She felt almost as if they had crashed again.
She drifted, surfacing toward awareness before sinking down again. Her heart was hammering, with an odd echo that she gradually recognized as the gallop of his heartbeat. His chest was rising and falling like bellows as he gulped in air. Heat rose from their bodies in waves, and though she was half naked and somehow completely uncovered, she wasn’t cold. She thought she might never be cold again.
“Holy shit,” he finally said, his voice drained.
Her hand flailed limply for a moment before she managed to pat his shoulder.
With an effort he pulled himself off her and collapsed by her side, plucking at some of the garments that had been tossed aside until he was able to drag one or two of them over their bodies.
“Don’t go to sleep,” he warned, though he sounded as if he was halfway there, himself. “We have to get this straightened…get you dressed…I have to check the fire…” His voice trailed off.
After a minute he swore, and heaved himself to a sitting position. “And if I don’t do it right now, I’ll be asleep myself.” He peeled off the condom and cleaned himself, then spent a few seconds tucking, straightening, and zipping before crawling out to see to the fire.
That was the great thing about condoms, Bailey thought drowsily: no cleanup for her. All she had to do was sleep.
A wave of frigid air washed over her and she groaned. So much for never feeling cold again. Sitting up, she managed to get her sweatpants untangled from around her leg, got them back on and pulled up, and began restoring order to the complete disarray of their covers. Cam slid back into the shelter, his broad shoulders momentarily blocking the light from the fire. He helped her get positioned, then he lay down beside her and arranged the last layer over them before collapsing on his back and pulling her close to his side.
She nestled her head on his shoulder, the fit as natural as if they’d been sleeping together for years. She felt a little dazed—no, a lot dazed. And relaxed. And sated. Maybe even a little sore. But most of all, she felt as if they fit together in a way that was terrifying because it was so perfect.
31
LOGAN TILLMAN, BAILEY’S BROTHER, SHOWED UP AT THE J&L offices the morning of the fifth day. Bret knew who he was immediately, before he even introduced himself. It wasn’t that he and Bailey resembled each other all that much—Logan was taller, his hair darker, his eyes bluer. But there was a similarity of expression that marked them as relatives, a certain reserve. Other than that, his face was haggard with grief, as was that of the tall, freckle-faced woman beside him.
“I’m Bailey’s brother, Logan Tillman,” he said, introducing himself to Karen. “This is my wife, Peaches. I—We couldn’t stay in Denver any longer, with no contact, no news. We’d rather be here. Is there anything?”
Bret came out of his office to shake their hands. “No, nothing. I’m sorry.” He was as haggard as they; he’d slept only fitfully since Cam’s plane went down. Despite that, he’d begun taking flights again, because the business had to go on.
Financially he was in a tailspin, something he’d never counted on when he and Cam formed their partnership. They’d done the smart thing, insured their aircraft and themselves so the business would continue if anything happened to either of them, but they hadn’t reckoned on the insurance company’s natural inclination to hang on to money.
Even though Cam’s plane had disappeared from radar over extremely rough terrain—meaning it had crashed—because the wreckage hadn’t been found and Cam’s body recovered, as far as the insurance company was concerned he was still alive until either his remains were found or a court declared him dead. The cold reality was that Bret was short a plane and short a pilot, therefore less money was coming in. He was walking the floor at night, worrying himself sick about the debts that were coming due. He couldn’t believe they—he—had been so shortsighted. He’d have to hire another pilot, of course, but finding someone who matched his qualifications would take time.
He realized that Karen was giving him one of her narrow-eyed looks that promised retribution if he didn’t do what she wanted. He drew a weary breath. She was waiting for him to tell Bailey’s brother about the fuel discrepancy.
She was right; Logan had to know. Bret didn’t want to be the one to tell him, but he had no choice.
“Let’s go into my office,” he said heavily. “Would you like some coffee?”
Peaches shot an assessing look at her husband, as if weighing whether or not he needed a shot of caffeine. “Yes, please,” she said, taking Logan’s hand. He squeezed her hand in return and managed a ghost of a smile.
Bret led them into his office, got them seated in the two visitor’s chairs. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Cream in one, the other black,” Peaches answered. Her voice was like Tinker Bell’s, light and quick. Bret had talked a lot with Bailey when he’d piloted her, and he remembered how much she’d liked her sister-in-law. Logan seemed to be the only family she kept in touch with; he was the only one she’d ever mentioned.
Their grief was so acute it lay on them like a veil of suffering. He had to get out of there. “I’ll get the coffee,” he said quickly, and walked out to find Karen already preparing it because of course she’d been listening. She gave him a quick, piercing look, reading his expression.
“Suck it up, boss,” she said, and he gave her a wry look. So much for sympathy, but then, anyone looking for sympathy from Karen Kaminski was out of luck. He noticed that she’d been in the hair dye again; before, there had been a few striking black streaks in her red hair, but now her hair was more black than red. He wondered if this was her way of wearing mourning.