Chapter Two #2
“Ex-husband. He’s my son Tyler’s father. Did you tell anyone we were taking a private charter flight into Casper, Wyoming, for a connection?”
“I texted the chief of surgery before we got on, but the message was undelivered. I didn’t notice until we were well into the flight, and by then, we didn’t have service.”
“What if no one knows we are here?” I gasp.
“They’ll track us. The black box can’t be far.”
“What if he didn’t file a flight plan?”
“Why would he not do that?” he asks.
“Because some pilots don’t if it’s not mandatory and a familiar airspace.”
“There will be help coming for us.”
“I need to get to my son.” I choke on the words as tears burn my eyes, and I look out to the bitter peaks stretching as far as I can see.
“Hey.” He moves in front of me and lowers to my eye level. His glove-covered hands wrap around my shoulders. “You will get home to your son.”
I want to believe him. The assurance in his eyes is hypnotic.
He straightens his over six-foot frame and scans the surroundings.
“We are ahead of the storm, but it’s probably going to be moving through by nightfall.
I want to check the plane and see if I can find the black box, but it’s most likely not here if it was in the backend.
” His cheeks are pink from the cold, and his breath mists from his lips.
“We need to start a fire and hunker down in the plane and wait to be rescued.”
My foot is throbbing, and my head is pounding.
I slide my arm behind his jacket, about to utilize him as my human crutch, when I feel his body stiffen.
“A plane!” he shouts and darts towards our plane in shambles, snow spraying from around his legs from his powerful strides.
“The flare gun!” He almost dives through the door.
“Down here!” I scream and wave my arms, knowing they can’t hear me.
Spencer bursts out of the door with the barrel of the gun open as he loads it with a flare cartridge.
He snaps it shut, points it up into the air, and fires.
Its thunderous cry calls to the white line of hope drawn in the sky.
A bright orange flame screams high and arches down at the now-passing plane.
We don’t say it, but we both know it is too far away.
Spencer slowly lowers the gun and turns his back to me as his posture sags and his head bows.
The fingers of his free hand clench into a fist. His shoulders rise and fall in the silence.
When he finally turns to me, his face is clear of tension, and his arms hang relaxed by his sides. “We need to keep this flare gun on one of us at all times.”
“Yeah.” My voice drops, and I realize I’m clutching my hands to my abdomen. Even though he’s twenty feet away, the softness of his expression reaches me.
“It will be okay.” He walks towards me, offering his assistance once again.
He wraps his arm around me for support and hugs me against him.
The gesture catches me off guard, but the kindness in it causes tears to spring to my eyes, which roll down my cheeks.
His lashes lower to them, like he wants to wipe them away, and maybe I’m just imagining it, but I brush them off before he can.
“Let’s go make a fire,” he says softly, and escorts me back to our current residence on this secluded mountain.
The sun has started its descent on our first day of survival in the wilderness as the storm clouds roll in from a distance.
I had taken its presence for granted, and now I want to reach for it and pull it back high over the mountains as its warmth and light escape us.
We sit amongst the damage in the plane next to a small fire.
In addition to Spencer’s doctor supplies, we found a survival kit and a first aid bag in the airplane.
The kit has been invaluable and contains items such as two tarps, water and nonperishable food, a lighter with kindling, another flare gun, more first aid supplies, a flashlight with extra batteries, a headlamp, two sleeping bags and blankets, a compass, a hatchet, a pup tent, and a knife.
There were even additional sweatshirts and sweatpants in the bag. Bill was prepared for an emergency.
It is also a lifesaver that Bill had a dog that traveled with him.
We can make two fires using its food and water bowl, one inside the plane and one outside.
We also found a small bag of dog food. Not ideal, but if our rations run out, it’s better than starving.
Spencer and I haven’t talked much since retreating to the inside of the plane for the night.
He pulls out a protein bar from the survival kit and offers me one.
I am starving and eagerly accept, tearing it open and savoring it like a filet from an expensive steak house.
Spencer and I assess our food, water, and perishable fire situation and decide we can make it for about two and a half weeks before we run out.
