Dane's Storm

by Mia Sheridan

  “You’re already injured enough. Let me go first.”

  He shot me a look, his jaw hardening, and I could see I’d hurt his pride. Men. “No.”

  “If you tear your stitches, I’m not stitching you up again, I swear it, Dane Townsend.”

  “I won’t tear my stitches.”

  “Fine.”

  He nodded once, the case settled, and then started down the hill. I knew from the experience of hiking up this slope that each step was a challenge, the snow making it feel as if there were weights in your shoes. I could only imagine what that felt like with a large wound in your thigh, but I didn’t say a word. I did however mutter, “Stubborn,” under my breath. I swore I saw a small quirk of his lips when he turned his head to the side, but he didn’t comment. Wise man.

  There was about ten to twelve inches of icy snow covering the outside of the plane, and I could see that more snow had blown inside and covered the interior. Icicles hung from the bottom of the twisted metal, glittering in the thin streams of sunlight that broke through the clouds, a savage sort of beauty.

  Dane leaned around the plane, pressing his lips together, obviously contemplating the best way to check the stability. After a minute, he said, “I need something longish and sturdy.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m going to go down to the front of the plane, but I won’t be able to see if the cliff drops off under the snow so I need a stick or something to precede my steps.”

  “No! Dane, that sounds too dangerous.” I shook my head, a tremor of fear moving through me. “It’s why I didn’t go to the front of the plane a couple of days ago.”

  “I’ll be careful, I promise.” He reached inside the plane, brushing some snow from a piece of metal off to the side.

  He pulled on it and though it took some obvious effort, it came loose after a minute, not a jagged piece of metal, but a two-sided piece of edging—perhaps the piece that had run along the base where the seats had once been. He pulled it out and stamped it twice into the snow. “Feels sturdy enough,” he muttered, taking hold of it in the middle since it was so long.

  Panic suddenly seized me as he moved away and I grabbed at his arm. Don’t leave me, not again, I thought wildly. He turned and when he saw whatever was in my expression, he stopped, turning fully around.

  “Hey,” he said, concern lacing his tone. “I wouldn’t do this if it was overly risky.”

  I nodded, a jerky movement. “Just . . . be careful. Please. It’s icy.”

  He put one plastic covered hand on my fabric-covered cheek, looking into my eyes. “I promise.”

  “Okay,” I breathed, nodding again.

  The wind whipped past me again as Dane began the slow trek to the nose of the plane. It was so cold, but my complete focus was on how he stuck the piece of thin metal in the snow, tapping at the ground before each step. The crunchy sound of the thin layer of ice breaking accompanied his movements, echoing through the small canyon and rising above the wailing wind.

  “All good,” he called. “It looks like this tree is undamaged and sturdy. The one on the left is leaning because it must have taken the brunt of the plane’s weight. Half the trunk is gone, so only the remainder of it is holding the plane in place.” He paused for a minute, looking as if he was tapping at the damaged tree, but I couldn’t exactly tell from where I was standing.

  Dane turned, making his way back to me. “I don’t trust that tree to hold the plane forever, but I think it’s sturdy enough for me to get in and out quickly.”

  I shook my head. “No, Dane—”

  “It’s important.” He took my plastic-covered hands in his. “Trust me. Listen, if that tree does start to give, I’m going to have plenty of warning. It’s going to crack and groan like the devil and all I’ll have to do is leap out. To go over the cliff, it will have to turn and slide to get around those trees. That will take a few minutes. I only need half a second to take a running leap.”

  “Your leg’s not going to allow you to leap.”

  “My leg is going to be just fine leaping if it has to. You stand out here and tell me if you hear anything at all.”

  I released a breath, the warm air locked in the fabric of the shirt that was covering my mouth. “All right. But if there’s even the smallest snap, I’m calling your name and you better be out of the plane before I have time to take a breath.”

  “Deal.” He gave me a small wink and a slight tilt of his lips, disarming me for a moment and making me forget my worry. He’d always been able to do that.

  “Go. Hurry.”

