Читать книгу Expecting the Boss's Baby / Twins Under His Tree - Karen Rose Smith, Christine Rimmer - Страница 12

“Zoe? Zoe, wake up.” A hand slapped her cheek lightly. A delicate sting.

And her head hurt like crazy. She groaned, reached back, felt wetness. She opened her eyes, brought her hand in front of her face. Blood, but not much. She reached back a second time, probed the injury carefully. Already a goose egg was rising.

Goose eggs were good, she’d read somewhere, hadn’t she? If the swelling was on the outside, you were less likely to end up with a subdural hematoma, which could be bad. Very, very bad.

“Zoe?”

She blinked. Dax was craning toward her from the other seat. He’d taken off his headphones and his chest was bare. He held his shirt to his forehead, on the left side. The shirt was soaked through with blood.

“Thank God,” he said. “Zoe.”

“We’re not dead.” She spoke in awe. It was a miracle. Impossible. And yet, somehow, true.

Dax retreated to his seat, tipped his head back and shut his eyes. He still held the bloody shirt to his head. Really, he didn’t look so good. She realized he needed help. And she was just sitting there …

Blinking away the last of her dizziness, she went for the latch on her seat restraint. For a moment, she thought it was jammed, that somehow, in the landing, which had turned out to be something of a crash, it had been broken and stuck shut.

Panic tried to rise. She bit the inside of her cheek, focused on the sharp little pain, and worked at the latch some more.

A second later, it popped open.

She was out of the seat and ripping off her white shirt without even stopping to think about it. She wadded the cotton fabric into a ball and crouched over his seat. “Dax.” She caught his chin with one hand. “Let me see …”

He lowered his hand and she saw the deep gash at his temple—the really deep gash. Beneath all that blood, she could see the ivory luster of bone.

And the blood? It was still flowing, lots of it, pulsing from the wound in great gouts. It ran down the side of his face, into his eyes.

“Here. Use this.” She gave him her own shirt.

He dropped the blood-soaked one and put hers over the wound. Through the blood in his eyes, he looked at her in her bra and shorts. A corner of his mouth twitched in the faint hope of a smile. “I’ve got you with your shirt off, and I’m bleeding too hard to do a damn thing about it.”

“I need a first aid kit.”

“In the floor compartment behind your seat.” He held her shirt to his head, but it was already soaking through, turning a bold, bright crimson.

“Keep the pressure on that. Good and firm.”

“Right.” He did as she instructed without a word of complaint, without giving her any argument. It was so unlike him to be docile. And that terrified her, brought the reality of their situation too sharply home.

The fuselage, amazingly, remained intact. They were reasonably safe inside. But outside the battered plane, the rain kept on coming, in buckets. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. The windscreen was a thick, pearly spiderweb of cracks, obscuring the world beyond. And the window in Dax’s door was the same, but with a small jagged hole punched clean through it—just possibly caused by whatever had sliced his forehead open.

However, she could see well enough out the window in her door. Too bad visibility past the window was poor. Nothing but sheets of rain and, indistinctly, a wall of green where the jungle started.

Not now. Don’t think about what’s out there now….

She squeezed between the seats and had to spend several precious seconds tossing supplies, suitcases and equipment back toward the baggage area. Water bottles were scattered everywhere, broken loose from the case of them they’d brought along, rolling around on the floor. But finally, she got the area cleared. She was able to get the compartment open and take out a large, black canvas-covered bag with a white cross printed on the front.

“How you doing back there?” Dax asked. “Need help?”

“I’m on it. Just stay in your seat and keep the pressure on that wound.” She cleared a space on one of the backseats and zipped the bag open. It was a really good kit—way beyond the basics. More like something a paramedic might carry. It even contained the necessary tools for sewing up a man’s head.

I can do this. I took first aid. And then there was that survivalist training weekend she’d gone on once in her ongoing effort to prove to her dad that she was as good as any of the boys. They’d taught her how to stitch up a wound over that weekend. She remembered thinking at the time that she would never need to use that particular skill …

She sucked in a breath—and shook her head, hard. No. No negative thoughts could be allowed to creep in. She knew what she needed to do. And she knew how to do it.

