by Mallory Kane
He picked up his prepaid cell phone and looked at it. He did not want to make this report, but he had to.
AIMEE SQUINTED against the glare of the sun on the brilliant white snow outside the cabin door, and swung the stick of firewood at it one more time. To her relief, the pane of glass finally broke.
The stick of firewood she wielded in her gloved hands was heavy, but the cabin’s door was solid wood and the frames that held the six panes of glass were solid. Even the glass seemed to be reinforced.
She’d been working ever since Matt had left. She didn’t have a watch, but she knew it had been a long time—maybe too long.
No. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—worry about William. Matt would die to save him.
She swung again, letting the reverberation of the blow shake that thought from her mind.
“Matt—won’t—die,” she muttered as she swung again and again. He’d promised her he’d be back. She believed him.
“He—won’t—die.” She dropped the log from her aching hands and blew out a breath.
She eyed the hole where the glass panes had been. It was big enough for her to crawl through—probably. But if she climbed out now, she’d have nothing to do but sit in the snow and wait for Matt to show up.
The roof creaked again, and Aimee cringed. The fear that had dogged her ever since the sun had begun beating down on the snow sent her pulse skyrocketing. What if the roof collapsed?
Maybe it was a good idea to go ahead and climb out.
She could wait for Matt outside in the sunshine, away from the possibility of being crushed when the tree’s last clinging roots let go and dumped its full weight on the cabin roof.
She grabbed the daypack, and then remembered the food and drinks she’d seen in the kitchen. Running into the kitchen, she chose a few things to put in the daypack. Too much and it would be too heavy to carry. Then she went through the kitchen drawers, checking to see if she saw anything that might come in handy. She found a couple of odd-shaped pieces of metal that she assumed were key rings, a small can opener with no handles. She had no idea if it was broken or if it was made that way, but she stuck it in the bag anyway.
One of the drawers seemed to be dedicated to first aid supplies. She grabbed antibiotic ointment, gauze, tape and a small bottle of alcohol. Then she saw a pair of scissors and stuck them in the pack, as well.
Lifting the pack, she grimaced at its weight. “I’ll ask Matt,” she told herself. “He can dump whatever he thinks we don’t need.”
Back in the front room she examined the hole in the door and brushed away all the glass shards and splinters of wood she could see. Folding the blanket several times, she lay it over the bottom of the jagged opening.
Outside, drifts of snow glistened with water where the sun hit them.
She went back to the kitchen and grabbed a chair to drag over to the door, but stopped when she heard something. She glanced up, cringing. Had the tree’s roots finally let go?
“Aimee?”
A thrill lanced through her. “Matt?” She whirled. There he was, on the other side of the broken door. Spots of color stained his cheeks, standing out against his pale skin and pinched mouth. His left hand was tucked inside his unzipped parka, and blood stained the sleeve—more than before.
“Matt!” She was stunned at his appearance. His face was set, with lines of pain etching it. His eyes were too bright, and appeared sunken. And his face was horribly pale. She pasted a smile on her face, trying not to show how worried she was about him. “Is William—?”
He nodded and a tight smile lightened his drawn features. “He’s safe. Deke’s got him.” His voice was hoarse, and he was obviously trying to sound upbeat.
“You put him in the helicopter?”
“Actually, he rode up in a basket.”
“A basket?” she repeated, horrified at the picture his words evoked.
“These are specially designed for rescuing people. Like the ones they used down in New Orleans during Katrina.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t convinced about the safety, but if William was fine, then that’s all that mattered.
He coughed. “I see you found something to do. You finished breaking in the windows.”
“I figured it was about time for me to chip in.”
“Let’s get you out of there.”
“You just stay back. I can do this myself.”
He lowered his gaze and complied. That sent an arrow of hurt through her. Not because she needed his help, but because he knew he was too weak to offer it.
She grabbed the daypack and lifted it through the broken window. Lowering it by one strap, she let it fall to the ground. Then she pulled the chair over.
Standing on it, she climbed through the broken panes and hopped to the ground. Then she picked up the blanket, shook it out and rolled it up.
“Leave it,” he said.
“Are you sure? Because I can carry it—”
“Leave it.”
She tossed the blanket back inside. “How far are we going?”
“About two miles.”
“Two miles? That’s not bad. Deke’s going to meet us?”
He nodded. “At 1500 hours. Three o’clock.”
She frowned. “Isn’t that a long time?”
“Not really. About five hours from now. He needs time for the—sun to melt the snow,” he said raggedly. “And we need time to get there. Let’s go.”
“No.” Aimee crouched and unzipped the daypack. She dug in it for the first aid items. “We’re not going anywhere until I take care of your arm. You’re still bleeding. What did you do?”
He caught her arm. “No.”
“Matt, yes! You’re about to collapse. You can’t go any farther until we stop that bleeding.”
“Not here. The tree—”
As if on cue, the branches creaked and scraped across the tin roof.
Of course. The tree. They had to get out of the way, in case it fell. “Come on, then. Let’s get away from here.”
“Go on,” Matt said tightly. “I’ll follow.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. You took care of me when I was hypothermic. It’s my turn.”