  He stepped up and over the sharp, twisted metal at the edge, though it was covered with snow. He obviously remembered my description well of getting him off the plane. He shuffled forward slowly, having to bend at the waist because of the sagging ceiling. He looked around, and pulled gently at a few things, but didn’t stop until he was at the cockpit. I couldn’t see what he was doing and I was almost afraid to breathe, listening intently for any small sound from the trees surrounding the plane. It looked like he was digging around in the cockpit, but I was grateful he didn’t step inside.

  After thirty seconds, he turned, making his way toward me. He stopped at the overturned chair I’d been sitting in when the plane crashed. For a second he just stared at it, and despite it being mostly covered in snow now, his lips formed a grim line. Come on, Dane. Get out of there. He brushed at the snow and then reached underneath it, his arm disappearing for a moment, his eyes slanted upward, his expression focused, and then exultant as he brought his arm out. A magazine? Really? He’d gone into that deathtrap for reading material? He put the magazine inside his jacket and then finally, stepped to the edge of the plane and got off.

  I let out a long exhale, realizing that my knees were shaking and I hadn’t even dared speak for fear the vibration of my voice would alter the stability of the plane.

  Dane took two steps toward me, and when I met his eyes, I blinked. The look on his face was so intense it alarmed me for a moment. He stepped closer and tipped my chin so I was staring into his eyes from only a few inches away. His breath was a ghost of white fog in the space between us. “You should have left me there, Audra. Jesus, from that cockpit, it looks like the plane’s hanging right over the edge.” His eyes moved over my face, and he wore an intense expression of something that resembled panic that I didn’t understand. “You should have left me there. If I had been conscious, it’s what I would have insisted you do. But”—his gaze filled with both pain and tenderness—“thank God you didn’t.” His voice was gravelly. With one quick movement, he pulled the shirt down so my mouth was exposed and kissed me, hard and quick, returning the shirt to where it’d been and stepping back.

  Despite the quickness of the kiss and the material being replaced over my mouth, I could still feel the pressure of his lips on mine like a tender bruise. I wanted to press on it with my fingers, to create the sensation again. I shook my head. “I couldn’t leave you there,” I whispered.

  He stared at me for another moment, his eyes full of both warmth and softness, before he broke eye contact, reaching into his pocket. My gaze followed his movement and when he opened his palm, there were five squares wrapped in gold foil. I looked at him in confusion, and he grinned.

  “Is that . . . chocolate?”

  “Sure is.” His grin grew and he reached into his other pocket, bringing out a piece of beef jerky, wrapped in clear plastic.

  I gasped. “Oh God, meat.” I wanted to grab it from his hands and stuff it in my mouth, but then what he’d just done hit me. He’d potentially put his life in danger for . . . beef jerky and chocolate. I wanted it with a hungry desperation I’d never known before, but we did still have food. It wasn’t like we were going to die of starvation today. I felt a small spear of ire as I considered the fear I’d just experienced for the past thirty minutes. “As much as I’m thrilled that we have chocolate and beef, and . . . reading material, do you really think it was worth the risk at this point?” I put
my hands on my hips, letting him know I definitely did not.

  He unwrapped a piece of the chocolate and handed it to me. Despite my irritation, I only looked at it for a moment before snatching it from his hand. I bit it in half and then offered him one of the pieces. He shook his head. “Eat the whole thing. I’m going to eat one too. We’ll ration the other three pieces if we have to.”

  I hesitated, but decided he was right. We could use the sugar and, God, please, we’d been up here for three days. Surely now that the sky was a little clearer, rescue was imminent. I pulled the material down, placed the chocolate in my mouth and moaned, my eyes practically rolling back in my head, when the sweet richness hit my tongue. “Oh, dear God,” I said between small sucks, the chocolate melting away far too quickly. Dane grinned again as he watched me, using his thumb to wipe what must have amounted to the most miniscule chocolate flake ever. But I wasn’t wasting a single flake and I sucked at his thumb, causing his smile to fade and his eyes to darken. I paused, time slowing as we stared at each other, that ever-present physical awareness flowing between us.

