Expecting the Boss's Baby / Twins Under His Tree. Karen Rose Smith
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But probably not broken.”
“And you know this, how?”
“I don’t. But let’s think positive, okay? Can you wiggle your toes?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Don’t they always ask if you can do that when you hurt your foot?”
He laughed—a laugh that got caught on a moan. “Some nurse you are.” He wiggled his toes. All five of them. “There. What do you think?”
They were very handsome toes, actually, long and well-formed. No weird bumps or bunions.
And what was she thinking? They’d just crashed in the jungle. How good-looking his feet were ought to be the last thing on her mind.
“Zoe?”
“Um, I think I should wrap it and then use the cold packs. And you should keep it elevated.”
“Good a suggestion as any.”
So she got an ACE bandage from the kit at her feet. She started wrapping at the base of his toes. “Tell me if it’s too tight …” She wrapped halfway up his calf and then used the little hooks to secure it. “How’s that?”
“Seems fine.”
She shook one of the cold packs and it grew icy. Then she used another section of ACE bandage to hold it in place over the swelling. “There. Now we should get you in the back where you can stretch out, get this ankle higher than your heart.”
He shook his head. “First, we should see if we can call for help, don’t you think?”
“Like … try our cell phones?” That seemed hopeless.
“Let me see about the radio first.”
That took about half a minute. The engine—and the radio—were deader than a hammer. They got out their PDAs.
No signal.
He slumped back in his seat, against the door, his leg still canted over to her side, his calf across her knees. “Now it’s taped, I might be able to hobble around on it at least. We should try and get to higher ground, somewhere we can build a signal fire.” His eyes were drooping as he struggled to stay awake. Maybe she shouldn’t have given him two codeines. But at the time, easing his pain had seemed the priority.
“You need to keep that ankle up,” she said. “And you’re exhausted. You’ve lost more blood than can possibly be good for you. And you might recall I just sewed up your head? Not right now, Dax. I say we stay in the plane, for the time being anyway. Until the weather clears …” Her words trailed off. The rain had already stopped. And right then, far above their tiny clearing, the sun appeared. Through the water droplets that clung to the side window, everything looked brighter out there.
Well, except for the jungle. It was still a wall of darkest, deepest, scariest green.
Dax said, “Get a pencil. Now.” He really was struggling to keep his eyes open.
“Okay, okay …” Her travel purse was on the pilot-side backseat where she’d thrown it while clearing the floor. She reached back and grabbed it, took the pen from the little slot on the side, got the small spiral notebook she always carried from another side pocket. “All right. I’m ready.”
He groaned. And then he muttered a latitude and a longitude. “Those were our coordinates as of right before I brought us down.”
She wrote them in her notebook. “You do think of everything.”
He didn’t answer her. She looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his fine mouth slack.
Good. He needed to rest. And he wasn’t going to be doing much of anything when he woke up, not with that ankle. For him, for the next several days, hiking to higher ground was not in the cards. And the signal fire? If she couldn’t find a hill very close, she would build it in the clearing.
But not right this minute. For now, they had shelter and a case of bottled water and other clothing when it came to that—and she thought there were blankets in back, too, travel blankets.
She glanced over at Dax again. He was slumped against the other door, his head at a really uncomfortable-looking angle.
Slowly, trying not to hurt his poor ankle any worse, she lifted his foot off her knees. He groaned and tossed his head. She froze. A moment later, with a heavy sigh, he settled down again.
It was a tight fit, but she lowered her seat back and managed to slip out from under him and over the console through the space between the seats. Carefully, she lowered his poor foot to the seat cushion.
Then she put her pen and notebook away and turned for the tangle of suitcases and boxes in the baggage area.
She found a couple of small pillows, the expected travel blankets—and, in a large box bolted to the bulkhead, she found a miracle.
There was toilet paper, paper towels, matches, a collapsible camping shovel, a couple of dismantled camp chairs she could assemble when the time came. There were two heavy-duty flashlights, a big battery-operated lantern, two oil-burning lanterns with fuel canisters, a small tent, a hatchet … and more. Two cups, two plates. Basic flatware. Two pans for carrying and heating water. There were field glasses and a compass, fishing gear and even a pair of mean-looking hunting knives.
If she could find a stream, she might try fishing. Or maybe she could just jump some jungle creature and stab it with one of the knives. The options, she thought drily, were endless, if somewhat unpleasant.
Right after that, she found several bags of freeze-dried food underneath all the other stuff. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go hunting anytime soon after all.
She carried the pillows up in front, eased them under Dax’s head and then shook him awake long enough to get him to put his other leg up on her empty seat. She braced the zipped first aid kit, a folded blanket on top, under his bad ankle.
He didn’t need a blanket over him. It was plenty warm in the cabin.
For a minute or two, she watched him sleep. He look so good with his shirt off, just as she’d imagined him, with great muscle definition, gorgeous six-pack abs and quite the cute silky-looking happy trail. She didn’t begrudge herself a nice, long look. Hey, at this point, anything that took her mind off their desperate situation was a good thing to be doing.
But she couldn’t stare at him forever. Reality insisted on intruding. She sat in one of the rear seats, checked her D90, the lenses and the spare camera she’d stored in a suitcase. All had been protected by the padding in their carry cases and were good as new.
That her cameras were okay cheered her somehow. Things could definitely be worse, right?
She started wondering where, exactly, they might have gone down, and considered getting out the paper maps they carried. But later for that. For now, she knew as much as she needed to know: that they were south of the Tropic of Cancer somewhere, in the Mexican jungle. Still in Mexico, because the storm hadn’t lasted long enough to blow them too far off-course. And even the big fuel capacity of the Cessna 400 wasn’t that big, not big enough to carry them all the way to Guatemala or Belize.
How long would it be before someone got worried and sent out searchers? They were due to meet Ramón Esquevar for dinner in their beautiful hotel at eight. When they weren’t there to meet him maybe? Or even earlier, when they didn’t show up at the Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport per their filed flight plan?
She shook her head. Probably not that soon.
Who knew how such things worked?
A small, absurd whimper tried to squeeze out of her throat. She didn’t let it. She was strong and whole and smart and she could deal with this. She would deal with this.
When Dax woke up, he would help her deal with this. Yes, there was the sprained ankle, the gash on his head. But he knew how to survive in a hostile environment.