The good news is that we can use the snow as a water supply.
We create enough space to lay two sleeping bags along the floor and cut the seat cushions off and use them as insulation beneath us.
The holes in the plane provide the needed ventilation for the fire as its smoke pours into the dark sky above.
There’s not a trace of the moon or stars due to the storm, and the snow is beginning to fall.
My whole body hurts. To shift positions is torture.
The two main injuries, my foot and head, are keeping the rest of the pain at bay.
I know Spencer is in a great deal of discomfort by the constant grimace on his face and the low grunts he is muffling by turning away or burying his face briefly in his arm.
He doesn’t want me to see him hurt or not confident and in control.
Part of me likes the feeling that he has it all together, to calm my nerves and help keep my own head level, but the other part wishes he would lower his guard and show me his fear.
Show me that he feels just as vulnerable and lost as I do.
The cabin is surprisingly a tolerable temperature.
I find some trash bags, and Spencer packs them with snow.
My ankle is elevated with one of the makeshift ice packs pressing against my flesh.
Spencer has one mashed to his side just above his stitches and another one resting on his head.
He leans against the wall as he sits on his sleeping bag with his shirt lifted, applying first aid ointment to his stitches and changing the well-soiled gauze pads.
His skin glows and forms shadows around his defined abdomen.
He extends back further to get a better look, and I catch a glimpse of a thin trail of black hair peeking out of the top of his waistband, resting between the V lines of his lower stomach.
This man is delicious. How am I even noticing his looks in these extreme circumstances?
What is wrong with me? Perhaps it’s a guard, a wall, a distraction from the truth.
The truth I won’t let myself face. The possibility that we may die out here, and I may never see my son again.
Spencer slides his shirt down and focuses on me.
“I have Advil, but we can’t take it unless we are sure we don’t have any internal bleeding.
I want to check your abdomen and your urine again.
” He approaches me, circling the fire between us.
“We can take this ice, rather snow, off now,” he says with a small smile as he carefully unties the corners of the bag and removes it.
“It can serve as an icepack, and later, a drink.” He grins as he palms the melted water in the drooping bag.
“We’re just like MacGyver.”
“You’ve watched it?”
“My dad loves that show, so yeah, I’ve seen it.”
“Mine does, too, or he did.” He pauses as his jaw tightens.
“Did?” I say softly.
“Yeah, he died a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He only offers me a curt nod before continuing. “Can you roll onto your back? Sorry, I just want to check your abdomen again.”
“I can’t. There’s no nurse present as a witness. What if you take advantage of me?” I say dryly.
His expression is stoic. Maybe it’s in poor taste to joke with a doctor like that. “Amanda, please.” His tone is clipped, but there is a trace of urgency in it as his eyes bore into mine.
“Yes, sure, I’m just kidding around.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I just don’t take matters of life and death lightly, and I want to make sure you’re all right.”
I struck a nerve in him. I’m curious if it’s the same with all doctors, or if this one is more personal. “Okay.” I roll onto my back.
“May I?” he asks as his hands grasp the bottom of my shirt.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He gently slides the fabric up to just under my bra. He clicks on the flashlight that we found in the survival kit, and his gaze drops to my skin. He shines the light around my navel and along my sides. “Do you mind if I look at your lower back?” he asks, placing a hand on my hip.
“Sure.”
He rotates me to my side. Due to the tightness of our quarters, he can’t maneuver around me to look at my other half, so he reaches over to my other hip and curls me towards him and brushes his fingers along my back, further lifting my shirt.
The scent of him from the airport floods me.
My breath momentarily stops as I still with his body hovering just over mine and my face almost smothered into his winter jacket.
He delicately rolls me back down. When our eyes meet again, there is nothing but a doctor checking on his patient.
“I’m going to press on your abdomen. It’s not meant to feel comfortable, but let me know if you feel any sharp pains, okay? ”
“Okay.”
He pushes down on the center of my stomach, then different areas on the top, bottom, and sides. “Nothing too terrible?” he asks.
“No.”