She zipped up the daypack and slung it onto her back, sticking her arms through the straps. “Will it help you to lean on me?”
Matt’s mouth turned up in a wry smile. “I already am,” he muttered. “More than I should.”
After a couple of seconds, he shook his head. “No. Please go on. I’m going to be slower than—than you.”
Aimee could tell his voice was getting weaker. Don’t quit on me, she wanted to say. But that wasn’t fair. He’d pushed himself further than she ever would have been able to. He wasn’t quitting.
His wounded body was betraying him.
So she headed south for about fifty feet, stopping at a fallen tree trunk that was about the right height for sitting. She brushed snow off and sat to wait for him to catch up.
He walked slowly, doggedly, as if all that was keeping him on his feet was sheer determination. It broke her heart to watch his struggle. It took all her self-control not to run to help him.
Her eyes burned and her throat closed, but she busied herself with unloading the first aid supplies.
When he got to her she looked up, masking her feelings with a smile. “Sit down and let me see your arm.”
He didn’t even try to argue. He propped the rifle against the tree trunk and slid his parka off his right arm. Then he carefully peeled the sleeve off his left arm, doing his best not to move his arm.
His sweater was soaked with blood. Aimee swallowed against the nausea that rose in her throat. “Sit,” she said as evenly as she could.
She took the scissors and cut the sleeves off his arm. “Oh, Matt. What happened? Is that a gunshot wound?”
His back was straight but his eyes were closed. “No,” he muttered. “A branch.”
“It went—” She twisted his arm slightly so she could see the underside, grimacing when he moa
ned. “It went all the way through?”
Dear heavens, don’t let me hurt him. She knew that was a wasted prayer. She had to clean and wrap his arm. Everything she did was going to hurt him.
“I’ve got to get your watch off.” His hand was swollen and discolored, and the watchband looked unbearably tight. “Please, believe me. I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s got to come off.”
It wasn’t easy, and Matt was wheezing in pain by the time she was done, but she got the watch unfastened. She put it on her wrist and buckled it in the last hole.
“Aimee—” he gasped. “Before you—get started, hand me the rifle.”
“It’s right next to you—” She stopped as understanding dawned. He knew where it was. He just couldn’t lean over to get it. Every bit of strength he had was devoted to keeping himself upright. She couldn’t imagine what it had cost him to ask her to pick up the rifle and put it in his hand.
She grabbed it and held it so he could get his right arm around it and his finger on the trigger. “Thanks,” he breathed.
“I don’t have anything to give you for pain,” she said as she sat back down and gently touched his arm.
“Just hurry.”
As quickly and as gently as she could, she poured alcohol over the top of his arm and caught it with gauze pads underneath. She cleaned both awful, gaping holes as well as she could, doing her best to ignore Matt’s harsh breathing and frequent grunts of pain. By the time she was done, sweat was beading on her forehead and Matt had gone quiet.
“I don’t know how doctors stand it,” she muttered as she squeezed antibiotic ointment onto a clean gauze pad, applied it to the upper wound and did the same with the wound on the underside of his arm. Then she took a roll of gauze and wrapped it around his arm.
“Is that too tight?” she asked.
Matt raised his head a bit and he carefully moved his fingers. “Okay,” he said shortly.
She secured the ends of the gauze with adhesive tape.
When she finished, she straightened and examined his face. His skin looked tight and drawn across his cheekbones. His mouth was compressed into a thin line, his nostrils and the corners of his lips were white and pinched. And sweat glistened on his forehead and neck.
“I’m done,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
She took a last gauze pad and wiped his face and neck, noticing that he was trembling.
“Okay, I’ve got something for you.” She pulled out a self-heating container of hot chocolate. “I figured if I asked, you’d tell me to leave it because it was too heavy. But I think you’re going to be glad I have it. I found it in one of the cupboards.”
Pressing a button on the bottom of the container, she activated the chemical reaction in the container’s sleeve that heated the chocolate drink inside.
“In about ten seconds, this is going to be hot chocolate. You need to drink it.”
“We need to go.”
“No. You’re not going anywhere until you drink this.” She waited until the container felt hot in her hands. Then she popped the tab and firmly pressed it into his right hand. “Drink.”
“You need—”
“Listen, Matthew Parker. I haven’t been out in the snow all night, and I didn’t just single-handedly save a helpless infant. And I haven’t lost pints and pints of blood. That chocolate’s all yours. Besides, I had some already. I’m full.”
She didn’t miss his sidelong glance. She was lying, and he knew it.
Even though nothing but the nylon shell of her parka was touching the shoulder of his sweater, she felt the shudder that racked him as he swallowed the hot, sweet liquid.
Something shook loose inside her, and tears filled her eyes. Strangely, that had been happening a lot the past few days. She knew what Matt would say—probably what most people would say.
Your child’s been kidnapped. It’s natural to cry.
But that wasn’t true—not for her. She’d decided a long time ago that for her, crying equaled losing control. For her entire adult life she’d prided herself on never crying.
All those times when control had slipped through her fingers, leaving her feeling helpless and impotent—her parents’ deaths, Bill’s illness and tragic death, even William’s kidnapping—at least she could say she didn’t cry.