Grabbing the kit, she scrambled between the front seats again. When she got up there, she set the kit, open, on the passenger side.

“Zoe?” He sounded worried.

“I’m right here. Keep the pressure against the wound. I know what I’m doing.”

He made a low sound. A chuckle—or a groan? “Of course you do.”

She smiled at that. Even now, with a gash the size of Texas on his forehead, he could manage to both tease and reassure her at the same time. She found the butterfly bandages and gazed at them longingly. If only they would do the trick.

But the wound was too deep. Maybe they could help to hold the edges together while she stitched him up.

She still wore her fake engagement ring. During the crash, the stone had scratched up the fingers to either side of it. She was clearly the lucky one. A few bruises, some scratches. A goose egg on the back of her head. No gash so deep the bone showed—and really, they were both lucky.

Lucky simply to be alive and in one piece. She had to remember that.

She yanked off the silly ring and shoved it into a pocket of her shorts. Then she rubbed disinfectant on her hands and laid out what she was going to need: the butterfly strips, tweezers, more disinfectant, sterile gloves, absorbable thread, scissors, the creepy little curved needle, the dressing she would use after, along with a tube of antibiotic ointment—and extra gauze. There was nothing to dull the pain of what she was about to do to him. Nothing stronger than acetaminophen—wait.

There was codeine. She almost kissed the little bottle of pills before she screwed off the cap.

“Dax, did you get knocked out, even for a few seconds during the crash?”

“Huh?”

“I’m afraid to give you a serious pain killer if you’ve been unconscious.”

“No,” he said. “Something sharp flew by and sliced my head open, that’s all.”

“Excellent.” She took his free hand, dropped two of the pills into his palm, and closed his lean fingers around them. “Here.”

“What are they?”

“Codeine.”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt that much. Head wounds usually don’t.”

If it didn’t hurt now, it would when she went to work on it. “Dax. Take the pills.”

He blew out a breath, opened his mouth and tossed them in.

“Perfect. Thank you.” She grabbed for one of the water bottles that had escaped the baggage area, and gave him a sip.

“More,” he said low. She let him have the bottle. He drank half of it, then handed it back. He was eyeing the other seat: the scissors, the needle, the pile of white gauze, all so carefully laid out. “You’re actually going to try and sew me up, huh?”

“That is the plan—and I’m going to do much more than try.” She cleaned her hands again, then put on the gloves. “Okay, let’s take another look …”

The console between the seats was in her way, but she lifted one knee and braced it on his seat to get in close. He tried to scoot over a little, to give her room to work—and gasped.

She frowned. “What? Your leg, too?”

“My ankle …” He hissed through his teeth, panting, getting through the pain. He reached toward it but got nowhere, with her practically on top of him. “I think it’s just a sprain.” He let his head drop to the seat rest again and swore low. “What a screwup. Bleeding all over the place—and I don’t think I can walk.”

“It’s okay,” she told him, not because it was true, but because there was nothing else to say. “The codeine will help with the pain and we’ll deal with the ankle once we take care of your head.”

He grunted, tried a grin but didn’t quite make it. “Nurse Bravo, I’m at your mercy.”

“Hmm. Could this be the right moment to hit you up for a raise?”

“Always working the angles.”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Now, let me see what I’m dealing with here….”

He lowered the bloody shirt from his forehead.

The blood flow had slowed, which was good. But then she had to clean and disinfect the injury thoroughly and that got the bleeding going again. She dabbed and poked and pressed at the gash and the surrounding tissue until she had it clear enough to work on.

The sewing-up took way too long. Each stitch had to be separate, so the whole thing wouldn’t come apart if one happened to break. At least she found she did know what she was doing. During that delightful survivalist weekend, they’d made her practice doing stitches on a round steak, which she’d found thoroughly gross at the time. Who knew that someday she would be grateful for the experience?

Dax sat still beneath her hands. She knew it had to hurt, but he didn’t make a sound.

She was sweating bullets by the end of it—from the stress, from the concentration, from the increasing sticky heat in the cabin. It was a great moment, when she finally set the scissors and needle aside. The dressing came next and that took no time at all.

“There,” she said, snapping off the disposable gloves. “Done at last.”

He tried to smile. “How do I look?”

