Chapter Seven
Miraculously, they landed upright, sliding along the smooth, grainy surface of the beach. Clay was the first out of the raft, pulling it high up on the shore with the aid of the nylon rope.
He watched as Aly shakily climbed out of the raft. She held her left arm against her torso, and he knew she was in plenty of pain from the dislocation. Tugging the raft completely out of the grasp of the heavy waves, Clay wrapped the nylon rope around a large black rock sticking up out of the sand, using it as an anchor point.
Clay looked up as she approached. “Aly?” He hadn’t realized the full impact on her of their bid to paddle ashore until just then. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion, shadows beneath them. And that beautiful mouth was compressed into a single line of suffering.
“Yes?”
He rose to his feet. Sliding his hand around her good arm to steady her, Clay guided her toward a large, sandy bluff that stood to the left of the landing area. “First things first. I want you to sit down before you fall down. As soon as I can get Dan comfortable, I’ll take care of you.”
The sand was packed hard from the continuous rain, but Aly stumbled, nevertheless. Clay’s hand tightened on her arm to prevent her from falling. Tiredness was lapping at her, and she wasn’t thinking clearly. “I—I think I’m in shock, Clay.”
He gave her a tight smile, motioning for her to sit down. “I know you are.”
Giving him a confused look, Aly rasped, “Why aren’t you?”
Her hair was in utter disarray around her face, curled and stiffened by the saltwater. But to Clay, she looked beautiful. Leaning down, he cupped her cheek. “I had a crash before, remember? Maybe that experience prepared me this time. I don’t know. Stay here.”
As badly as she wanted to contribute to the team effort, Aly was simply too fatigued. She sat watching as Clay briskly went about the business of setting up camp. The tarp over the large, oval raft would provide them with protection against all kinds of weather. And each raft was equipped with an array of items, from ten gallons of fresh water stored in quart plastic bottles to enough dehydrated food for two weeks, a radio, a first-aid kit and other essentials.
Aly studied the turbulent gray clouds, dark with threatening rain. The wind was warm, and her stiff, salty-smelling flight suit was nearly dry. This was Baja, and it was September. Aly wondered how hot it would get when the storm finally passed them.
Clay was satisfied with his hour’s worth of effort. Dan was resting peacefully, although still unconscious, beneath the protective tarp on the raft. He’d placed two blankets over him, to keep him warm. Setting up the radio to send out the Mayday signal was his last major chore before he could attend to Aly.
Every once in a while, Clay would look up to check on her. She had lain down, curling on her side, using her right arm as a pillow for her head. Adjusting the radio control to the on position, he set it to broadcast their plea for help. He was certain that within twenty-four hours, they’d be discovered by the coast guard. His spirts were solid, and he felt good. They had survived the crash.
As he picked up the first-aid kit and climbed out of the raft, Clay didn’t try to hide from his feelings. Seconds before the crash he’d realized that he loved Aly. Regardless of her background or her family name, he loved her. Confused about what to do with that knowledge, he now trudged slowly up the slope toward her. He was scared. More scared than he’d ever been in his life. How could they ever have a relationship when he was the one who had so effectively destroyed it in the first place? There was no hope, and he sadly dismissed the dream.
Aly roused when she saw Clay coming up the hill and gave him a game smile as he knelt in front of her. His eyes were dark gray, filled with concern for her. It made her feel good, and she rallied.
“I must have dozed off.”
Clay returned her brief smile of welcome and went about the business of unzipping her vest. “You’ll need a couple more catnaps in order to shake off the shock. Let’s get this vest, and part of the flight suit you’re wearing, off you. I want to examine that shoulder.”
Aly tried not to flinch as Clay stripped her of the vest and then pulled the Velcro of her flight suit open. She wore only a white cotton bra and panties beneath the suit. Heat stole into her face as she allowed him to gently work the sleeve from her stiff left arm. Every movement hurt.
“Take it easy,” Clay soothed, gathering the last of the material off her hand. He realized Aly was embarrassed at having to partially strip in order for him to check the injury. Focusing on the task at hand, he tried to ignore the soft pliancy of her flesh. Allowing her to keep the flight suit on her right arm and shoulder, he maneuvered around her so that he could look at the injured area.