  Even here, on an icy mountain, where we might slowly starve to death.

  How is that possible?

  He unwrapped his own thick square of chocolate, smoothing out the wrapper and putting the candy in his mouth. As he chewed, his eyes glazed over like I was sure mine had done, and I laughed softly. He smiled as his mouth simultaneously worked the chocolate until it had melted, reaching out to me and taking the wrapper in my hand. “I didn’t take the risk for chocolate, although holy fuck, nothing ever tasted so good.” He held up the two small squares of gold foil. “I took the risk for fire.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Dane

  We crested the hill, and though my head felt better, the ache in my leg had intensified with the strenuous use. I figured my stitches had probably torn a little—not enough that they’d opened up, but enough that I could feel a small trickle of blood under my loose pants. Walking through heavy snow felt like moving in quicksand.

  Seeing the burned-out shell of the cockpit and knowing I’d been trapped in it, helpless and unconscious, had made me feel sick. If not for Audra . . . But I stayed focused on the purpose of the trip: chocolate and beef jerky.

  Dustin had offered me some of his junk food stash the last time we’d flown to Tahoe, and I’d declined as he’d laughed and tossed it in the compartment on the door. The chocolate looked as if it’d melted in the heat of the fire, but the small space in the door panel had saved it from melting completely. It was only a bit misshapen. But it wasn’t really the chocolate I’d been after, though that was certainly a bonus. It had been the wrappers I’d wanted, and if this worked . . . Fuck, I didn’t want to hope too hard. But I was going to give it my best damn shot.

  Audra came to a stop, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath, and I did the same.

  Now that we were out of the valley, the wind felt sharper. I looked at the jagged peaks of the mountain high above us, where I could hear the brutal sound of the lashing wind and see the swirling gusts of frost. Thank God we hadn’t crash-landed at a higher elevation, where the high-altitude wind would be deadly and unforgiving, where there were no patches of forest in which to find shelter, only vast deserts of snow and sheer, icy rock walls. Yeah, things were bad, but they definitely could have been worse.

  “I wanted to try to get some more pieces of carpet from the interior of the plane—or maybe a section of ceiling, but it was still attached and trying to shake it free felt too dangerous,” I said.

  Audra nodded. “I thought the same thing. But I think we’ve done pretty well with what we have. It’s kept us alive anyway. How in the world do you plan to make a fire?”

  I began turning toward the crop of trees where our shelter was, my mouth open to answer her question, when my eyes snagged on a small speck in the distance to our right. I halted, squinting as I turned back around. “What?” Audra asked, following my gaze. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “Is that a plane?”

  My heart seized and I clomped as fast as I could to the edge of the cliff, waving my arms and shouting as loudly as possible. Audra joined me, waving her arms and yelling, too. The plane in the distance continued to circle the spot where it was, and even as loud as we were yelling, I knew that the wind was snatching our voices. The plane could have been right in front of us, and they wouldn’t have been able to hear our cries for help, but we did it anyway. Instinct?

  To preserve my energy, I stopped, but continued waving my arms, and Audra, likely having come to the same conclusion about not being heard, did the same. I continued waving my arms while Audra ran back and forth behind me, as fast as she was able in the deep snow, extending the scope of our movement. But after only a couple of minutes, the plane turned and began flying in the opposite direction, disappearing out of sight. I came to a halt, breathing harshly, the frigid air like knives in my throat, hope withering and dying inside my chest.

  “Fuck!” I yelled to the sky. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I picked up a handful of snow and threw it into the vast nothingness in front of me, cursing again.

  Turning abruptly, I saw Audra, standing still, a look of utter hopelessness on her face. It broke my heart. I recognized that look, and for the sliver of a moment it took me back. That same look—utter desolation—day after day as she’d sat rocking in a chair in what was supposed to be our baby’s nursery. I’d walked past the door, not willing to take her pain on when I was barely managing my own. How many times had our eyes met, hers beseeching, as I’d turned away? I squeezed my eyes shut in regret, wishing I’d been stronger for her, wishing I’d been older and wiser, wishing I’d had any fucking clue how to handle the unthinkable.