“Rakish. All the girls will be after you. The scar is going to really wow them.”

He grunted. He was probably thinking that he didn’t need any more girls after him. But he didn’t say it. He only whispered, “Thank you, Zoe.”

She handed him the water bottle. “Drink.” She grabbed one for herself, too, and took a big gulp.

He screwed the lid back on his slowly. “Don’t know why I’m so exhausted.”

She was repacking the first aid kit by then. “Maybe the crash landing. Maybe the loss of blood. Maybe the twelve stitches in your forehead.”

“Maybe the codeine.”

“Hmm. Could be that, too—I need to look at your ankle now.”

His lower lip had a mutinous curl. “It’s okay for now. I think the codeine is kicking in. I can hardly feel anything.”

“Still, we can wrap it, for support, and you should get it elevated. Too bad we don’t have any ice …”

“You’re a pain in the ass, Zoe, you know that?”

“Flattering me will get you nowhere.”

He grunted. “There should be a six-pack of instant ice pouches in the first aid kit—good for a whole twenty minutes each.”

“Twenty minutes is better than nothing—and times six, that’s a couple of hours. Every little bit helps.” She dug out the box of cold packs, put the unzipped first aid kit on the cabin floor at her feet and sat in her seat again.

“Just shake one,” he said, “and it gets cold.”

For the moment, she set the box aside. “Okay. Can you hoist that foot up here?” She patted her lap.

He bit back a hard groan as he lifted his right foot and cleared the console. Very slowly, he stretched out his leg and gently laid his foot in her lap. He wore lightweight, low-cut hiking shoes.

She pushed up his pant leg. “It’s swollen.”

“No kidding.” He winced as she gently probed at it.

She untied the lace and eased the shoe off and the low-rise sock as well, dropping them both to the floor beside the first aid kit. “Yep. Swollen. But probably not broken.”

“And you know this, how?”

“I don’t. But let’s think positive, okay? Can you wiggle your toes?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Don’t they always ask if you can do that when you hurt your foot?”

He laughed—a laugh that got caught on a moan. “Some nurse you are.” He wiggled his toes. All five of them. “There. What do you think?”

They were very handsome toes, actually, long and well-formed. No weird bumps or bunions.

And what was she thinking? They’d just crashed in the jungle. How good-looking his feet were ought to be the last thing on her mind.

“Zoe?”

“Um, I think I should wrap it and then use the cold packs. And you should keep it elevated.”

“Good a suggestion as any.”

So she got an ACE bandage from the kit at her feet. She started wrapping at the base of his toes. “Tell me if it’s too tight …” She wrapped halfway up his calf and then used the little hooks to secure it. “How’s that?”

“Seems fine.”

She shook one of the cold packs and it grew icy. Then she used another section of ACE bandage to hold it in place over the swelling. “There. Now we should get you in the back where you can stretch out, get this ankle higher than your heart.”

He shook his head. “First, we should see if we can call for help, don’t you think?”

“Like … try our cell phones?” That seemed hopeless.

“Let me see about the radio first.”

That took about half a minute. The engine—and the radio—were deader than a hammer. They got out their PDAs.

No signal.

He slumped back in his seat, against the door, his leg still canted over to her side, his calf across her knees. “Now it’s taped, I might be able to hobble around on it at least. We should try and get to higher ground, somewhere we can build a signal fire.” His eyes were drooping as he struggled to stay awake. Maybe she shouldn’t have given him two codeines. But at the time, easing his pain had seemed the priority.

“You need to keep that ankle up,” she said. “And you’re exhausted. You’ve lost more blood than can possibly be good for you. And you might recall I just sewed up your head? Not right now, Dax. I say we stay in the plane, for the time being anyway. Until the weather clears …” Her words trailed off. The rain had already stopped. And right then, far above their tiny clearing, the sun appeared. Through the water droplets that clung to the side window, everything looked brighter out there.

Well, except for the jungle. It was still a wall of darkest, deepest, scariest green.

Dax said, “Get a pencil. Now.” He really was struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Okay, okay …” Her travel purse was on the pilot-side backseat where she’d thrown it while clearing the floor. She reached back and grabbed it, took the pen from the little slot on the side, got the small spiral notebook she always carried from another side pocket. “All right. I’m ready.”

