A Game of Chance. Linda Howard
engine sputtered, caught, sputtered again. This time the reassuring rhythm didn’t return. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. God, oh God, they were going to crash. Her nails dug into her palms as she fought to contain her panic. She had never before felt so small and helpless, so fragile, with soft flesh and slender bones that couldn’t withstand such battering force. She was going to die, and she had yet to live.
The plane jerked and shuddered, bucking under the stress of spasmodic power. It pitched to the right, throwing Sunny against the door so hard her right arm went numb.
“That’s it,” Chance said between gritted teeth, his knuckles white as he fought to control the pitching aircraft. He brought the wings level again. “I have to take it down now, while I have a little control. Look for the best place.”
Best place? There was no best place. They needed somewhere that was relatively flat and relatively clear; the last location she had seen that fit that description had been in Utah.
He raised the right wingtip, tilting the plane so he had a better side view.
“See anything?” Sunny asked, her voice shaking just a little.
“Nothing. Damn.”
“Damn is the wrong word. Pilots are supposed to say something else just before they crash.” Humor wasn’t much of a weapon with which to face death, but it was how she had always gotten herself through the hard times.
Unbelievably, he grinned. “But I haven’t crashed yet, sweetheart. Have a little faith. I promise I’ll say the right word if I don’t find a good-looking spot pretty soon.”
“If you don’t find a good-looking spot, I’ll say it for you,” she promised fervently.
They crossed a jagged, boulder-strewn ridge, and a long, narrow black pit yawned beneath them like a doorway to hell. “There!” Chance said, nosing the plane down.
“What? Where?” She sat erect, desperate hope flaring inside her, but all she could see was that black pit.
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