Up Close and Dangerous (10 page)

She carefully applied the salve, which also contained a mild analgesic; that had to be a good thing. Then she covered the wound with sterile pads and wrapped gauze around his head; when she was finished with that, she used the Ace bandage to wrap around his head and cover the gauze. The finished product was rather neat, if she did say so herself, and the Ace bandage would help keep dirt away from the wound.

“There,” she finally said, collapsing on her butt beside him. “That’s done. Next on the agenda: shelter.”

9

D
AMN, SHE WAS SEXY.

Cam had never thought so before, but he definitely did now—and not because of the way she looked, either, because right now she looked like hell. Her hair was a mess, her face sported both blood and dirt, as well as bruised areas under both eyes that would probably be black tomorrow. Her current state of dress made her look like a cross between a mountain man and a bag lady. And despite the fact that she’d just spent an hour punching holes in his head—or maybe because of it—he wanted to kiss her.

He inwardly snorted at the last thought. Kiss her, my ass. He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that, so he guessed it was a good thing his current physical condition wasn’t the greatest, or he’d have already risked having his head handed to him on a platter by making a heavy, serious-as-a-heart-attack pass at her.

He’d always wondered what made a male praying mantis court death by mating with the deadly female, whether they didn’t have functional brains so the poor saps had no idea they were literally fucking themselves to death or if something had short-circuited in their evolution. After all, a process that ended in death for the male couldn’t be good for the species. At the same time, he’d sort of admired the little bastards; it took a dedicated male to keep on humping while his head was being torn off and eaten. For the first time, he sort of understood the motivation. He’d risk a hell of a lot to get her naked and under him.

Not that Mrs. Wingate—Hell, what was her first name? He knew it, but he was in the habit of thinking of her as Mrs. Wingate and it didn’t immediately spring to mind. Right now his brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders anyway. Remembering seemed important, though, as if it wasn’t right to think about getting her naked if he couldn’t remember her first name.

Thus motivated, he concentrated on the task of recall. Something unusual…like a brand of booze. He began running names through his head: Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, J&B, Bailey’s…Bailey. That was it. He felt triumphant. Now he could fantasize with a clear conscience.

Anyway, it wasn’t as if Mrs. Wingate—Bailey, damn it!—would tear his head off, but he sensed she wouldn’t be easy, in any sense of the word. She was a challenge both physically and mentally. She’d built a wall around herself and he suspected few people ever saw past it to the woman barricaded within. Only the emergency conditions thrust on them by the crash had made her emerge from that fortress and let him see the real woman.

But he had seen her, and he liked what he saw.

If he’d ever wondered what it would be like to be marooned with her, which he hadn’t, he’d have been certain she would be either a whiny, useless, royal pain in the ass, or a bitchy, demanding, royal pain in the ass. Either way, she’d have been a PITA. Instead she’d been so calm and competent, tackling every problem and situation with both common sense and ingenuity, that he never would have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself. She’d done whatever was necessary, and had likely saved his life. She hadn’t hesitated to warm his icy feet against her warm body, nor had she blushed or been upset when he’d discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra.

He liked that kind of composure, and the inner surety of self it revealed. His divorce had taught him some truths about himself, and he hadn’t forgotten them in his subsequent dealings with women. He was a former military officer and a pilot, two groups that pretty much excluded the shy and retiring types. He himself was self-confident and authoritative; he was accustomed to taking command, making decisions, and having most people do what he told them to do. It took a strong woman to deal with him on an equal basis, but now, in his late thirties, an equal relationship appealed to him a lot more than one in which he had to hold himself back to keep from hurting a woman’s feelings or overwhelming her. He didn’t like playing games, and he didn’t want a woman who tried to make him jump through hoops.

Maybe women like that were thin on the ground, or maybe he’d been looking in the wrong places, but he hadn’t found many women who combined that kind of mental appeal with a strong physical appeal. Karen, for instance, was strong and forceful, but he felt zero sexual attraction for her. In Bailey’s case, his distaste for what he’d thought was a permafrost personality had overridden any physical interest he might have felt.

