by Rachel Lee
He rose and eased his way back, planning to reheat the coffee. He wasn’t ready by any means to change watches yet, and coffee was his second-favorite thing in life, the first being flying.
“She okay?” he whispered before he edged past.
“Fine.”
He realized that she had followed him back to the galley only when he turned to face the coffeepot assemblage.
“She seems warm enough, and her breathing is normal for her. No sign of distress.”
“That’s good. Very good.” He lit the candle under the pot, figuring there were maybe two cups left in it. “Want some? Although you ought to think about sleeping.”
“Coffee never keeps me awake,” she said with a half smile. “Sometimes I wish it could. I’ll go get the mugs.”
He’d planned to just bring the pot forward, but instead he nodded. Better to have her gone for a minute so he could steel himself again.
Because the simple truth was, hugging her to help warm her up earlier had proved to be a huge mistake. One of epic proportions. You could get kicked to the curb just so often by women before you developed a set of rules to live by.
First rule: If it might last more than a few hours, avoid it. Second rule: Never wake up in anyone else’s bed.
Well, he’d screwed up this time, because as soon as he’d wrapped his arms around Rory, some part of him had realized that a few hours would never be enough, and that he’d probably wake up in her bed if he ever crossed the line.
He couldn’t exactly put his finger on why that was, either. He knew he’d had an instantaneous sexual response to her, but that alone meant nothing. Something else had set off the klaxon in his head, and he’d had to fight to stand there holding her rather than skittering away in a quest for self-protection. At least she probably hadn’t noticed. Her concern for her sister clearly occupied damn near her entire horizon.
But he had noticed. The response he’d had had remained indelibly imprinted on the most primitive part of his brain, waking every now and then to remind him that Rory was sexy. Sexier than sexy. For some reason she represented a trap, not a fling.
He sighed, leaned forward against the narrow counter and sniffed the coffee. It was just starting to heat.
Rory returned, bearing their mugs. She emptied the dregs into the sink. “How much water do we have?”
“Plenty. If not, look outside.”
She pursed her lips at him. “I get that part. I’m thinking in terms of water we need to keep unfrozen. Like for the loo.”
“Chemical toilet. I don’t know if the collection tank is leaking, but if it is, it won’t affect function, although it’ll be awful for the environment. I should have enough in the supply tank to last us many, many days. The only water we need is for ourselves.”
Just then the plane tipped. Not a whole lot, but Chase felt it in every fiber of his being. Then it seemed to slide, just a little.
He cussed.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I don’t know. If we’re sliding, we can’t go far. Maybe pressure is melting some of the snow under the plane, lubricating it.”
But he wasn’t going to guess. He blew out the candle under the coffee and headed forward. He paused just long enough to whisper something in Yuma’s ear. Yuma’s head popped up, but he didn’t move a single other muscle. Wendy remained asleep beside him.
Yuma nodded, then Chase went up front and started pulling out his outer gear.
“I’m coming with you,” Rory said, and started pulling on her own gear, including the insulated ski pants.
“It’s probably nothing,” he said.
“Probably. Then again, you might need help.”
His first instinct was to tell her to stay put. But he looked at her again, remembering that she had a rather tough background in her own business. She might be resourceful in a million ways he couldn’t even imagine now. So he simply let her finish dressing.
They popped the hatch open, crawled swiftly out, then closed it again.
The night might as well have been pitch. Usually in a snowstorm, the snow magnified just a little light into brightness. But there was no light tonight. Not a moon, not a star, not a streetlamp or house lights. Any candle glow was now completely concealed behind windows buried in snow.
He’d been in darkness like this before, where you couldn’t even gather enough light to know where to put your foot, in places he would never name. He hated it.
Chase snapped on his flashlight and instantly the night changed. The wildly blowing snow became visible, but vision hardly got any better. What darkness had hidden before, the snow did now. But not as much.
He could see the fuselage, at least some of it, now nearly hidden beneath snow in some places, blown bare in others. Walking slowly around, scanning the wreck, he heard Rory’s boots crunch right behind him. In case the plane was shifting, he took the longer route around the tail section to come up the other side. Then he saw what had happened.
He came upon the wing, and noted that it had opened a crack between the snow beneath it and the snow mounding on the wing.
“There,” he said.
“What?”
“The wind must have caught the wing just right and given it some lift.” He waited, playing his flashlight over it, giving her a chance to take it in.
“That’s what it looks like,” she agreed finally.
He glanced toward her, but could see nothing of her face in the snorkel hood.
He squatted down and pulled off his glove, picking up some snow. She squatted facing him.
“Dry,” he said. “The snow is so damn dry it’s not going to pack. This’ll probably happen again.”
“Nothing we can do?”
“Nope. Even if we shove snow around the wing, the wind is just going to carry it away again.”
“Do we need to get off the plane?”
“It’s not like we have anywhere to go. There are trees maybe a hundred and fifty yards in front of us, so even if we’re on ice we can’t slide far. And trust me, no matter how aerodynamic that wing is, it’s not going to be able to carry us far on a wind like this. All it can do is shake us a bit.”
“Okay.”
