“I was just going to check your bandage.”
“Is it …?” He reached up to touch his forehead.
She caught his hand, guided it back down. “It’s fine. Healing well.”
He blinked away the last of the dream about Nora. “What day?”
“It’s Friday.”
“The fifth day …”
“Yep.”
“No rescue plane, no search party …”
She slowly shook her head. “By now, it’s safe to assume they have been looking. By now, my father knows. He will have mobilized and when my father mobilizes, things get done. But no sign of anyone looking for us so far. I found the flares from that large, wonderful, lifesaving box of equipment of yours and I haven’t had a chance to use one yet.”
Five days, he thought. And how much longer would they have to last here? Were they going to die here? He said, “It’s a big jungle.”
“But you gave me the coordinates, remember? We know approximately where we are. Eventually, we can try and walk out of here if we have to.”
He said what he was thinking. “But we shouldn’t have to. We should be wrapping up our ‘great escape’ in San Cristóbal de las Casas about now. And we would be, except for the fact that I’m a fatheaded ass who had to show off his pretty little plane.”
“Stop that,” she said sharply. “Don’t you even go there, Dax Girard. This plane was perfectly safe. The weather was the problem.”
“But if I had only listened to you—”
“If, if, if. Please. You want to talk if? Fine. What about if I hadn’t proposed this trip in the first place, what if you hadn’t liked the idea? And we can always go in the other direction. What if you weren’t an excellent pilot? What if you hadn’t had the foresight to install that box full of necessary equipment in the back? What if you hadn’t put together a first aid kit that has everything but an operating table inside? We cannot afford to get all up into the ‘if’ game, Dax. We need to keep our chins up and our minds focused on what needs doing next.”
He stared up at her. “Wow,” he said.
“Wow, what?” She glared down at him.
He didn’t even try to hide the admiration he knew had to be written all over his face. “I don’t think I realized until now just how tough you are.”
“I have seven bossy brothers and a pigheaded dad. You’re damn right I’m tough.”
His stomach chose that moment to growl. He put his hand on it. “I think I’m starving.”
Her sudden grin was like the sun coming up. “And that is a very good sign.”
The next day, which was Saturday, she helped him get up on his feet and out of the plane for the first time since they’d left Nuevo Laredo almost a week before. Every muscle, every bone, every inch of his skin—all of it ached. He was weak as a newborn baby. And he was filthy. He could smell himself and the smell was not a good one.
But his ankle was healing faster than even he could have hoped. He could put weight on it, gingerly, could hobble around if he took his time and was careful. Zoe had a camp set up, with the two collapsible camp chairs from the box in the baggage area, the tent and the few cooking utensils. And a campfire ringed by rocks she had gathered, with a large, jagged piece of the wing nearby. It took him a moment to understand the purpose of the piece of wing.
Then it came to him. When it rained, she could use it to shield the fire a little, to keep at least some of the coals dry. The wood she’d collected waited under another hunk of the ruined plane.
She had water heating for him.
He shaved. In the small mirror from his travel kit, his face looked haggard, pale and drawn. Beneath the fresh dressing she’d put on his head wound, his eyes stared back at him, sunken and haunted.
“I look like hell,” he told her.
She poked at the fire and nodded. “Yes, you do. Hurry up. I have a surprise.”
He wished for the impossible. “A shower would be nice.”
“Close. You’ll see. Finish your shave.”
Something close to a shower. That, he wanted. He wanted it bad and he wanted it now. He shaved faster, nicking himself twice and hardly caring.
When his face was smooth again and he’d put his kit away, she got him some clean clothes. She gave him one of the hunting knives, one of the two canteens and a bottle of shampoo.
“I need a knife to take a shower?” he asked.
“You never know what you might need once you get in the trees,” she warned.
“We’re going into the trees?” It was a stupid question. Of course they were going into the trees. He could see the whole clearing by turning in a circle. There was nothing that would provide anything resembling a shower anywhere in it. But how far would they be going? He couldn’t make it any distance on his weak ankle.
“Not far,” she said, as if she’d read his mind. “And I’ll help you. We’ll take it slow.” One of the travel blankets was strung on a line she’d run between the plane and the camping shovel. She grabbed that and slung it around her neck, stuck the other hunting knife in a loop of her waistband along with the other canteen, and grabbed the hatchet she had found in the equipment box. “Come on, wrap your arm across my shoulders.”
He obeyed. Together, they hobbled toward the forest.
The trail became clear as they approached it. They went in, the trees closing around them, into deep shadow. Without a breeze. Instantly, the insects started biting.
“Ignore them,” she said. “It’s not far.” She led him onward. He focused on hopping along, trying not to trip on the thick ropes of exposed roots that twined across the trail.
Maybe fifty yards in, with the clearing just a memory somewhere behind them, she stopped. “Listen. You hear it?”
He did. A hard, hollow rushing sound. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Rivers were everywhere in the jungle. Still, he felt excitement rising. “A river?” Rivers not only meant a place to wash away the filth and maybe even catch some fish to eat, they were the highways of the wilderness. You followed them and eventually, you found people—people who might help you to make your way home.
She nodded. She looked very pleased with herself. “Yes, a river. Come on, it’s not far now.”
And it wasn’t. Another ten yards or so and the trail opened up and there it was, gleaming in the sun that shone down through the gap in the trees. They stood on the bank and he admired the gorgeous sight. There was a waterfall above, a nice inviting pool below, right in front of them. Some distance to his left, the shallows formed rapids that raced away downstream.
“Have you tried fishing yet?” he asked.
She shook her head. “The freeze-dried stuff isn’t going to last forever, though. We need to get out that pole. I would have done it sooner …”
Guilt, ever-present since the crash, pricked him again. “But you were afraid to leave me alone for that long.”
“Well, there’s that. Plus, I’ve always hated fishing. I don’t have the patience for it, which is probably why I never catch anything.”
At last. Something she actually might need him for. “I’ll do it, no problem. Best to try at dusk, though, when the fish are biting.”
“I was really hoping you would volunteer for it—but what about bait?”
“I’m guessing