The Cowboy and His Wayward Bride. Sherryl Woods
money and passport was safely strapped round her waist, and climbed down. ‘I didn’t buy a raffle ticket or anything…’ she began hesitantly.
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘but we had a spare place and we thought it would be nice to offer it to someone. We watched you get off the coach and we thought you looked like someone who might enjoy it.’
‘I will, but…’ With a small grin, a little shake of her head, she followed him towards all the activity round the slowly inflating balloon. It was a lot bigger than she’d expected.
She was introduced to the other passengers, the female navigator and the pilot, all of whom spoke excellent English, which was fortunate, because her German was virtually non-existent. They were given instructions on what to do in the event of this or that, including the position to adopt if there should be a crash-landing, and then, before she was sure she was ready, she was boosted into the basket. They were told to duck down as the burner was fired, which was very hot, she discovered. No wonder the pilot and navigator wore hats—she was sure she could smell singed hair! And then, without drama, just as the sun nestled against a distant peak, they began to rise. Gently, almost imperceptibly, the basket left the ground.
Allowed to stand once more, they all stared down at the rapidly retreating ground. No jerking, no sudden lurch, just a gentle rise that took them ever higher. Shadows lay along the fields and everywhere looked mystical as the slowly setting sun spread its dying light across the beautiful landscape. Well, she had wanted to see Bavaria, and this was certainly a very good way of doing so.
The driver of the support vehicle waved and they all waved back, like children. It was one of the most incredible experiences of her life. She didn’t think she had ever known such an utter feeling of peace. Apart from the intermittent flare of the burner, the whoosh of sound, the heat, everything was silent—and then a dog began to bark somewhere below, and she smiled. She didn’t want to talk to the others, and perhaps they felt the same, because they were all quiet. A time to think, reflect on the insignificance of human beings.
With very little room to move in the basket that was divided into four sections for the passengers and navigator, and a smaller section for the pilot, they all politely shuffled round so that each could get the best view, take their photographs. The pilot began to explain in both English and German where they were, their speed, pointing out distant towns and villages. But Sarah was barely listening as they floated in a sky that was that beautiful blue that sometimes occurred before darkness descended. Soaring across peaks and valleys, Sarah watched it all and thought she could stay up here for ever, free, unhampered, and tried to impress everything into her mind so that she would always have these feelings.
The hour they were allotted soon passed and as the sun dipped to the distant horizon they were instructed to put their belongings into the pouches provided before they began their descent.
‘Do you land just anywhere?’ she asked the pilot curiously.
‘Sometimes,’ he laughed. ‘Unable to control the wind, we go where we must. Look for a field where the crops have been lifted or cut. Somewhere smooth without power lines or too many trees. Most of the farmers or landowners know us, and we generally offer them a free balloon trip in thanks…’ Breaking off, he stared down in concentration, and then instructed them to assume the crash positions. He spoke to his navigator, who was trying to raise someone on her walkie-talkie, and Sarah heard something about a ten-knot wind before they were suddenly thrown sideways as they rapidly picked up speed. Unable to see from her crouched position, eyes wide, she waited for whatever was going to happen. A small bump, she assumed.
A tree thrashed against the side of the basket and then they hit something, and it wasn’t a small bump at all. The edge of the basket caught the ground first and Sarah stupidly assumed that was it, that they were down and relaxed her grip, only to be thrown violently against the man next to her as they rose again and then hit even harder. With the basket at an angle, her back pressed against the wicker side, and her arms braced, they bounced, hard, five times in quick succession before the basket finally came to rest—and fell over onto its side.
Lying on her back, bruised and disoriented, Sarah watched as everyone scrambled free and slowly relaxed her death grip on the safety rope. Someone squatted down beside her and she quickly turned her head. Green eyes examined her with almost hypnotic intensity—and time was suspended.
‘Are you hurt?’ he finally asked quietly.
‘You’re English,’ she stated stupidly.
‘Yes. Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hurt?’
‘No, English. Sorry. Shall I get out now?’
‘I think so.’
So solemn, so serious, this stranger with the devastating eyes. He looked cynical and mocking, experienced, older. Competent, as though he’d seen it all, done it all. Perhaps he had. But attractive, and she felt herself tremble. He also looked vaguely familiar.
He helped her to stand, and still she couldn’t break her gaze. Never in all her twenty-four years, she thought in bewilderment, had someone had this effect on her.
He nodded with an indifference that hurt, released her, and walked away. He had looked as though he didn’t like her. Puzzled, not only by his reaction, but her own, still standing by the basket, she continued to stare after him, and only gradually became aware that everyone, including several unknowns, were helping to squash the air out of the balloon. Leaning into the basket to retrieve her camera, she went to put it down safely, and then changed her mind and quickly snapped a picture of the man who had helped her. Feeling daft, glancing furtively round to make sure no one was looking, she took another one before going to help with the balloon.
‘You find him interesting?’ a soft voice asked from beside her.
Startled, Sarah turned to the fair-haired young woman standing next to her.
‘I am Gita,’ she introduced herself shyly, ‘from the nearby village.’
Smiling, Sarah shook the proffered hand. ‘Sarah Beverley, from England. And, yes,’ she finally answered. ‘I find him interesting.’
‘We also,’ she agreed. ‘His name is Jed. Our own very important claim to fame. John Erskine Dane. He is now a writer. We like him very much.’
Absently kneading the balloon fabric to get out all the air, Sarah tried the name out on her tongue—and then she remembered. John Dane. ‘This is John Dane’ from the Middle East, or Africa, or wherever. She’d seen him on the television covering wars, strikes, civil unrest. Crumpled, and sometimes unshaven, he’d stood before a camera and told them what he had seen.
‘Now he’s a writer?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Gita responded as both girls continued to watch the tall, dark-haired man who was working at the far end of the balloon. Gita with gentle affection, Sarah with interest.
‘He lives here?’
‘Yes, for about one year now. He was out walking when he saw the balloon landing and came to help. Perhaps one day we will put up a little plaque,’ she teased gently, ‘to say that he wrote one of his best-sellers in the calm and peace of our lovely Bavaria.’
‘Would he like that?’
‘No, I think not. He is a very private man, not one for—extravagance?’ she asked doubtfully, unsure of a word that was not in her native tongue. ‘He walks in the mountains,’ she continued fondly, ‘and sits in the café, smiles his quiet smile, and we do not bother him because we think perhaps he is writing in his head and it is best not to interrupt such important thoughts. So we smile and nod and he stays for a little bit more. You will not disturb him?’ she asked worriedly.
She would very much like to disturb him, Sarah thought, but not in the way Gita meant. ‘No,’ she denied absently. ‘I will not disturb him.’
Leaning her forehead against the glass, Sarah wondered, now, if she ever had. Certainly