  I watched her now, and this time, I moved toward her rather than away, taking her in my arms and holding her. “It’s okay. We’re in this together,” I murmured. “Don’t lose hope.”

  She trembled in my arms, but clutched me, her head burrowed into my chest. She had always responded to physical affection, always melted into me when I’d comforted her that way. Sharp fingers of guilt clawed at my insides for what I hadn’t done then, combining with the stark disappointment of seeing that plane disappearing into the clouds.

  “Fuck,” I murmured again, the word holding a world of weight.

  After a minute, she looked up at me, so much sorrow in her eyes. “They flew away. They didn’t even get close to where we are. Why?”

  I looked over my shoulder to the distant place the plane had circled, trying to recall the events leading up to the crash-landing, my eyes homing in on a lone cliff that I suddenly remembered had seemed to come out of nowhere. “Because that’s where the black box is,” I whispered, my voice deflated, knowing I was right. “That’s where the tail came off. And now it’s way back there, probably buried under ten feet of snow. And they think we are too.”

  “Will they land and check it out? They will, right? And they’ll see it’s just a part of the plane and that they need to keep searching?”

  I blew out a foggy breath. “I don’t know. There might not be any place to land safely. And if they don’t see signs of life, they might assume we’re dead.”

  Audra let out a small, choked gasp. “So they’ll stop looking? Just assume we’re dead and wait for the snow to melt to confirm it?”

  “I hope to God not, but that’s why we need to try to make fire. They can’t see us from far away, but they’ll see smoke. As long as the cloud cover isn’t too thick.” I took her hand. “Come on. I’m not sure if this will work, but what do we have to lose?”

  We trudged back to our shelter in the snowy woods and I directed Audra to look for as many dry sticks and leaves and pine needles as she could. There likely wouldn’t be much with the amount of snow we were in, but we needed to collect all we could.

  I had to walk a little deeper into the woods to find low, dry branches that were easy enough to snap off since we’d used so many of the ones near our shelter to create the d
oor. Once I’d collected an armful, I dropped them on the ground near where we were sleeping, deciding on a spot about ten feet from the door of our shelter. If I was successful, the fire would be close enough to warm us, but not so close that we’d have to worry about jumping sparks. Plus, there was a large rock—about knee high—and a couple of trees behind it, that would hopefully shield some of the wind. I cleared the snow from the ground and then gathered several rocks to form a circle—what I hoped would be a good firepit. If not, it’d just be a pit of failure and despair that we’d have to look at as we crawled out of our rock shelter each morning until we . . .

  Stop it, Dane. Jesus.

  If it didn’t work, it didn’t work. But fuck it all, it was still worth a try.

  Audra returned with an armful of debris, which I told her to drop in the circle of rocks, then we both went back out for another load.

  Once we’d both returned from a second trip, Audra went inside our shelter and gathered the pine needles on the ground. Then I reached inside my jacket and took the People magazine out, ripping out several pages.

  “Ah,” I heard Audra say as if she’d just realized why I’d grabbed the magazine.

  I slanted a smile at her as I rolled the pieces and tied them in knots, the way my granddad had always done when he’d built a fire in the fireplace on one of the outdoor entertaining areas on our property. “Will you get your cell phone and take the battery out? And I’ll need those little scissors you mentioned using when you stitched me up.”

  Audra looked slightly confused but did as I asked, then I took the remaining chocolate from my pocket, including the two wrappers, and started unwrapping the ones still in foil.

  “The idea,” I said, as I handed Audra the three pieces of chocolate to put with the rest of our food stash, “is to use the foil as a conductor on the battery to create a tiny fire, maybe only a spark, I’m not sure. But if it works, we’ll need to quickly transfer it to the paper and pine needles and stoke the hell out of that bitch until there’s enough fire to start adding branches.