Things were different now. He didn’t know why she’d built such a tall, icy wall around herself, but she had temporarily relaxed and let her guard down, let him inside the walls, and he damn sure intended to stay there. This crisis had forged a bond between them, a bond of survival. When this was over, when rescue reached them, she would try to put matters between them back on their original footing. He wouldn’t let that happen. Somehow, between now and then, he had to win her trust for good.

He was handicapped by being flat on his back, and judging from the way he felt, he was likely to be that way for at least the next day or two. He was concussed, as well as suffering from serious blood loss. He doubted a rescue party would be able to reach them before nightfall, and any search parties in these mountains were always suspended during the night hours because continuing would simply be too dangerous for the searchers. That meant he and Bailey had to survive tonight, when temperatures would drop like a rock and dying from hypothermia was a real possibility. On the one hand, they were in serious trouble. On the other, the rest of the day and tonight would likely be all the time he had to make any lasting headway with her.

He couldn’t move his head much without triggering lightning bolts through his brain, but by carefully cutting his eyes to the left he could keep her within his field of vision. She was picking up something and looking at it, but he couldn’t tell what the something was.

“This kind of half-worked,” she said, coming back to his side and squatting down. In her hand was a zipped clear plastic bag, in the bottom of which was what looked like slush. “I tried to melt some snow for us to drink by leaving the bag on a rock. It’s definitely mushy and runny, so I guess with more time in the sun we’d have real water, but this will have to do for now because you need some fluids in you.” She looked around. “You wouldn’t have a drinking straw handy, would you? Or a spoon?”

He was a little amused by the question. “Afraid not.”

He watched her brow furrow and her lips purse as she looked around, as if she could conjure up either item with sheer force of will. Now that he was aware of her ingenuity, he could almost hear the wheels turning as she searched for a solution to the dilemma of the moment. Then her brow cleared and she said “Ah ha!” in a tone of satisfaction.

“Ah ha, what?” he asked, his curiosity tickled, as she straightened and stepped out of his sight.

“You have a can of spray deodorant. I know because I went through all your stuff.”

“And?” He didn’t care that she’d gone through his bag; under the circumstances,
not
going through his stuff would have been stupid—and stupid was one thing she definitely wasn’t. She’d needed to know what resources she had at hand.

“And that can has a cap on it.”

Ah ha, indeed. The spray can cap was essentially the same as the cap on a thermos bottle, just smaller. He should have made the connection himself.

He heard the familiar sound of a plastic cap being removed from a spray can. “The taste might be a little weird,” she said. “I’ll wash the cap out with snow, that should help some in case you’ve hit the nozzle and sprayed some deodorant on the inside of the cap. Is there anything in deodorant that wouldn’t be good to have in your water?”

“Probably everything,” he said casually. “Did you bring any hair spray?” Hair spray was probably less toxic than deodorant. Deodorant had some sort of aluminum in its chemical makeup, didn’t it? He didn’t know what was normally in hair spray, other than alcohol, but alcohol had to be better than aluminum.

“Nope,” she said from behind him. She sounded a little absent, as if she was concentrating on something other than conversation. “I was going rafting, remember? What would be the point of hair spray? Hmm. I guess I could rig up a funnel and pour this into the mouthwash bottle, if you don’t want to take a chance with the deodorant cap.”

“Just wipe it out with snow; it should be okay.” Now that she’d mentioned water, he was abruptly aware of how thirsty he was, and he didn’t want to wait while she searched for something she could fold into a funnel. He’d take his chances with deodorant residue.

“Okay, then.”

He listened to her crunch around for a minute, then he heard the crisp rustle of plastic. A few seconds later she squatted beside him, the blue cap in her left hand.

“Don’t try to sit up,” she instructed. “If you pass out and fall over, you might make me drop the water.” As she spoke she eased her right arm under his neck, the position cradling the side of his face against her breasts. He could feel the firm resilience, smell the warm, faintly sweet scent of a woman’s skin, and the sudden urge to turn his head and bury his face against her was so fierce that only a sudden stab of pain deflected him.