He groaned. And then he muttered a latitude and a longitude. “Those were our coordinates as of right before I brought us down.”

She wrote them in her notebook. “You do think of everything.”

He didn’t answer her. She looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his fine mouth slack.

Good. He needed to rest. And he wasn’t going to be doing much of anything when he woke up, not with that ankle. For him, for the next several days, hiking to higher ground was not in the cards. And the signal fire? If she couldn’t find a hill very close, she would build it in the clearing.

But not right this minute. For now, they had shelter and a case of bottled water and other clothing when it came to that—and she thought there were blankets in back, too, travel blankets.

She glanced over at Dax again. He was slumped against the other door, his head at a really uncomfortable-looking angle.

Slowly, trying not to hurt his poor ankle any worse, she lifted his foot off her knees. He groaned and tossed his head. She froze. A moment later, with a heavy sigh, he settled down again.

It was a tight fit, but she lowered her seat back and managed to slip out from under him and over the console through the space between the seats. Carefully, she lowered his poor foot to the seat cushion.

Then she put her pen and notebook away and turned for the tangle of suitcases and boxes in the baggage area.

She found a couple of small pillows, the expected travel blankets—and, in a large box bolted to the bulkhead, she found a miracle.

There was toilet paper, paper towels, matches, a collapsible camping shovel, a couple of dismantled camp chairs she could assemble when the time came. There were two heavy-duty flashlights, a big battery-operated lantern, two oil-burning lanterns with fuel canisters, a small tent, a hatchet … and more. Two cups, two plates. Basic flatware. Two pans for carrying and heating water. There were field glasses and a compass, fishing gear and even a pair of mean-looking hunting knives.

If she could find a stream, she might try fishing. Or maybe she could just jump some jungle creature and stab it with one of the knives. The options, she thought drily, were endless, if somewhat unpleasant.

Right after that, she found several bags of freeze-dried food underneath all the other stuff. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go hunting anytime soon after all.

She carried the pillows up in front, eased them under Dax’s head and then shook him awake long enough to get him to put his other leg up on her empty seat. She braced the zipped first aid kit, a folded blanket on top, under his bad ankle.

He didn’t need a blanket over him. It was plenty warm in the cabin.

For a minute or two, she watched him sleep. He look so good with his shirt off, just as she’d imagined him, with great muscle definition, gorgeous six-pack abs and quite the cute silky-looking happy trail. She didn’t begrudge herself a nice, long look. Hey, at this point, anything that took her mind off their desperate situation was a good thing to be doing.

But she couldn’t stare at him forever. Reality insisted on intruding. She sat in one of the rear seats, checked her D90, the lenses and the spare camera she’d stored in a suitcase. All had been protected by the padding in their carry cases and were good as new.

That her cameras were okay cheered her somehow. Things could definitely be worse, right?

She started wondering where, exactly, they might have gone down, and considered getting out the paper maps they carried. But later for that. For now, she knew as much as she needed to know: that they were south of the Tropic of Cancer somewhere, in the Mexican jungle. Still in Mexico, because the storm hadn’t lasted long enough to blow them too far off-course. And even the big fuel capacity of the Cessna 400 wasn’t that big, not big enough to carry them all the way to Guatemala or Belize.

How long would it be before someone got worried and sent out searchers? They were due to meet Ramón Esquevar for dinner in their beautiful hotel at eight. When they weren’t there to meet him maybe? Or even earlier, when they didn’t show up at the Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport per their filed flight plan?

She shook her head. Probably not that soon.

Who knew how such things worked?

A small, absurd whimper tried to squeeze out of her throat. She didn’t let it. She was strong and whole and smart and she could deal with this. She would deal with this.

When Dax woke up, he would help her deal with this. Yes, there was the sprained ankle, the gash on his head. But he knew how to survive in a hostile environment. He’d been to a lot of wild places in the world, roughing it, and lived to tell the tale.

What time was it now? Her watch, which seemed to be working fine, said almost four. They didn’t do daylight savings in Chiapas, and she’d reset it to San Cristóbal time when they left Nuevo Laredo. When would dark come? She said a little prayer of thanks for Dax’s preparedness. For the box bolted in the bulkhead, with the lanterns and the flashlights and everything else.

