Trapped. Beverly Long
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returned to the front of the plane. Working together, Elle and Pamela dug the man out, tossing the heavy pieces aside. It was wood or fiberglass or some other combination of materials, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it was heavy and, while she kept her right arm tucked next to her side, it was impossible to keep the right side of her body from moving. Piercing pain traveling through her neck, shoulder and arm was the result. It made her feel sick to her stomach.
Finally, the man was free. She could hear him moving in his seat, but the light was not quite in the right spot. She retrieved the flashlight from Mrs. Hardy, who immediately returned to her husband’s side, and aimed it toward the man.
Evidently right in his eyes.
“Hey,” he said, protesting, holding his hand in front of his eyes.
She lowered the light fast.
And wondered if she’d been too quick to dismiss her own head injury. She’d been thinking about Brody and, suddenly, she was seeing him.
And hearing him.
It wasn’t possible. She was in shock. And pain. Her shoulder hurt like the devil. That was it.
She flashed the light again, being careful to keep it away from his eyes. The man’s body was long and lanky, with narrow hips and a flat stomach. Nice wide shoulders. Strong chin.
Oh, no. She knew that chin.
“Brody?” she said, her voice squeaking.
Said chin jerked up and she caught the full impact of his hazel eyes. He looked her up and down and even knowing that it was so dark that he couldn’t be seeing much, she wanted to run and hide. Thirteen years. And it felt as if it were yesterday.
“Evening, Elle,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “I guess this just proves that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.”
The minute he said it, he was sorry. Over the years, Brody had thought of a thousand things that he might say to Elle if their paths ever happened to cross. That had not been one of them.
He felt worse when he heard her quick intake of breath. And he was just about to apologize when she stepped toward him. “This is Pamela. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy, mid-seventies, are in the back row. Total of five passengers. Two crew. Copilot has a bone sticking out of his lower leg and the pilot is barely conscious and bleeding from the head. No working radio.”
It was a nice, concise report but did nothing to explain why she was on this plane.
Damn, the side of his head hurt. When the plane was rolling, everything became a projectile and something had knocked into him pretty hard. He was pretty sure he’d lost consciousness briefly. When he was coming to, he’d heard Elle’s voice, like so many times in his dreams. Then, when she moved closer to lift the weight off his back, and he’d smelled orange blossoms, he’d been shocked. Never before had Elle’s sweet scent been part of his dreams.
Then she’d said his name and he about jumped out of his own skin.
How many times over the years had he heard her say Brody? Her tone rich, a little lower than the average woman’s. In friendship—that had come first. In passion—it had followed pretty quickly. In joy—he liked to think so. Maybe he’d have heard it in sorrow when she left, but he’d never know. All he’d gotten was a note.
And now didn’t exactly seem like the right time to ask for more information. Now was the time to do what he did best.
“Either of you injured?” he asked.
The woman next to Elle stepped forward. “We have to get out. You have to help us.”
“Are you injured?” Brody repeated.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. We have to go now. The plane might explode.”
Elle had introduced her. What was her name? “Pamela, right?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to sit tight for just a minute.” He turned his attention to Elle. “I heard you say something about your arm.”
“It’s fine,” she said, dismissing the inquiry. “What about you?”
He rolled his shoulders back and considered his own injuries. He’d been lucky. He was going to have a hell of a lump on his head, but he could get past that. Something from above had hit his back and it was definitely going to be bruised and sore tomorrow, but if the angle of the hit had been a little sharper and a couple inches higher, it likely would have fractured his spine and he would never have walked again.
He stood up, careful not to hit his head on parts of the hanging interior. “I’m good to go. I’ll check the crew first,” he said.
She moved, shrinking far enough back in the small space to let him pass without touching her. He was grateful for that. His nerves felt pretty raw. When the copilot announced that they should prepare to crash, he’d prepared to die. Had said a quick prayer, said a mental goodbye to his parents and to both Ethan and Mack, the best friends a man could have had. And he’d thought about Elle, whom he’d loved and lost and never known why.
“I’ll need some light,” he said. She handed him the flashlight. He took it, careful not to brush up against her fingers.
He saw the young copilot sitting in his chair and moved toward him. “My name is Brody Donovan. I’m a doctor,” he said.
“Thank God, a doctor,” the young man said, his jaw clenched tight. “I hope you don’t deliver babies for a living.”
“Orthopedic surgeon,” Brody said.
“My lucky day,” the copilot said.
Brody wasn’t so sure of that. He’d seen enough to know that the young man had a compound fracture of the tibia.
“What’s your name?” Brody asked.
“Angus Bayfield.”
“Angus, I’m going to be able to help you, but for now, I need you to not move that leg.” When a bone broke and one end protruded through the skin, that meant that there was another sharp end still inside the leg, able to do all kinds of damage to veins and arteries. The blood loss wasn’t bad and he wanted to keep it that way.
“I’m going to quickly assess the others,” Brody said. He’d been in a combat zone for a long time. Triage was the name of the game. Assess everyone, identify the wounded, identify those most critically wounded that would benefit from treatment, and proceed from there. “Are there any other flashlights on board and what about a first-aid kit?”
The man pointed over his shoulder toward a big flashlight that was still miraculously hanging on the wall. Brody reached over and unsnapped the straps that kept it in place and flipped it on. It lit up the whole space, much better than the small flashlight that Elle had given him.
There were sections of the roof of the plane hanging down and exposed wires. The front windshield was shattered, making it difficult to see anything outside.
He heard movement behind him and turned. It was Elle. He handed her back her flashlight.
“I’m going to sit with the Hardys,” Elle said.
“Tell them I’ll be there in just a minute.”
“Sir,” Angus said, “there’s a first-aid kit under the captain’s seat.”
Brody fished around and pulled out the rectangular aluminum box. Holding the flashlight in one hand, he used his other to flip open the lid. He made a quick assessment. Basic stuff. Bandages. Gauze. Alcohol sponges. Ibuprofen. Antiseptic wipes. Antibiotic ointment. Adhesive tape. Scissors. Several pairs of gloves.
He turned toward the pilot. The man was still strapped in and he was regaining consciousness. He pushed