“Be careful,” she murmured, holding the cup to his lips. “It’s just a couple of swallows, so try not to spill even a drop.”

As soon as he took a sip she moved the cup away. The partially melted snow had a sharp mineral taste, mingled with that of plastic, and was so cold that it almost made his teeth hurt. The liquid washed over the swollen, scratchy tissues of his mouth and throat, being absorbed almost as fast as he could swallow. When she started to put the cup back in place for another swallow, he forestalled her by giving the merest shake of his head, which was all he could manage. “Your turn.”

“I’ll eat some snow,” she replied. “I’m moving around, so eating snow won’t lower my body temperature as much as it would yours.” She frowned. “How long do you think it will be before a search party finds us? It’s been several hours since your Mayday call, but I haven’t even heard a search helicopter, much less seen one. If you think it’ll be much longer, I’ll have to find a better way to get some drinking water. Melting snow isn’t very efficient.”

No, because it took a lot of snow to make a little water, and vice versa. In answer to her question he said, “Likely it will be tomorrow before a search party can reach us, at the earliest.”

She didn’t look surprised, just worried—and annoyed. “Why so long? It’s been hours since your Mayday call.” As she talked she held the plastic cap to his lips, and he took another sip of water.

“Because no one will have even started searching for us yet,” he said when he’d swallowed.

The look of annoyance grew stronger. “Why not?” she asked, her tone sharp.

“When we don’t make our scheduled fuel stop in Salt Lake City, that’s when the alert will go out. If we don’t check in somewhere within a couple of hours after we miss that stop, a search will be organized.”

“But you sent out a Mayday call! You gave our location.”

“Which may or may not have been monitored. Even if it was, a search wouldn’t be initiated then. Searches are damned expensive, and search teams have limited resources; they have to be certain the Mayday wasn’t bogus, that some idiot didn’t think it would be funny to send out a Mayday call when nothing was wrong. So they wait until a plane doesn’t show up where and when it’s supposed to before initiating a response. Even after an alert is issued, organizing a search takes time. This is June, so the days are long, but even so I doubt a search team could locate us before dark. They would stop for the night, and start again tomorrow morning.”

He watched her as she processed that information, her gaze searching the massive landscape around them. After a few minutes she sighed. “I hoped I could get by with just finding some way to keep the wind off us, but we’ll need a lot more than that, won’t we?”

“If you want to still be alive tomorrow morning, yes.”

“I was afraid of that.” She gave him the last of the water, then carefully lowered his head to the blanket and eased her arm from beneath him. Her smile was rueful as she reached under the pile of clothing covering him, finally withdrawing her arm with his pocketknife in her hand. “I’d better get started, then. This will take time.”

“Don’t try for anything elaborate. It needs to be small enough that our body heat can warm the air around us a little, so the smaller the better, as long as there’s room for both of us. Salvage what you can from the plane: the leather from the seats, any wiring you can use to lash poles or sticks together, things like that.”

She snorted at his instructions. “Elaborate? Dream on. Just so you know: I really suck at construction.”

10

H
AVING
J
USTICE CONFIRM WHAT SHE’D INSTINCTIVELY
known, that no one was searching for them, rattled Bailey more than she wanted to reveal. She had really, really needed to hear that they’d be rescued soon, because managing any sort of shelter would tax her little remaining strength to the limit. She simply didn’t know how much longer she could keep going.

Resting beside Justice and warming herself while she warmed him had helped, but the least bit of exertion now seemed to bring an onslaught of dizziness, which wasn’t good considering the steepness of the slope she was having to negotiate. The smallest misstep or stumble could send her tumbling down the mountain, and in this rugged terrain that would almost guarantee a broken leg or arm, at the least. The only bright spot she could see was that while her headache was nonstop, it didn’t seem to be intensifying. Some bright spot; it wasn’t exactly giving her hope.