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response from Port Angeles under you as I did from him. He was one of my best station commanders. I could always count on him when I needed help keeping things under control.”
    Crane was a ring knocker, so of course he was nothing but Superman in Savage’s eyes. Ward nodded. “I’ve never had the pleasure of working with Captain Crane before.”
    “If you can be half as good as Bob was, I’ll be satisfied.”
    From the stories Ward had heard, Crane was a real bootlicker. He grimaced to himself. Superman, he wasn’t, but he had a hell of a lot of horse sense, and he was good at managing people—all except for his son, Kenny. There, he was failing—badly. Ward forced his concentration back to Savage; the problem with his elder son was never far from his mind.
    “Naturally, I’ll preside over the change-of-command ceremonies tomorrow at 0900.”
    “Thank you, sir. I’d consider it an honor.”
    Savage smiled paternally. “Port Angeles has just been given another honor. Do you know that you’ll be getting our first female helicopter pilot day after tomorrow? Lt. (jg) Rook Caldwell. I’ve seen her service record. Been flying helos since she was sixteen. Graduated from Texas A&M with honors. She went to Pensacola and outscored the boys at their own flight games. At Mobile, Alabama, training, she was one of the best. Quite frankly, I think she’s going to be a fine asset to the 13th District. I hope you will feel the same.”
    “Lieutenant Caldwell sounds sharp, sir. I’m sure she’ll fit in just fine at the station.”
    Ward left the office mulling over several potential problems. Tomorrow he’d find out what shape the station was in. Nagging questions about Lt. Rook Caldwell hovered in front of him as he walked down the hallway toward the exit. She could turn out to be a royal pain to his career or a blessing in disguise.

Chapter Three
    Jim Barton’s eyes narrowed on the door leading into the Red Lion Inn’s restaurant. It was 6 a.m., and as usual for that time of day, he lounged at a table with his father and three other timber-truck drivers. Rook Caldwell had just stepped through the door, her eyes still puffy with sleep, her sleek cap of black hair combed to perfection. She was wearing a decidedly feminine pink blouse and khaki slacks.
    He watched her progress into the restaurant, picking up his mug and sipping the coffee, tuning out the table conversation. She threaded her way through the busy establishment, finding an empty booth at the rear. Smiling to himself, Jim watched her sit down, her back to the wall so that she could look out into the area. Trusting wasn’t in her nature, he thought, rising to his full height. Excusing himself from the table, he walked slowly in her direction, wondering when she would spot him.
    Rook nearly choked on the ice water she had swallowed when she saw Jim Barton walking toward her. He was clean-shaven, his blue eyes dancing with deviltry. A lock of reddish-brown hair grazed his broad, unlined brow. Maybe it was the lopsided grin on his mouth that was making her heart thump hard to underscore this unexpected meeting. Dressed in a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his elbows and pair of clean jeans, he looked incredibly masculine, and Rook found herself unable to resist staring at him in open admiration. Maybe it was the glint in his eyes. Whatever it was, Rook didn’t want any part of it.
    “Good morning,” Jim murmured, halting at the booth. He saw color rise in Rook’s cheeks and her gray eyes grew suspicious. “I can tell that you think I came here deliberately to meet you this morning.” He smiled broadly.
    Flushing, Rook grabbed the water with both hands. “You read minds, too, Mr. Barton.”
    “Actually,” Jim began, gesturing toward the table in the distance, “my dad and I come here every morning before we start cutting timber. They’ve got the best eggs and bacon in Port Angeles.”
    Was he lying? Rook craned her neck, spotting a