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“FIRST TIME IN ALASKA?” Mack McCaulley asked to make conversation.

It was three twenty-seven on a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon in late June, and they had been in the air for fifteen minutes. His passenger had yet to utter a single word. He was beginning to wonder if she was mute.

The petite young woman wedged beside him in his Beaver floatplane, dubbed Edna Marie after his beloved grandmother, bobbed her head.

An overabundance of clothing—upturned coat collar, turtleneck sweater, wool knit toque—almost swallowed up her round little face. And what the clothing didn’t obscure of her features, the thick glasses did.

When he had picked her up at the Anchorage airport, she’d reminded him of a nearsighted marshmallow, so swaddled was she in goose down. She had dressed for a winter in Antarctica, not a balmy sixty-degree day in Bear Creek.

No telling what kind of figure she possessed beneath the many layers. Not that he was interested.

Actually, she seemed more Caleb’s type. Quiet, studious, introverted. Mack could tell with one glance she was much too timid to make a good Alaskan wife. At least for him. He considered fortitude the number one quality he required in a mate, and this woman was about as brave as bumbling deputy, Barney Fife, from the old Andy Griffith Show.

She had inched into the plane, clutching at whatever handhold she could find as if she believed the metal might collapse beneath her insignificant weight. And when he’d placed a hand on her shoulder to help steady her, she’d gasped out loud at the casual contact.

What? Had she thought he would ravish her on the spot? Maybe he should tell her he always toasted his marshmallows before eating them.

In the ensuing moments since takeoff she had been staring at the floorboard, her hands clenched in white-knuckled terror.

“Uh-huh,” she spoke so quietly, Mack had to tilt his head and lean in her direction to hear. She had taken so long to respond he’d almost forgotten the question.

Thank heavens not all the women who’d shown up in Bear Creek following their advertisement in Metropolitan magazine were this uncommunicative. Mack smiled at the thought of his last fare. A foxy redhead with a killer figure who’d pressed her cell phone number into his hand and whispered, “Call me.”

Now, she’d seemed very adventuresome. Mack exhaled audibly. Yep, he and his three friends were in for a hot, hot summer.

Er…better make that two friends. Quinn was already spoken for, having courted and caught Kay Freemont, the beautiful reporter Metropolitan magazine had sent to cover their story.

And this particular bachelor’s curiosity was not piqued by the geeky lass beside him. He would be more than happy to dump her at Jake’s B&B and head back to Anchorage for another bunch of bachelorettes. His next passengers were sorority sisters from the University of Las Vegas. Those women had to be livelier than this one.

And he craved liveliness in his mate. He wanted an exciting wife who would embrace Alaska with all her heart and soul. A best friend. A woman who loved long dark winters and relished active sunny summers.

To Mack, fearlessness was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

In his pocket, he kept a “wife” list—an itemization of his future spouse’s ideal qualities. The list reminded him not to get sidetracked by a pretty face or a sexy body that turned out to have a couch potato soul, as he had in the past. As the last surviving McCaulley male he was serious about getting married and having kids. And he was very specific about what he wanted.

“But my mother was born in Alaska,” Miss Marshmallow whispered after a silence so long he jumped when she spoke. “She was a bush pilot like you.”

He almost didn’t catch the last bit. “For real?”

The woman bobbed her head.

“Where’s your mother from?”

“Fairbanks.”

Well, that explained her overdressing. Fairbanks, nearer to the Arctic Circle, was much colder than the southern coastal region.

“So you’re an Alaskan by proxy.” He smiled. Poor thing. He felt kind of sorry for her. He had a sneaking suspicion if he yelled “boo” too loudly she would faint dead away from fright.

“I guess so.”

“Your mom let you come here all alone?” Mack could have sworn she wasn’t any older than sixteen.

“Both my parents passed away when I was a kid.”

Way to go, McCaulley. Open mouth, insert size thirteen-and-a-half boot.

“Oh, wow. I mean, I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“Did your folks die at the same time?”

“No. A car crash killed my dad when I was six.”

“That must have been terrible.”

She nodded. “My mom was so grief-stricken she didn’t take care of herself. The doctors refused to say losing the love of her life caused her cancer to grow, but I know better. She and my dad were true soul mates. She even gave up Alaska and her life as a bush pilot for him.”

“Your mom sounds like a hell of a woman.” Too bad the daughter hadn’t inherited any of her mother’s moxie.

“She was.”