Ever since she and Matt had joined together to rescue William, she’d begun to look at tears differently. They had more to do with relief and joy and even sadness than with failure on her part.
Right now her tears reflected a poignant concern for Matt and a deep-seated satisfaction that, finally, she was able to give him back a fraction of the help he’d given her. She only hoped the energy in the chocolate drink would be enough to carry him to the rendezvous point. She watched him to make sure he drank every drop.
Matt’s first swallow of hot chocolate spread through him like a flame of desire. As soon as it hit his stomach, however, a deep, bone-rattling shudder had racked his body. Partly a result of the hot liquid flowing through his chilled body, warming his insides. But also the clenching response of his empty stomach suddenly being hit with the sugary substance.
Once the initial queasiness passed, he actually felt a little better. The unrelenting pain in his arm was the same, but each throb didn’t plaster black-edged stars before his eyes or trigger his gag reflex.
“Why don’t you eat an energy bar?” Aimee said. “I’ve got several.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and moved his head a fraction in a negative direction. He knew his gut wouldn’t accept the chewy, fiber-rich bar.
“We need to get going.” He stood. For a second, the black-edged stars blinded him again, so he stood still, waiting for them to fade. He wasn’t going to get far if the pain in his arm kept up. Just standing jarred it.
“I need you to do something else for me,” he said.
Aimee looked up at him. “Anything,” she said.
“Do you have any more tape or gauze?”
She looked into the bag. “Both, why? Are you hurt somewhere else?”
“I need you to immobilize my arm against my middle. If it starts bleeding again, I’ll probably pass out, so I need to keep it as still as possible.”
Aimee cut the left arm of his sweater and his long underwear, all the way up to the neck. Then she wrapped gauze around his wrist and back until his forearm was sealed against his torso. “I don’t know how we’re going to get your sweater or your undershirt back on.”
He shook his head. “Just hand me the parka.”
Finally, once he had his parka up over his right shoulder and draped over his left, he cautiously lifted his head, steeling himself against nausea and dizziness.
A flicker of light caught the edge of his vision. He squinted in that direction, but didn’t see anything except snowdrifts and fallen trees. Was it his weakness, playing visual tricks on him?
He moved his head back and forth, trying to catch the reflection again. It could have been a piece of ice that caught the sun just right, or a tiny scrap of metal turned up by the snow.
Or it could have been something more ominous, like sunlight glinting off binoculars—or the barrel of a gun.
“Do you need to rest for a little while longer?”
“No,” he said, rubbing his temple with his right hand. If someone—Al Hamar—was watching them, he didn’t want him to think he’d spotted him.
And he didn’t want Aimee to know his suspicion. She wouldn’t be able to keep from looking behind them, and that could be fatal. He was still counting on Al Hamar needing him alive. All he had to do was make sure the terrorist couldn’t get a clear shot at Aimee.
The only way he could do that was to stay so close to her that Al Hamar couldn’t shoot her without running the risk of hitting him.
“I need something else,” Matt said.
Aimee looked at him in surprise. “Sure. What do you need?”
“I need to lean on you.” He held up Kinnard’s rifle. �
��Hook the rifle over my right shoulder. Then I’m going to put my arm around your shoulders, just to keep me steady.”
Aimee bit the inside of her cheek, doing her best not to cry. She saw in his face that he wasn’t used to asking for help. “No problem,” she said, putting a false brightness into her voice. “I might even get the chance to cop a feel.”
She stepped in close enough to him so he could put his arm around her shoulders. “Can I put my arm around your waist without hurting you too much?”
Matt’s breathing was fast and short. “I’d be—insulted if you—didn’t.”
Gingerly, she slid her hand under his parka and wrapped it around his middle, feeling the hard muscles of his back. Even covered by layers of clothes, they felt like long straps of steel.
It terrified her how frail and breakable the human body was. Not many hours ago, his lean, rock-hard body had covered hers, strong, demanding and unbearably sexy as they’d made love.
A thrill tightened her stomach at the memory. It seemed unreal now, like a fantasy, or a dream. It was a moment stolen out of time.
This was reality. Matt injured, needing her support.
Although the arm clutching her shoulders was corded with muscles, he leaned on her heavily, at this moment needing her more than she needed him.
It took a long time to figure out how to walk with Matt so close to her. Finally, once they found a rhythm, it seemed as if he were hardly leaning on her at all.
AIMEE LOOKED at Matt’s watch on her wrist. It was two o’clock. She’d been denying the truth for over an hour. But the fact was that Matt was getting weaker—much weaker.
After he’d drunk the chocolate, he’d started out walking strongly, barely even resting his arm on her shoulder.
But the farther they went, the heavier he got. He was losing strength fast. She’d tried to get him to stop and eat something, but he’d refused. She’d forced him to drink a few of sips of water, but the last two times she’d held the bottle for him, he’d shaken his head doggedly and refused.
She was pretty sure her makeshift bandage had stemmed the flow of blood, but not in time. She knew he’d lost too much already. She knew nothing about blood loss or first aid, but it made sense that if he was losing blood he should be drinking water.