“You have a nice back,” he told her huskily. It was a deeply indented back with a strong spine. Clay lightly ran his hand across the dislocation area.
“Is that good or bad?” Aly joked weakly, wildly aware as his hand grazed her shoulder. His touch was knowing without being hurtful as he gently pressed here and there to find the extent of damage.
Clay smiled distantly and placed his hand directly over the injury. The flesh was badly swollen and hot to his brief touch. “A compliment,” he assured her, only inches separating them. “You’re lucky you didn’t get your arm ripped out of the shoulder socket.”
“That bad, Clay?” It was so natural to call him by his first name, Aly thought, giving up on trying to keep the normal distance between them. She was too tired to erect those walls they both hid behind so well.
Frowning, he muttered, “Bad enough.” He looked down at her. “I think the only thing we can do is put your left arm in a sling and keep the entire shoulder as immobilized as possible.” His hand settled on her bare arm. “Are you in a lot of pain?”
His gentle attention was unraveling her. It was impossible to ignore Clay when he was like this. It wasn’t an act—this was the real Clay Cantrell that she’d fallen helplessly in love with. The serious agony was in her heart, and there was no cure for that. Ever.
“Just a little.”
He got up and came around to her left side, facing her. “You sure?” Easing her fingers and hand back through the sleeve opening, Clay helped her get the flight suit back in place. “Or are you hiding behind that tough Trayhern name?” He’d deliberately goaded her to get an honest response. From the set of her mouth, the way the corners pulled in, he knew she was in misery.
Aly flashed him an angry look. “There’s nothing wrong in minimizing pain, Cantrell,” she said, stung. With quick, sure movements, Aly pressed the Velcro closed, the flight suit once again in place.
Clay patiently held her blazing blue eyes. “There is when we’ve got medication to ease it.” And then he looked down at her gloved hands, noticing a rusty color staining them. “What’s this?” He picked up her left hand and turned it over.
“You little fool,” he breathed, examining the glove that was shredded, exposing her badly burned palm that had bled freely. She must have gotten the wounds when the nylon line had nearly been ripped out of her hands. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me—”
Aly could barely tolerate Clay’s hand cradling hers. But she couldn’t jerk out of his grasp—her shoulder hurt too badly. “It was just some rope burns,” she muttered defensively.
Clay lifted his head, meeting and holding her defiant gaze. “Lady, you may think you’re Superwoman, but this kind of damage invites infection.”
“Stop haranguing me!”
There was a wobble in her voice. Clay saw the tears gather in her wavering stare. His mouth tightened, and he laid her hand across his knees. Reaching for the first-aid kit, he opened it, and took out a pair of scissors. The tension was palpable between them as he carefully cut away the rest of her glove. Part of the fibers had stuck to the oozing wound across her palm.
“This is going to hurt like hell,” he warned her.
Aly couldn’t stop the tears. But they weren’t caused by the pain as C
lay gently pulled fragments of the glove from the burns. No, they were welling into her eyes because she had no defense against his closeness or the little barbs he was throwing at her.
When Clay saw the tears drifting down the taut planes of her cheeks, he winced visibly. “These are nasty,” he muttered, spreading salve across her palm. “You must have gotten them holding that raft against the hatch.”
“Y-yes.” She sniffed, taking her right gloved hand and wiping her eyes dry.
Cantrell risked a look at her as he gently wrapped gauze around her hand and palm. “You look pretty even when you cry. Makes those blue eyes of yours even larger, if that’s possible.”
Aly withdrew deep inside herself. One minute he was insulting her, the next, praising her. Frantically, she searched for some neutral topic. “At least we survived the crash,” she whispered in a raspy voice.
Grimly, Clay nodded. He took some adhesive tape and finished bandaging the dressing. “Yeah.”
“I was so scared.”
“That made three of us. Okay, let me look at your other hand.”
Reluctantly, Aly gave it to him, trying to prepare for his reaction. She knew her right hand was far worse than the left. She watched his eyebrows draw together as he examined her palm.
