across the prairie. We were airborne in a flash—the responsiveness of the Cessna was one of the reasons I loved the old girl—and I banked around in a wide, climbing circle to the right.

A moment later we were back over Jesse's restaurant and the crowd of yuppies Mercedes—and Faye—had come with. The young black-haired beauty was waving madly down at them from the right-hand seat. I tightened the bank and made a circle above them so they could see Mercedes clearly and wave back up at her.

I broke out of the circle and straightened up on a southerly course for a minute. Then I banked back around and flew over Jesse's again. I rocked the wings a few times to say goodbye and then started climbing gradually. I picked up a heading that would take us to the ranch Dad and Mom had left me. We'd be there in twenty minutes, give or take. I leveled off when we had enough altitude to not be in any real danger of bird strikes, but not high enough to show up on any controller's radar.

As we flew, we talked.

"Soooooo...," I drawled, "if you don't mind me sayin', Ms. Mercedes, "...you're the first Latina I ever met with blue eyes, no offense."

She shot a quick glance at me. "Well ... first of all, I'm not a Latina ... or Hispanic either, smart boy!" she remarked spiritedly, with a quick frown to accompany her words.

"I beg your pardon," I said, glancing at her. "I didn't mean to offend."

She eyed me with disdain for a moment, then relented with a grin. "You, sir, are in the presence of a genuine Cheyenne maiden and the Cheyenne nation is 'Native American', not Hispanic or Latino or any of that stuff."

I studied her features for a long moment and smiled. "Okay, Ms. Cheyenne warrior princess, for a history project, I once read a bunch of journals written by some of the Mountain Men from way back in the early eighteen hundreds, and I don't remember a single one of them saying anything about blue-eyed Cheyenne maidens!"

I broke off to check the instruments, then reacquired the horizon.

"So ... 'fess up," I continued. "There's got to be some Celtic blood in your Cheyenne warrior maiden background somewhere..."

Mercedes stuck out her tongue, but she was smiling.

"Okaaaaaay," she admitted, grinning broadly. "I just might have a mother who's Irish on both sides of her family—satisfied?!" she quipped.

"Ahhhhhh," I said, nodding wisely, or as close as I could get to 'wise'. So Dad counted coup on a stray Irish girl wandering around in the wilderness—that being the wilderness of Cheyenne, Wyoming, by any chance?"

"Nope ... Philadelphia," she retorted smoothly. "And Mom says it was her doing. She says she ambushed a poor wandering Cheyenne warrior and captured him fair and square. Says she felt sorry for him and now he's all hers.

I laughed, able to visualize the war of words between her mother and father. My Mom and Dad had similar verbal jousting matches, frequently!

"I think I'd really enjoy buying your parents a cup of coffee and sitting down with them for a nice long chat ... they sound like good people!" I told her, patting her left hand lightly, before returning my fist to the controls. I liked touching her hand. It was well-formed and attractive. She could have been a hand model for all I knew. Her skin was silky smooth...

Mercedes asked about Faye. She'd heard Faye tell everyone I was her ex. I told her a little about the circumstances of my and Faye's divorce, and some of what we'd talked about at Jesse's. I told Mercedes I had all of my marriage (and its demise) locked away in a corner of my mind, and I explained how comfortable I was with that. I also told Mercedes, no, I didn't think it was cold of me to invite her on a plane ride in front of Faye. My ex wife was no more to me than any of the other women sitting at that table full of yuppies.

She explained "Julie" was a second cousin on her mother's side and Julie had invited her and Stephanie to come down to Texas for a semi-vacation before Mercedes' and Stephanie's dance troupe began preparation for a fall and winter tour of Europe. Julie, I was told, worked with Faye, but didn't know her that well. I told Mercedes I clearly didn't know Faye that well either, then we dropped that subject entirely.

Mercedes asked how I learned how to fly and I told her about my Uncle Jake—how he'd taught me all the rudiments of flying and helped me solo at the ripe old age of 15 and how flying was now one of my most favorite pastimes ever. From there, we talked about whatever came to mind.

* * *

My seat-of-the-pants navigation was right on the money. In fact, the ranch came up over the horizon way too soon for me. I was having the time of my life talking to this pretty—uh—Cheyenne maiden. I lined up with the well used section of prairie I'd been using as a runway and explained to Mercedes about "downwind legs" and "upwind" legs. When we'd flown the downwind thing and banked hard to starboard, I eased the old Cessna down to a really nice landing on the tricycle landing gear. I taxied close to the big barn where the tie downs and wheel chocks were stored.

We secured the aircraft against any strong winds. This was Texas, after all, and Texas ain't nothin' BUT wind, blowin' across miles and miles of—miles and miles. Mercedes helped where she could, and when we were finished, I led her through the spacious breezeway in the side of the barn to the other side where we could see the house a hundred yards away.

"Okay...," she said, looking all around. She gestured up at the house where my Range Rover was parked near the back porch. "Where's this Mustang you were talking about."

"Oh ... over here," I replied, changing direction abruptly and angling off toward the spot where the ever dwindling herd of horses was congregated against the corral railing. They were already watching my and Mercedes' progress and practically begging for a treat of some kind. I didn't have any apples with me, but they didn't know that. "There she is," I said pointing to the three-year-old sorrel filly who was dancing, apparently well aware she was the subject of discussion.

"Hey, Ginger!" I called out, holding out my left hand to her. She came eagerly and nuzzled my palm, searching for something sweet. "Mercedes ... meet Ginger ... Ginger, Ms. Mercedes—Cheyenne warrior princess and all around good person!" I said, introducing them.