When Dax woke up, they would figure out what to do next. Until then, she would simply sit here, safe in the battered plane, and wait.

Except that, all of a sudden, she really, really had to pee.

Which meant she would have to go outside while Dax slept after all.

Hey, at least she had toilet paper.

And a little foray into the clearing wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t go far. She’d take care of business, have a quick look around and duck back inside.

She got the shovel and a roll of paper and set about getting out of the plane, which entailed pushing the back of the passenger seat forward—but not far enough to disturb Dax’s propped-up ankle. She held the seat out of the way with one hand and turned the latch to the door with the other.

Wonder of wonders, with only slight resistance, the door went up.

A wall of sticky air came in and wrapped around her—not to mention all the weird jungle sounds: insects buzzing and whirring, birds whose calls she didn’t recognize crying in the distance. Rustling noises that instantly brought mental images of scary creatures slithering through the underbrush. She stuck her head out and made the mistake of looking down first.

Only a jagged stump remained where the wing should have been. It must have broken off when the propeller dug in and spun them around like a carnival ride.

Well, all right, then. Even if somehow Dax could manage to get the engine going, they would not be flying out of here in this plane. Yet one more faint hope shattered.

Not that she was going to let negativity take over. She straightened her shoulders and looked around.

Bits of the lost wing littered the area. And without the barrier of the window glass, the jungle only looked darker, denser. If someone was out there, watching from the trees, she would never see them unless they wanted her to.

An image of a group of Zapatista types, in berets and military clothing, armed to the teeth, with great chains of ammo wrapped crossways around their chests, popped into her mind.

But it was only an image. No one emerged to wave an AK-47 at her.

Some small insect buzzed near her ear and she gave it a slap.

Maybe she should put on a shirt.

Another tiny bug attacked. She felt a sting on the side of her neck. She smacked it and then ducked back into the cabin, shutting the door behind her, hauling out her suitcase from the baggage area and grabbing a lightweight shirt with long sleeves and pulling it on. Her legs, in the shorts, would still be vulnerable to bites. But she couldn’t cover everything.

There was bug repellent in the back, but her bladder wouldn’t wait for that.

Again, she eased the seat forward, swung the door up and tossed the shovel out. Gripping the roll of toilet paper, she dropped down after it, being careful to clear the jagged stub of the wing. The landing gear was gone, too, snapped clean off during the spinning that had ripped away the wing. The belly of the plane rested on the ground. She could easily reach the open door to swing it shut.

For a few seconds, she stood there, swatting at insects, looking around at the small, flat, clear space in the middle of who-knew-where. The tall trees were way, way up there, their wide, thick crowns swaying in a wind that didn’t reach the ground. She gazed up, watched a bird sail across the clear blue. It let out a long, fading cry as it went by, a prehistoric sound, the kind the pterodactyls made in Jurassic Park. When the ancient cry bled off into nothing, the pressure in her bladder reminded her why she’d come out here in the first place.

No time like the present. She grabbed the shovel and figured out how to extend the handle. There were pegs that popped out along the sides. She stuck the shovel head into the wet ground and hung the paper on a peg.

And then quickly, she took care of business. When that was done, she buried the paper she’d used and then decided on one quick look around before going back inside.

The clearing was a little smaller and narrower than a football field and the plane lay approximately in the center of it. She walked straight out from the passenger door to the edge of the trees, counting off the steps: sixty-five of them. The jungle really was like a wall of living green. She wouldn’t try to go in there—not without at least a compass, a knife and the hatchet from that box in the plane.

Instead, she walked the perimeter of the clear space. She found five narrow trails leading off into the undergrowth at various, random-seeming places along the clearing’s rim. Made by animals or humans? She had no idea which. All five trails looked well-worn, the thick roots of the trees snaking across them, ready to trip the unwary hiker.

She shivered at the thought that she would probably be going in there, most likely by herself—not yet, though. She would wait until tomorrow morning, when Dax was awake and could advise her on jungle safety. And maybe, if they were very lucky and rescue came quickly, she would never have to go in there at all.

