injury thoroughly and that got the bleeding going again. She dabbed and poked and pressed at the gash and the surrounding tissue until she had it clear enough to work on.
The sewing-up took way too long. Each stitch had to be separate, so the whole thing wouldn’t come apart if one happened to break. At least she found she did know what she was doing. During that delightful survivalist weekend, they’d made her practice doing stitches on a round steak, which she’d found thoroughly gross at the time. Who knew that someday she would be grateful for the experience?
Dax sat still beneath her hands. She knew it had to hurt, but he didn’t make a sound.
She was sweating bullets by the end of it—from the stress, from the concentration, from the increasing sticky heat in the cabin. It was a great moment, when she finally set the scissors and needle aside. The dressing came next and that took no time at all.
“There,” she said, snapping off the disposable gloves. “Done at last.”
He tried to smile. “How do I look?”
“Rakish. All the girls will be after you. The scar is going to really wow them.”
He grunted. He was probably thinking that he didn’t need any more girls after him. But he didn’t say it. He only whispered, “Thank you, Zoe.”
She handed him the water bottle. “Drink.” She grabbed one for herself, too, and took a big gulp.
He screwed the lid back on his slowly. “Don’t know why I’m so exhausted.”
She was repacking the first aid kit by then. “Maybe the crash landing. Maybe the loss of blood. Maybe the twelve stitches in your forehead.”
“Maybe the codeine.”
“Hmm. Could be that, too—I need to look at your ankle now.”
His lower lip had a mutinous curl. “It’s okay for now. I think the codeine is kicking in. I can hardly feel anything.”
“Still, we can wrap it, for support, and you should get it elevated. Too bad we don’t have any ice …”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Zoe, you know that?”
“Flattering me will get you nowhere.”
He grunted. “There should be a six-pack of instant ice pouches in the first aid kit—good for a whole twenty minutes each.”
“Twenty minutes is better than nothing—and times six, that’s a couple of hours. Every little bit helps.” She dug out the box of cold packs, put the unzipped first aid kit on the cabin floor at her feet and sat in her seat again.
“Just shake one,” he said, “and it gets cold.”
For the moment, she set the box aside. “Okay. Can you hoist that foot up here?” She patted her lap.
He bit back a hard groan as he lifted his right foot and cleared the console. Very slowly, he stretched out his leg and gently laid his foot in her lap. He wore lightweight, low-cut hiking shoes.
She pushed up his pant leg. “It’s swollen.”
“No kidding.” He winced as she gently probed at it.
She untied the lace and eased the shoe off and the low-rise sock as well, dropping them both to the floor beside the first aid kit. “Yep. Swollen. 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
