“For someone who can’t sew, you’re a handy wench to have around.”
She had to laugh. “I think it’s ironic. I’ve always hated anything to do with a needle and thread, and now I’m not only having to make stuff, I literally had to sew up your head. That’s just wrong.”
He looked at the snowshoe in his hands and chuckled. “Tell me about it. I’ve always hated snow, hated being cold—and now look.”
“If you hate snow, how do you know how to make snowshoes?”
“The principle is simple—distribute the weight over a wide surface—so all you have to do is make a general grid design that you can strap on your feet.”
She watched him painstakingly construct the shoe from the smaller, more flexible evergreen branches, his big hands nimble and sure, as if he’d done this a thousand times. Again she was aware of that strong sense of contentment, the feeling that she was right where she belonged—not stuck on this mountain, but here in the moment.
The struggle to survive, as exhausting and harrowing as it had been, had been external. Inside, she’d felt oddly free of stress, because her choices were simple: do what needed to be done, or die. Make a shelter. Stay as warm as possible. Melt snow to drink. That was it. There was nothing complicated about survival, whereas life was nothing but complications.
At the same time, man, she couldn’t wait for this to be over. She wanted a hot shower. She wanted a flush toilet. She wanted a supermarket.
“Know what I’d love to eat, right now?” she said in a tone rich with longing.
He made a choking sound, then howled with laughter. Bailey’s mind was wandering down the produce aisle, so far removed from sex that she stared blankly at him for a moment before realizing what she’d said. Her face began to heat. “Not that.” She swatted him. “Shut up. I was thinking of a big pot of corn and potato chowder, steaming hot, with bacon crumbles and shredded cheese on top.” Her mouth began to water as she all but tasted the dish.
He wiped the tears from his eyes with his thumb and said, “Me, I’m more of a meat eater.” The glittering look he gave her told her that he wasn’t thinking of prime rib, and her face got hotter.
She pushed at him, trying to force him off the trash bag. “Leave! Get away from me, you dirty-minded man.”
“Guilty as charged,” he drawled, not budging an inch. “On all counts.”
“I mean it! Leave. Go try out your booties.”
He was still chuckling as he got up and walked off. Bailey watched him stride toward the plane, her gaze unconsciously lingering on his ass and long legs before she realized what she was doing and jerked her eyes forward. Though the fire didn’t really need it, to occupy herself she added another piece of wood.
He was seducing her, she realized, truly seducing her, using words and laughter and their forced reliance on each other. She couldn’t walk away from him, she couldn’t wall him out, because their survival depended on their closeness, their cooperation.
Maybe she should just let him do it, her innate caution whispered, let him have sex. The seduction process would stop then; there wouldn’t be a point to it any longer. If she gave him sex, he’d stop this assault on her heart because he’d think he had already won it. Her emotions would still be safe.
She had never fallen in love, never wanted to. Now, for the first time in her life, she was afraid that the danger of doing so existed, afraid that Cam Justice could get close enough to really do some damage to her when he moved on. She was trapped by their circumstances, and the realization was terrifying. She couldn’t get away from him, and she couldn’t freeze him out. If he had been any other man she could have, but he saw through her. She didn’t know how, but he did. Somehow she’d revealed too much and there was no going back.
She hated feeling vulnerable. She hated the suspicion that in just a couple of days she’d come to care for him more than she’d ever let herself care about another human being, except perhaps her brother, and that was entirely different.
The urge to track Cam with her gaze was maddening, like an itch. Unwillingly she gave in, watched him crouch down to inspect the right wing. Not much of his hair was visible, because of the bandage still wrapped around his head, but at least his head was covered against the cold. He looked like a hobo, with his hodgepodge of clothing—most of which he had tied on or wrapped around him, rather than actually wearing it, but he still carried himself as if he wore a military uniform because he didn’t give a damn if he looked like a hobo. He didn’t give a damn if he had to wear a woman’s clothes, though admittedly her selection of sweatpants and flannel shirts wasn’t exactly feminine. She suspected he wouldn’t have cared if everything she’d brought was adorned with ruffles. What did a ruffle matter, when matched against that kind of self-confidence?
Suddenly he reached up under the plane, then got on his knees and began working himself beneath the wing. Alarmed, she got to her feet. Was he crazy? No, the plane hadn’t moved an inch in all this time, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t, especially with him moving around under it, bumping it, tugging on it.
“What are you doing?” she called, hurrying toward him, intending to physically drag him out if he didn’t come out of his own volition.
He backed out, dragging something black with him, a grin on his bruised face.
“Found my jacket,” he said triumphantly.
The plane was black. The jacket was black. Crushed into the snow, blending against the background of crumpled black metal and dark shadows, the fabric had gone unnoticed. It was great that now he had a coat, at least, but all she cared about was—