“So there’s nothing to be done.”
“Not right now. When the wreckage is found, if there’s evidence of sabotage, then it’s a different situation.”
“If the wreckage is found.”
“It will be,” Bret said with confidence. “Eventually.”
Eventually. That was the bitch. “Eventually” could mean in two days, or two years, or in the next century. Until then, it was possible someone was getting away with murder.
“I CAN’T STAND it,” Logan said that night as he paced around their hotel room. He’d been doing a lot of pacing since getting the news that the plane Bailey was on had disappeared. “The fuel record itself should be enough to convince some judge that something was going on.”
Peaches lay curled on the bed, her skin pale beneath her freckles. Neither of them had slept or eaten very much in the past few days. Not knowing was the worst. And yet they did know, at least, that Bailey was dead. It seemed particularly cruel to accept that, and not be able to find her body. She should have a burial, she should have the ceremony that marked the end of her life. Peaches resolutely didn’t allow herself to think of what happened to bodies in the wilderness, but she knew Logan had, and it was eating at him.
The knock on their hotel door startled both of them, because they hadn’t ordered room service, preferring to find somewhere cheaper to eat. After spending so much on their canceled vacation, of which they would get only a partial refund, then having to stay in a hotel or motel for the past several days, they were becoming a little worried about their money.
“It’s probably Larsen,” Logan said, which was logical, since Bret knew where they were staying. It was anyone’s guess why he’d come up to the room instead of calling if he wanted to talk to them again.
He opened the door, and froze. Picking up on his body language, Peaches got off the bed and went to stand beside him, staring in puzzlement at the tall, dark-haired man who stood there. She didn’t recognize him, but a prickle of unease let her take an educated guess.
“What the hell do you want?” Logan asked with so much hostility that she started. “How did you know where to find us?”
“To talk. And finding you was easy. I asked. You called home and told people where they could find you. All I had to do was say I’d lost your cell phone number, and that I had news about the crash.”
“I don’t have anything to talk to you about.” He started to close the door but Seth Wingate put out his hand and blocked it. He was a powerfully built man, with a face that could have been good-looking if there had been anything in his expression other than a complete weariness of soul.
“Then just listen,” he said coldly. “I didn’t have anything to do with that plane crash.”
“Somebody did,” Logan said, his jaw setting and his eyes going flinty. “Your own sister was crowing about how dangerous it is to cross you, that Bailey got what she deserved.”
“My sister,” said Seth very deliberately, “is a cold-blooded bitch who may well be setting me up to take the fall.”
Logan wanted to punch him in the face, but held back. Peaches was there beside him, and though he didn’t mind a fight he would never willingly risk that she might get hurt. “Your sibling loyalty is really touching,” he sneered.
Seth’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said. “I just wanted you to know I didn’t do it.” Then he turned and walked off, leaving Logan and Peaches to stand in the door of their hotel room and watch him disappear down the hall.
32
DURING THE LAST OF HIS FIRE-FEEDING EXCURSIONS, Cam located the first-aid box amid the jumble of clothing, unwrapped it, and took it out to once more fill it with snow. Bailey’s inventiveness in using the box as a bed warmer made him smile; she had the damnedest talent for seeing beyond an item’s intended use and adapting it for her needs. If they’d been forced to stay at the crash site for much longer, he had no doubt that their stick shelter would have morphed into a mud hut, and she’d have built a windmill from the plane’s metal and parts to power the battery so they could have all the fires they wanted.
After replenishing the fire, he nestled the box close to the hot coals. Having something hot to drink first thing would be great. Being able to lie in bed all day would be even better, but with their food situation the way it was they didn’t have that option.
He waited while the snow in the box melted, hunkering as close to the fire as he could yet still shivering from the icy winds. After adding more snow to the box, as well as a handful of pine needles, he crawled back into the shelter for another hour of sleep before dawn, and the start of another exhausting day.
Bailey didn’t wake, but she hadn’t any of the times he’d gone out to stoke the fire during the night. He stretched out beside her and she came to him like a homing pigeon, draping herself over him and making herself comfortable, all without waking up. With luck, all the rest of their nights would be spent like this, but he wasn’t taking anything for granted. God knew, she made heavy work for herself out of every step of a relationship. Going with the flow was an alien concept to her, and emotional trust was something to be avoided.
He had his own work cut out for him, either side-stepping or dismantling the land mines of her childhood. Divorce was tough on everyone, especially kids, but Bailey’s personality had made the upheaval disastrous for her. She needed security on a deeper level than most, and had spent her adult life making certain she was as secure as possible. If that meant not letting herself care about anyone, so be it.