He’d barely relaxed when another spasm seized him.
He didn’t know how long the excruciating spasms lasted, just that they were agony, and he was helpless to control them. She stayed right there the whole time, holding him, stroking him, talking to him. He fastened onto the sound of her voice as if it were a lifeline, even though most of the time he couldn’t understand what she was saying, because as long as he could hear her that meant he wasn’t dead. His own body was trying to kill him, but to hell with that. Fuck dying. He didn’t intend to give up, though he was so exhausted giving up would be easier than battling through this.
He just wanted to rest for a while. Sleep. But even during the brief periods when the shaking stopped and he could relax, he couldn’t sleep because she kept talking. At some point his brain reconnected and the words made sense again. “—good,” she was saying. “You’re shivering, and that’s good.”
Shivering? She called these brutal, muscle-locked spasms shivering?
In a moment of clarity he managed to say “Bullshit.”
He heard a low sound that was almost like a laugh. Mrs. Wingate, laughing? Maybe he was hallucinating.
“No, it is good,” she insisted. “It’s your body generating heat. I know I feel warmer, now. Even my feet aren’t as frozen.”
He did a laborious mental inventory of his body. Maybe she was right. He couldn’t say he was toasty, but he was definitely warmer. He tried to open his eyes, but they’d been glued shut. Slowly, every movement needing every ounce of concentration and strength he had, he lifted his right hand toward his face.
“What are you doing?”
“Eyes…trying to open my eyes.” Fumbling clumsily at his eyelids, he could feel a thick crust under his fingertips. “What’s…this crap?”
“Dried blood. I guess your eyelids are stuck together,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re a mess. When you’re a little warmer and I’ve gotten some chocolate down you, I’ll clean your face and get your eyelids unstuck. Then I’ll see if I can manage some stitches, though I warn you the results won’t be pretty.”
Stitches? Yeah, he remembered now. His head was cut. The first-aid kit had sutures in it, and he’d told her to sew him up.
He didn’t want to wait for her to clean his face; he wanted to see now. He wanted to get up and assess the situation for himself. He needed to see how much damage the plane had sustained. Maybe he could still make radio contact.
Another spasm grabbed him and shook him. The interval this time had been longer, but the spasm itself was just as intense. She held him tightly, as if she could ease the shaking by controlling it. The tactic didn’t work, but he appreciated the effort.
When the spasm left and he could relax again, he was so tired he gave up on any idea of getting up and assessing anything. He wanted to just lie there. Besides, he thought vaguely, if he got up, he wouldn’t be able to feel her breasts against him and he was really liking that. Okay, so he was a dog. He liked breasts. Throw him a bone and call him Fido.
It occurred to him, in his floating, fuzzy way of thinking, that he could feel her breasts even better if they were lying facing each other.
“What are you doing?” She sounded a little alarmed, or maybe that was annoyed. “If you throw these clothes off after all the trouble I went to to get you covered, I’ll leave your butt in the snow to freeze.”
Annoyed. Definitely.
“Get closer,” he muttered. He was trying to get his left arm up so he could roll onto his left side, facing her, but she was lying against his arm and he couldn’t manage the necessity of first pulling away from her, then lifting his arm, then rolling onto his side.
“All right, but be still. Let me do it.”
She moved around some, heaving and wiggling, then she lifted his left arm and slid under it, pressing against his side. He almost sighed with pleasure, because now he could feel both of those soft/firm mounds. She draped an arm across his stomach and cuddled closer.
“Better?”
She had no idea how much. He made a sound in his throat. Let her interpret it any way she wanted.
“I guess this is warmer. In a few minutes I’ll get up and get to work. If I stay here any longer, I might go to sleep, and that won’t be good. I have a lot to do, but I have to take my time doing it or the altitude gets to me.”
He wanted to ask what she had to do, but he was so sleepy and tired, and he was feeling much warmer—almost comfortable, in fact, that staying awake was fast becoming almost impossible. He made another sound, and that seemed to satisfy her noise requirements. She kept talking, and he tuned her out and went to sleep.
8
CAREFULLY BAILEY CRAWLED OUT FROM UNDER THE ENORMOUS pile of clothing. Justice was asleep, and though she thought she was supposed to keep him awake, because of the head injury, she also thought sleep might be the best thing for him. He had to be exhausted from all that shaking and shuddering.
She felt better, herself. Her feet were still cold, but overall she was much warmer—though she did miss the down vest that was now covering Justice. To make up for its loss, she fished a third shirt from the pile and put it on.
Lying down for a while had helped her headache and nausea, too. If she were careful and didn’t forget to move slowly, maybe the altitude wouldn’t bother her so much.
Even though she knew what she would see, she took a moment to look around again, at the massive mountains with the white peaks soaring high above her. But for Justice, they would have crashed on those bare expanses of jagged rock, with little or no chance of survival. Once again she felt the immensity of the wilderness surrounding them and an overwhelming sense of being alone.