Another of those prehistoric-sounding birds went by overhead. And the cries and rustlings continued from deep in the trees. She went back to the plane and felt only relief to hoist the door and climb to safety within.

Dax was still out cold. And a few of those tiny biting fly-like creatures had joined them inside. She got bug repellent from her suitcase and rubbed it on herself and then on him.

Did he seem too warm? She laid her palm against the side of his face. Maybe a little. But surely not more than a degree or two above normal.

“Water?” he muttered, coming half-awake.

She gave him some. He drank and sank right back into oblivion.

Oh, how she wished she could go there with him. She remembered the bottle of codeine tucked into the first aid kit and thought of taking one herself, of the blessed relief of surrendering to drugged slumber.

She did no such thing. But just the fact that she thought of it brought home, yet again, the deep trouble they were in. She tried to look on the bright side, go over all the things that had actually gone right, beginning with how they weren’t dead or critically injured.

How Dax had remembered their location as recently as a minute or two before he tried to land.

The bright side somehow, didn’t seem all that bright.

She changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle and then busied herself straightening up the cabin as best she could, gathering the two bloody shirts, stuffing them in an old canvas tote she’d brought along. Maybe later she could wash them, if she could find a stream. They would never be white again, but in the jungle, who was going to care? If nothing else, they would do as cloths for washing, for drying their few dishes and cups.

In the box with the camping gear, she found flares. They would be at least as good as a signal fire, should a plane go by overhead. She took them out and put them on the floor of the rear seat, close at hand.

It had been hours since she’d eaten—since her early breakfast of a protein drink and toast. Her stomach seemed to have shut down, probably some natural reaction to the shock of what had happened.

But she knew that she needed to eat to keep up her strength. So she got a bag of freeze-dried beef stew and poured some water in it. It was not delicious. She gagged it down anyway and found she felt marginally better afterward, stronger.

Dax should probably try to eat something, too. She found a bag of maple sugar oatmeal, added water and tried to feed it to him. He woke up, ate a few bites, and then mumbled, “No. No more … water?”

She gave him some. He went back to sleep and she ate the rest of the oatmeal so it wouldn’t go to waste.

Outside, it was still daylight, would be for at least a couple of hours. She had some books on her laptop, but it seemed somehow foolish to start wearing down the battery. So she got out the paper maps that were required for small-plane travel, and her pen and notebook and marked the coordinates Dax had given her.

She learned that they were in the Chiapan wilderness, miles and miles north of San Cristóbal. She stared at the small dot she’d made on the map for a long time, as if just by looking at it, she could figure out how to get them out of here.

No magic realization as to escape came to her. She yawned and leaned her head against the seat and thought wearily that at last the adrenaline from all this excitement was wearing off. Even shaky, scared crash victims get tired eventually.

She got up and changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle again. He didn’t stir and seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Then, since she could think of nothing else that needed doing right that instant, she put the rear seat as far back as it would go and closed her eyes.

Her sleep was fitful. She dreamed of a party in a big, rambling house. She roamed from room to room. Everyone was having a great time and she didn’t know anyone there.

And then she started dreaming that she was at work, at Great Escapes. No one was there. The place was empty. But then she heard Dax. He was moaning, calling out, saying strange, garbled, things. Words she didn’t understand, nonsense syllables.

In her dream, she looked for him. She called to him, but couldn’t find him.

Slowly, she woke and realized where she was, lost in the Chiapan jungle somewhere, in a wrecked plane. And Dax was in the front seat, tossing around, moaning.

It was dark out. She got the battery-run lantern from the box in back. Switching it on, she craned over the seats and Dax’s agitated form. She set the lantern on the floor in front. The powerful beam, focused on the ceiling, gave plenty of weirdly slanted, glaring light.

She bent over Dax. He was moaning, tossing his head, scrunched down at a neck-breaking angle against the pilot-side door.

He mumbled to himself, “No … tired … cold … hot …” And then a flood of nonsense words. He shivered, violently.

And he was sweating—his face and chest were shiny wet. She was glad she’d wrapped the bandage around his head. If she’d settled for taping it on, so much sweat would likely have loosened it. She reached over the seat to try to ease him back up onto the pillows.

The heat of his skin shocked her. He was burning up.