“Lady, you have one hell of a tolerance for pain, that’s all I can say.” He met and held her gaze. “Do you want medication?”
She shook her head. “No. Drugs make me groggy. At least pain keeps my head clear so I can think.”
With a derisive laugh, Clay agreed. “Yeah, that’s the truth.” He began the same procedure of cutting the glove away from her hand. “After I crashed that F-14 into the deck of the carrier and ejected at the last second, I didn’t feel anything at first, either. It was only after I woke up in sick bay that I felt the pain.”
Starbuck had told her about Clay’s crash. And knowing that he’d lied to her, Aly wanted to know the truth. There was a warmth between them right now, and she hesitantly asked, “What happened, Clay? Dan mentioned that at one time you were a fighter pilot. What changed that?”
The glove fell away and Clay carefully examined the palm of her hand. Aly had such exquisitely long fingers. He’d bet anything that she’d get permanent scars out of this.
Aly took his silence as a negative. “That’s all right, you don’t have to tell me about it. I’m sure it’s a horrible memory.”
“What? No, I don’t mind telling you, Aly.” Cantrell pointed to her palm. “I was just thinking it was a shame to have such beautiful skin scarred like this.”
She flushed, unable to hold his sincere gaze. “Wh-what about the crash?”
He smiled briefly, and realized she was blushing. Any color coming back into her cheeks was better than nothing, in his opinion. Taking the salve, he daubed it across the burn. “It happened a year and a half ago while I was aboard the Enterprise. Starbuck was in my squadron.” He looked up. “I suppose he’s already told you that?”
Aly raised her head, anger in her voice. “Starbuck lied to me about a lot of things, but yes, he did mention the fact that you flew together.”
Chuckling, Clay murmured, “Said I was on the verge of losing my nerve after the crash, too, no doubt.”
“How did you know?”
“Because Starbuck is a jealous bastard at best, and a back stabber at his worst. He and I were in competition for the top-gun slot in our squadron. I was ahead of him in points, and he didn’t like it.” Clay sobered, his voice lowering. “My RIO, Lieutenant John Holding, was slated to rotate stateside. We had to fly one last mission on a rotten night. It was stormy, and winds were high and variable. The F-14 started developing an engine problem, so we came back to the carrier.” Clay set the salve aside and began to wrap her palm with the gauze. One corner of his mouth twisted into a grimace. “I’ve never seen a night like that. I was calling the ball, holding the aircraft steady. Everything was lined up. The deck on that carrier was lifting and falling more than I’d ever seen it before.
“At the last second, the wind threw the plane off course, and I had a bolter, going around for a second try. I called the ball and lined up. Everything looked good. Then, just as I dropped the hook, pulled full flaps for the landing, the starboard engine that was giving me problems flamed out.” Clay held her hand, staring off into space, the images still vivid. “The plane nosed down. I brought it up, but in doing so, we literally starting falling toward the deck. There was nothing I could do but yell a warning, hoping John would punch out.”
Aly wanted to reach out and touch Clay’s shoulder, to somehow assuage his agony. “Were you both able to eject?” she asked softly.
Clay shook his head, anguish in his tone. “John couldn’t…didn’t. I don’t know why he didn’t punch out. Maybe he wasn’t fast enough. Maybe the ejection phase jammed. We’ll never know.”
“So, you survived and John didn’t?” Aly guessed.
“That’s right.” Clay shook off the sorrow from the past, continuing to bandage her hand. Just the gentleness in Aly’s husky voice made him want to confide in her. He’d never talked to anyone except the investigators about the accident. “I ejected and landed in the ocean. The rescue helicopter fished me out ten minutes later.”
“How badly were you hurt?” Aly knew that ejecting could cause back and ankle injuries.
“I suffered a pretty serious concussion, some minor back trouble and the normal assortment of colorful bruises.”
She studied his bent head. The urge to tunnel her fingers through his short, black hair was almost tangible. Risking everything, Aly slowly raised her left arm, resting it on his shoulder. The look of surprise in his eyes when she did it made her heart lift with joy. It had been the right thing to do.
“If I know you just a little, you probably suffered more because of John’s death.”