Ginger tossed her head and snuffled. Mercedes, on the other hand, was trying to control her laughter.

"What?" I asked, thoroughly confused. I had no idea what I'd done that was this amusing. I surreptiously checked my fly to make sure I wasn't committing some kind of gaff, but nothing seemed out of place.

"I thought you said you had a Mustang," she explained, giggling.

"I do," I said "That's her. She was running wild with a small herd out in Nevada when she was captured a couple of years ago. I don't know exactly how she got down here, but she's a genuine mustang—not too many of 'em left anymore..."

Mercedes giggled again. "I thought you meant a Mustang ... a car!" she explained. "You know ... VROOM, VROOM, VROOOOOOOM!—that kind a' mustang!"

I laughed. "Not hardly!" I told her. "Why did you think I said I'd like to see you on her—as in 'on top of her'—and riding at a gallop?"

"I thought that was just the way a cowboy talked," she admitted, grinning. She had me grinning just as broadly. I really liked that she could make a kind of self-deprecating joke like that and not get all upset or defensive. In my experience, that was a rare commodity in attractive girls. I was really beginning to like this woman.

"Naw...," I drawled, "but I'd still like to see you ... ah ... ON her and riding fast with that beautiful hair streaming out behind you," I told her. And then it occurred to me. "You do ride, right, Cheyenne maiden?" I asked. She'd said something about Philadelphia during the flight and I was pretty sure a whole bunch of women in Philadelphia have never been near a horse, much less learned to ride one.

"I do!" she declared with a grin. "Summer vacations with Grandpa Running Elk, you know?" she explained. "But ... I'm not going riding in these," she said sadly, gesturing down at the shorts she was wearing. "I'd be so chaffed; I wouldn't be able to walk for a month a' Sundays!"

That was true. She would indeed be chaffed, and I agreed wholeheartedly with her refusal to ride in those shorts. I did not want those smooth, creamy thighs irritated—huh-uh!—I didn't want that at all. So she could not go riding in that getup. I pursed my lips. There should be a way around that problem. There was an idea tickling my mind, but I couldn't bring it into focus. I gave it up for a moment.

I smiled back at her. I was beginning to love that mischievous grin of hers. A thought occurred to me. "Ahhhhh ... what is your ... Cheyenne name," I asked, "if you don't mind me asking..."

She shot me a quick glance, trying see if I was really interested or trying to set a joke, and smiled when she saw I really wanted to know. "It's like ... 'Little Dove That Calls At Morning' she said, watching for my reaction.

I cocked my head to one side as I pretended to consider the name—only to find I wasn't pretending a darn thing. I was seriously visualizing the meaning of the name. At length, I nodded slowly, and I felt myself smiling a little. "Very nice," I offered, "...a beautiful idea ... a beautiful name for a beautiful woman," I said, meaning every word.

She liked that. She patted my chest a couple of times. I hadn't even noticed she'd closed the distance between us as we talked. It was very, very nice being close to her.

We made a pit stop in mom and dad's old house, loaded some water bottles into the back seat of my Land Rover and went exploring. We drove cross-country to where I was pretty sure the small herd of longhorns was staying close to a spring that never ran dry.

The expanse of prairie beyond the boundaries of my ranch dwarfed our few hundred acres. I hadn't been able to find anyone who admitted to owning all that grass; and there was some indication it'd been returned to government control. No one ever came and said we couldn't allow our livestock to graze there, though, so I used it.

The longhorns might be anywhere within an easy day's walk of the spring. We found the spring easily enough and while Mercedes strolled around, I took the opportunity to clean up the flow a bit. Afterward, we drove a few miles north and then west around a butte where we found the cattle actually making their way along a dry wash en route back to the water we'd just left.

We parked and watched them amble unhurriedly along. Merci couldn't get over the distance between the tips of the horns on the critters. To have something to say to her, I started prattling on about the history of the longhorn cattle and a little about the history of the region, including the ancient ruins tucked up under the rim of the butte we'd just come around.

She wanted to see the ruins some day. I promised to take her.

I told her about the buffalo too, but they were further off—probably in another direction since they and the longhorns had an abiding distrust of each other—and the afternoon was fading.

We started back to the house talking about this and that, nothing memorable—just companionable chatting. The shadows were getting long when we got back to the ol' homestead. I drove around the house, pointing out the swimming pool and jacuzzi in back.

Then we drove a short distance down the hill toward the county road so I could show Mercedes the little house where Mom and Dad let me live from the time I was fifteen until I went off to college. I also showed her the plowed field—now overgrown and with the plowed furrows almost flat now—across which I'd walked several times a day when I was young. I told her I'd begun running across that field when I decided to use the field as a conditioning tool and I told her I was sure I'd gotten my aerobics done every day, just getting to and from the house.

Back at the front porch of the main house, I turned the engine off but didn't open my door for a moment. "Ahhh ... Mercedes ... I really don't want to take you back to town. I'm having the time of my life with you here. On the other hand, I don't want it to seem like I'm holding you prisoner or anything like that. So ... if you'd rather ... we can drive back into town. I could have you back home in time for dinner."

She studied my face for a moment, looking deep into my eyes. "What do you want to do?" she asked.

"I want to fire up the grill and feed you steak and salad for supper," I told her promptly. "Then, maybe we'll take a swim in the pool out back and afterward, look up at the stars when it gets dark while we listen to the coyotes howl..." I told her, all in a rush.

Mercedes looked closely at me and then smiled slowly. She hitched her right hip around and reached into her back pocket for her phone.