“So you’re an orphan.”

“My three doting great-aunts raised me. So I never felt like an orphan. But I miss my mom.”

Her voice had gotten stronger as she spoke. She had the cutest little drawl. Mack had flown enough tourists in his day to pinpoint her heritage as Texas. Or maybe Oklahoma.

“It’s nice. That you’re not all alone, I mean.”

Geez, he sounded like an idiot. Good thing Miss Marshmallow wasn’t potential mate material. With these brilliant and insightful comments falling from his silver tongue, she would drop him like a stone and he couldn’t blame her.

“How about you?” she ventured in a whisper. “Are your parents still alive?”

“My father died last year. My mother?” He shrugged, not wanting to talk about his childhood. “She left me and my dad when I was eight. Couldn’t handle the Alaskan winters any longer. She lives in Georgia with husband number five or six, I forget which.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“Not much. She hates Alaska. Says the wilderness scares her.” He rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t have much staying power when it comes to relationships.”

“Maybe you should reach out to her. She could be lonely.”

Mack hooted. “She’s invited to a different party every night. I seriously doubt she’s lonely.”

“She hurt you when she left, didn’t she?”

Mack angled her a look. “Funny,” he snapped. “You seem too shy to be the nosy type.”

“I’m not. I mean…oh drat…how much longer until we reach Bear Creek?” she mumbled.

He’d cut her off short. Not very nice of him. Especially when he recognized that conversation did not come easily to her. But he didn’t want to discuss his erstwhile mother.

“About thirty minutes,” he said more gently.

“Oh.”

“Name’s Mack, by the way.” As a way to apologize for his rudeness, he stuck out a hand. “Mack McCaulley.”

She stared at his palm and hesitated a moment before slipping her slender hand into his, then pulling away as fast as she could.

What? Did he have cooties?

“I know who you are. I recognized your picture from Metropolitan magazine. Page 110. The four of you guys are sitting around without shirts on.”

“Ah, the infamous ad.”

She stared at his chest then, as if recalling how bare he looked in that confounded advertisement and her cheeks darkened to bright crimson.

“You’ve got the advantage because all I know is your last name.” He tapped his log book lying on the seat between them. “What’s your given name?”

“Cammie Jo.”

Had she said Tammie Jo? He couldn’t be sure, she had such a soft tone, but the name suited her. Old-fashioned, sweet, innocent. For no good reason, he had the strangest urge to wrap his arm around her to protect her from the big bad world.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you, too.”

She smiled and met his eyes at last, although she immediately glanced away again. But that rapid-fire smile did dazzling things for her—let’s admit the facts folks—rather plain-Jane face.

Mack returned his attention to business as they neared the mountain range that almost surrounded Bear Creek. Like most of the numerous mountains in Alaska, this cluster had no official name, but the locals called them the Tlingit Peaks for the original natives who’d inhabited the area.

He angled the nose of the floatplane upward as the majestic blue hunks of snowcapped jagged rock drew nearer. She sucked in her breath with an audible whoosh. Turning his head to look at her once more, Mack discovered she had her eyes clenched shut.

“Afraid of flying in small planes?”

Cammie Jo nodded and swallowed hard. “Any planes.”

It had taken a strong dose of Aunt Hildegard’s home-brewed chamomile tea and a meditation tape to even allow her to set foot on the dawn flight from Austin to Dallas/Fort Worth and then on to Anchorage. If she hadn’t wanted to see Alaska so badly, nothing would have persuaded her aboard.

And planes weren’t the only things that frightened her. Top on her list of phobias? Making small talk with handsome strangers. And not just any handsome stranger but the very bachelor she’d been fantasizing about.

Being here with him was too cool and too cruel. Out of all the bush pilots in Alaska, how had she ended up with the object of her affections?

Of course she hadn’t the faintest notion of competing with other women to become this man’s wife. Because of her shyness, she feared she would never find her true love the way her mother and father had found each other.

How she wished she was gutsy enough to flirt with him.

Ha! That would be the day.

She knew Mack wasn’t impressed with her. Men never were. He’d barely even glanced at her when she’d sidled up to where he’d stood in the airport, holding a placard with her last name written in a bold masculine hand.

But what about the treasured wish totem nestled in the bottom of her handbag, waiting for her to come to a decision? What if the necklace worked? She could wish for anything.

Bravery.

A husband.

True love.

Wishing doesn’t make it so, Cammie Jo. There’s no proof the necklace is anything more than suggestive jewelry.