Clay met and drowned in her tender expression. In that instant, he simply wanted to take Aly into his arms and make slow, exploratory love with her. Her hand resting on his shoulder sent warmth throughout his cold, knotted gut. “Yeah, you’re right. John was married to a great woman, Maggie. They have three of the brightest kids.” He avoided her gaze. “They’re like family to me, Aly. John and Maggie sort of took me under their wing.” He managed a strained laugh, completing the bandaging. “I’m the kids’ ‘uncle.’” And then hesitantly he added, “I always will be. I never forget Christopher, Mark or Jenny’s birthdays. I’ve got them circled on a calendar I carry in my wallet. It doesn’t matter where I’m stationed, I always send them a card and a gift.”
Aly closed her eyes. His pain and suffering was far greater than her current physical discomfort. “I’m sorry, Clay ” His words about the loss of his brother serrated her: ‘I lost all of mine.’ Stephen Cantrell had died on that hill. “Surely, you’re an uncle to your own family members?”
Clay allowed her to retrieve her hand. He remained kneeling there, hands resting on his thighs. Unexpectedly, tears stung his eyes. Tears! He hadn’t cried in years. “What you don’t know is that when the Marine Corps officer visited my mother with the telegram informing her of Stephen’s death, she suffered a stroke two hours later that killed her.”
“No!”
Clay heard the raw anguish in Aly’s cry. He slowly turned his head, meeting and holding her shadowed blue eyes. “They were all I had. My brother and my mother. I never knew my father, because he died in a jet crash when I was barely a year old. My dad was an orphan who worked his way through college and then joined the Navy, attaining flight status. My mother was an orphan, too. All they had was each other.” He gave Aly a twisted smile filled with sadness. “Maybe now you can understand why John’s children are so important to me. They’re my other family.” Clay got stiffly to his feet, unable to stand the tortured look in Aly’s eyes. At that moment, he didn’t know who hurt worse.
The day passed slowly for Aly. Forced to huddle with Clay and the unconscious Dan Ballard in the tent when the rains came, she remained silent, repl
aying their prior conversation. Off and on, she slept—partly to escape the ordeal of feelings surrounding Clay’s softly admitted story, partly to escape the widening pain in her heart for him.
Clay sat, Dan on his left and Aly curled up at the other end of the raft under a blanket. His arms were wrapped around his drawn-up knees. Moodily, he listened to the wind outside. The storm was slowly abating, the rain coming less often, the wind less powerful. That was good. He wanted the rescue to hurry up and happen.
Clay’s gaze drifted back to Aly, as it always did. This was the first time he’d gotten a chance to observe her for any period of time without continual interruption. There was something healing about watching her, he decided. Maybe it was the way her lips parted, free of tension. Or just the way she curled up like a lost kitten, looking alone and vulnerable. He wanted to curl up beside her and pull her into his arms.
Funny, he told himself, how a plane crash brings everything into sharp clarity. Clay hadn’t meant to tell Aly about his other crash, or the fact that Stephen’s death had also taken his mother’s life. Rubbing his face savagely, he felt dirty and small. The anguish in Aly’s tone and eyes tore him apart. It was as if she personally took responsibility for the tragedy at that moment. Nine months ago, he’d have gleefully told her the awful consequences of Morgan’s decision, just to strike out and hurt her as Morgan Trayhern had hurt him. But now he had the opposite feeling. Somehow, Cantrell wanted to take away the guilt he saw in her eyes. Aly shouldn’t have to be burdened with Morgan’s dirty laundry.
Clay quietly got up and went over to check on Dan, taking his pulse again, and feeling his skin to make sure he was being kept warm enough. Was the engineer in a coma? God, he hoped not. Dan had a blond hellion for a wife, whom he adored. Not to mention those four kids who were often a bright spot in the dark tapestry of Clay’s life.
“Dan?” he called softly. “Listen, buddy, you’ve got to pull out of this. You hear me? You’ve got a great wife and kids waiting for you. Don’t let it all go. Hang in there. We’re going to be rescued any time now.” Dan’s lashes didn’t move. Grimly, Clay kept his hand on the engineer’s shoulder, as if to will him out of the netherland he drifted in.
No Surrender Page 12
