Broken Trails Read Online Free PDF Page A

reporter. Scotch found her body of work fascinating. Early in her career, Lainey had spent time in Africa, covering a civil war in Rwanda. Her photos of the atrocities between the Hutu and Tutsi people eventually helped convict the prime minister for war crimes, and made her career. From there, she wandered the globe, following wars and military coups. The scenes she revealed to the world showed the true brutality of war, fresh corpses and celebrating radicals. They also highlighted the humanity. Scotch's favorite was one of a Middle Eastern boy, maybe five or six years old, playing in the dusty street before a bombed out building. She liked it so much, she had the image printed up and framed. It sat in her cabin on an end table.
    Lainey had been wounded in Kosovo, though all Scotch could find was that she had been shot. After a year of nothing, the photojournalist returned to work. Instead of war, this time, she focused her lens on nature. She still traveled extensively, but seemed to avoid the hot spots of the world. Scotch could not blame her; being shot must have been a terrifying experience.
    The extensive research did not calm Scotch's nerves, though. She continued to be leery of having a stranger live with her. Scotch enjoyed her solitude. When she had moved out of the main house and into her cabin five years ago, it had been wondrous not having to share the space with her little sister. Attending the college based in nearby Anchorage, she had taken online and correspondence courses, never having to resort to a dorm or roommates. This would be an alien experience for her, and she did not know how she would handle it.
    Scotch's ears picked up the sound of an engine. She turned off the radio, and leaned forward to peer out the windshield, trying to locate the airplane. It cut into sight, emerging from the tree line on her left. The tiny plane swung around, lining up with the rudimentary runway as it approached. There was just enough clearance for it to land, leaving little room to taxi, and it halted no more than fifteen feet away from her. As the motor shut down, she got out of the truck, to lean against the side panel with one hip.
    The door popped open, and a stool plunked beneath it to accommodate a gruff man in coveralls. He clambered out of the plane, spying her. With an exuberant wave, he marched toward her. “Scotch! How the hell are you?”
    Grinning, she met the pilot halfway, giving him a hug. "I'm doing great, Cliff. You?”
    "Been better,” he confided. “These old bones are acting up. And Delores in threatening to quit on me.”
    She looked properly horrified, though he said the same thing every time she saw him. "No way! Delores loves you. It'll be a long time before her wings are clipped.”
    He eyeballed the small charter plane. The only section of its hull that did not appear banged or scraped was a carefully painted pin up girl by the pilot's seat. She wore a skimpy red dress, and smiled coyly at her admirers. "You think so?”
    "Guaranteed.”
    Cheered, Cliff's gaze shifted to the two people unloading luggage and gear. “That little girl there says she's doing a big magazine article on you this year. That true?”
    Scotch blushed. "It's true. We're hoping to get a national sponsor out of the publicity.”
    He nodded in agreeable contemplation. ‘sounds like a plan. Hope it works out for you.”
    His tone rang with uncertainty, catching Scotch's attention. "You think it won't?” she asked, lowering her voice.
    Sucking his teeth, Cliff said, "I think it can go either way. She seems a bit high maintenance to me.” He chuckled, and nudged a now worried Scotch with his shoulder. "But don't mind me; I could be wrong. If I could judge women as well as airplanes, I'd be married by now.”
    She laughed with him, stowing his reservations for later perusal. The reporters finished unloading the plane, and she stepped forward to introduce herself. "Hi, I'm Scotch Fuller. Welcome to Alaska.”
    "It's nice to