“I want to finish looking around, though.” Wanted to make sure nothing had changed that he needed to worry about. Besides, doing a visual on his aircraft was a habit so deeply ingrained he couldn’t have broken it.
He half wished, however, that he could find something to deal with. Anything. He wasn’t accustomed to sitting on his hands doing next to nothing in a situation like this. He needed something to sink his teeth into.
Other than dealing with the crash, the destruction of his plane and the concern about his passengers. Those were all emotional things, and right now he was pretty much putting them on hold. What he needed was some useful action, but the weather right now precluded any kind of action.
“Sure.” She followed him around the wing toward the nose.
He stood there, playing the flashlight over the mounded snow that buried the nose and cockpit. It had compressed during their landing, but now he could see that it was beginning to dry and sift away. The character of the snow was changing.
“It amazes me,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the howling wind and the hissing snow, “that when we first landed that snow was packed tight. Now tell me how a storm so dry can keep making snow.”
“Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s blowing the same stuff over and over because it’s so dry.”
“Probably. Makes no practical difference, I guess. We still have to wait it out.”
“Yeah.” Her snorkel turned toward him, her face still concealed. “This has to be awful for you,” she said. “Your plane, I mean. I know how I feel when a well blows, and it’s not even my equipment.”
“That’s stuff I can deal with later. Right now I’m more concerned about four passengers—most especially your sister.”
She remained silent and still for a beat. Then
, “Thank you. She’s my foremost concern.”
The wind suddenly shifted, blowing crazily from one direction then another until the snow seesawed wildly in the air. “Let’s get back inside. Nothing we can do out here right now.”
As they crawled back into the plane, icy air snaked down the aisle and carried some snow with it. Just a sprinkling that sparkled in the candlelight. The candles themselves flickered then brightened. Chase was able to bring the door back up himself, and when he turned around, he saw Yuma coming forward with a couple of mugs in his hands.
“Figured you’d be cold,” he said.
Rory was already bending over her sister, still wearing her outer gear, but she’d thrown her hood back so she could lean close and check Cait. Chase accepted the mug from Yuma without taking his eyes from her, which is why he caught the way she stiffened.
At once he set the mug on the table, squeezed past Yuma and headed back. “Rory?”
“Her breathing doesn’t sound quite right. And she feels warm.”
Hoping against hope that it was the contrast after being outside, he touched his own fingers to Cait’s cheek. “Hell,” he whispered.
Rory turned. “Wendy? Wendy?”
Wendy’s eyes fluttered open. An instant later she was fully awake. Chase recognized that response. He had it himself, as did Yuma. Some life experiences taught it to you.
“What’s wrong?” Wendy asked. “Cait?”
Rory nodded and stepped back from her sister. “Her breathing sounds funny. She’s warm.”
Wendy immediately slipped in beside Cait and leaned forward, putting her ear to Cait’s lips. Then she touched Cait’s forehead and checked her pulse at her throat.
“There’s a bit of congestion. It might just be from sleeping too much. The warmth isn’t much yet. It could be from the blankets and the hat.”
Rory leaned back against the edge of a seat, almost sagging. “What do we do?”
“We’re going to have to try to wake her. Get her to cough.” Wendy peeled the blankets back from Cait’s chest and pressed her ear there, first one side and then the other. “My kingdom for a stethoscope,” she muttered as she leaned back, squatting. “It doesn’t sound bad, mostly bronchial congestion. I don’t hear anything from lower. But she needs to cough. Apparently, her breathing has been too depressed for too long. We need to clear her out.”
Rory stripped off her jacket and gloves fast, then pulled the blankets away from Cait enough to grab her under the arms and lift her.
Cait weighed next to nothing, as Chase knew, but he was still impressed with how easily Rory lifted her sister. Then, holding her with one arm, she began to pat Cait’s back. “Cait. Cait! Wake up.”
Wendy stepped up, fisted her hand and gave Cait a couple of good thumps on the upper back with the heel of her fist.
Cait’s eyes fluttered. “Wha—”
“You need to cough, Cait,” Rory said firmly. “We’re helping you.”
Wendy gave her a couple more thumps. Cait’s breathing changed, and now even Chase could hear a rattle from where he was standing. “It’s coming,” Wendy said.
“Should I put her on the bed?” Rory asked.
“Only if this doesn’t work. Just make sure you haven’t got her so tight she can’t draw air deeply.”
A couple more thumps, then a cough. A good cough.
“There we go,” Wendy said. “Set her on the seat, let her lean forward a bit. I’m going to get her to express some more.”
A few minutes later Wendy was happy with the sound of Cait’s breathing. And Cait herself was awake enough to show some interest in tea and soup.
Chase quietly let himself into the cockpit and closed the door. He sat in his seat, staring at the red light and the snow in his cockpit windows that reflected it, dim though it was.
He’d understood that they were working with a time frame when it came to Cait. Four days of medicines. He could tell how frail she was. But what hadn’t crossed his mind was the fact that she could get sick with something else and die on this damn plane.
He hadn’t thought about pneumonia.