No proof at all, except for the letter her mother had penned to her on her deathbed.

How she wanted to believe in the mystical power.

Mack’s gaze on her was disconcerting. Frankly, everything about him disconcerted her.

His outdoorsy, masculine scent when she was accustomed to delicate, feminine aromas like lilac and lavender and rose. His husky masculine voice when the dulcet, ladylike murmurs of her three aunts most often graced her ears. His stubble-darkened jawline when she was used to…well, okay, so Aunt Kiki did have a bit of a five o’clock shadow, but not when she regularly used her depilatory cream.

Anyway, he represented an alien creature, from the corded muscles of his wrists and forearms to his disheveled brown hair to his proud aquiline nose.

And in his presence Cammie Jo was as tremulous as a bunny rabbit at a hoot owl jamboree.

She turned her head to look out the window, but the closeness of the mountains in conjunction with the smallness of the plane unnerved her almost as much as the man beside her. She shifted in her seat and tried to cross her legs, not an easy feat in the many layers of puffy clothing she wore.

Accidentally, she kicked the handset mounted on the dash. The two-way radio slipped from its mooring and crashed to the floor of the plane.

Shy klutz, thy name is Cammie Jo.

“Omigosh. I’m so sorry.” She reached for the handset at the same time Mack leaned over and their heads cracked together.

“Ow!”

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.” She rubbed the bump on her noggin. Mack was wincing and doing the same.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized again. Without thinking, she reached out to touch the red angry welt forming on his forehead but he drew back.

“I’m okay.” His voice was gruff; his gaze fixed on a spot outside the windshield.

Mortified, she shrank into her seat.

Remember why you came here, she scolded herself. Not for love, not for romance, not to snag yourself a handsome bachelor but to face your fears, visit the land of your mother’s birth and to have a grand adventure.

And if she couldn’t face her darkest dreads? Cammie Jo gulped. She would no doubt end up single for the rest of her life, living in the same old house in Austin, teaching college and pining for what might have been.

No. She refused to hide from life any longer. So what if she had embarrassed herself in front of Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-For-My-Shirt Bush Pilot. Big deal. She would live. No point putting the guy on a pedestal.

She might not be sexy and brave and graceful and totally feminine from her head to her toes, but she was whip-smart. She had maintained a perfect 4.0 GPA all through undergraduate school and a 3.9 during her graduate studies in information science.

So there. Pffttt.

She warmed to the subject. Who was he anyway? Sitting there looking so accomplished, so tough. Her own mother had been a bush pilot. How hard could flying a plane be? The guy wasn’t a brain surgeon or nuclear scientist. In fact, if she wasn’t so scared of flying, she could become a pilot if she wanted.

Oh yeah, dead easy to be courageous inside her own head.

On the outside was another story.

Do something brave, stare out the window, study the landscape. Imagine you’re piloting the plane.

Cammie Jo forced herself to look out the side window and wished she hadn’t.

The mountains were so very close and it looked as if Mack flew straight at them.

Her breath took its sweet time strolling from her lungs. Her pulse crescendoed in her ears.

I won’t look away, I won’t, I won’t. I’m brave. I’m strong, I’m invincible. I’m intrepid Camryn Josephine.

The nose of the plane dipped. The wing wavered. Startled, Cammie Jo’s eyes widened.

Was this normal?

She peeked over at Mack. He looked calm and controlled, but of course he would. He was the pilot. He wasn’t supposed to let on if things were bad.

The plane dove down, down, down in a rapid descent, falling into a small valley hidden between the massive mountains. She stared at the control panel, some gizmo spinning wildly as if they were in deep trouble.

Calm down.

But she couldn’t. Her stomach scraped the roof of her mouth. The sheer face of a mountain lay mere yards away. She spied trees and other vegetation and hey, was that a mountain goat?

Down, down, down. Almost at a ninety-degree angle. It couldn’t be normal to slip in so steep. Something had to be malfunctioning. She fisted her hands, fought for self-control and failed.

Aiyeeh! We’re gonna crash! Mayday! Mayday! Oh, shoot, I didn’t want to die a virgin.

Freaked out of her wits, Cammie Jo spun in her seat, unbuckled the belt, dove sideways and plowed her head into Mack’s lap.

Seconds later, when the plane leveled out and it became clear they weren’t crashing, Cammie Jo realized she had her face buried snugly in a strange man’s crotch.