There was a helluva lot he hadn’t thought about, and right now he wanted to kick himself hard. Instead he opened his toolbox, got down on the deck and used a flashlight to try to see his way around the wiring for the satellite-comm link.
Waiting out this storm wasn’t going to cut it. That was now eminently clear.
Winter nights were naturally long, especially this far north, but Rory felt this one dragging painfully. Occasionally the plane juddered from the wind, and once or twice an eerie moan managed to emerge from the twisted metal. But they didn’t slide or tip, and beyond that she didn’t care.
She cared about only one thing—her sister. She sat across from Cait, watching her constantly, wishing there was anything more she could do right now. The merciless storm continued to howl, however, and it was so dark out there anyway that even if it quieted they wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Cait woke periodically, and each time she did, Rory or Wendy encouraged her to cough, and filled her with more tea and soup, as much as they could get her to swallow. Cait’s cooperation was frighteningly listless, as if she drank and coughed only because she knew they wouldn’t let her refuse.
Rory caught some uneasy, disturbed sleep, waking at nearly every little sound. She heard the murmurs of Yuma and Chase in the cockpit as they worked on the electronics, and wondered how much either of them knew.
Finally, satisfied that Cait had managed to swallow another cup of heavily sweetened tea, and that she had coughed enough to make her breathing sound clear, she watched her sister drift again into sleep and made her way forward. Both men were lying on the cockpit floor, corkscrewed around the seats, with wires dangling from beneath the console.
“Need any help?” Rory asked.
“I wish,” Chase answered. “Apart from lack of room, we’re looking at spaghetti here.”
A flashlight illuminated a number of loose-leaf manuals between them, and the dangling wires.
“Did you find anything broken?”
“Nope. Everything seems to be connected so far, and we’re not disconnecting anything. First rule…”
“Yeah,” Yuma said. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“There might have been internal damage to some of the units from impact,” Rory remarked.
“That’s our concern,” Chase agreed. “Although you’d think my damn emergency beacon would be up to it. Still, there’s the GPS connection. That’s a separate unit, and it could have been damaged. Or it may just be the storm. I’m beginning to think we won’t know for sure until we get some clearing.”
At that moment, Wendy popped her head over Rory’s shoulder. “You know, you two…and by you two I mean Chase and Rory…you ought to get some sleep. Yuma can watch over things, and I can watch over Cait, but neither of you will be worth a damn when this storm blows out if you haven’t slept.”
Rory started to argue, but Wendy was having none of it. She tugged Rory’s arm and pulled her back to the aft bedroom where the two twin beds abutted the sides of the plane. “Sleep,” she said. “It’s our watch now. And you don’t want to be useless to your sister.”
It was that last argument that worked. Edgy though she felt, Rory gave in, removing her boots and snowpants so she could crawl under the blankets. She was sure she wouldn’t sleep, but she began to drift off almost immediately, only vaguely aware that Chase at some point crawled into the other bed.
She was worn out. Everything had worn her out. She hadn’t slept well or much since coming home from Mexico to find out how ill her sister was. At least now, with a snowstorm paralyzing them, sleep didn’t feel like such a huge waste of time.
When sleep at last arrived, a few rare tears dampened her cheeks.
Her dreams were disturbed, more memories than dreams, really. She awoke sometime later, while it was still dark, the bedroom illuminated only faintly by the candles that burned in
the main cabin.
Back here it had grown cold, so cold that she was curled up in a tight ball with her teeth chattering. She needed to get up, go into the main cabin and seek what warmth she could.
But her mind had hit the ground running, full of thoughts of Cait, of her dire diagnosis, of the fact that the doctors in Seattle could offer no hope this time, except for the trial of a new drug.
Last time had been so different. Nearly four years ago, the doctors had used upbeat words like, nonaggressive, high cure and remission rates. Yes, there had always been a possibility that the disease could kill her, but their attitudes had been optimistic.
Not now. By the time she had reached the hospital hallways from Mexico, the words that had been flying around were grave, aggressive, maybe a few months.
Then one oncologist, a man who never pulled his punches, had said simply, “Your sister’s only hope is a trial they’re running on a new drug. Do you want me to pull strings and see if I can get her in? I can’t make any promises, but they’ve had some good results with remission.”
Because remission was now probably the best Cait could hope for, a few more years disease-free. No one seemed to think there might be a cure anymore. Not now that she had relapsed into an even worse form of the illness.
But Rory wasn’t one to give up. She wasn’t going to turn precious minutes of Cait’s life over to the Grim Reaper without a fight…even if Cait herself didn’t seem to want to fight anymore.
And that son of a bitch Hal had deprived her of hope. He couldn’t handle having a sick wife again. At least that was his excuse. Rory suspected he’d been cheating on Cait for a long time, maybe since she first got ill. According to one of the nurses she’d spoken to out of concern for Cait’s despair, that wasn’t uncommon. Apparently “till death do us part” didn’t mean much in the case of lingering illness.
“I see it lots of times,” the nurse had said bluntly. “And the ones who stick around ogle me like fresh meat and flirt with me. Right in front of their wives. You ask me, a lot of men just aren’t any good for the long haul.”
