Chapter Eleven
In which we learn that any landing you can walk away from is a good one.
Sloan…
“Sloan! Wake up lass, come on now, open your eyes.”
Everything hurts so much. I force my eyes open and wish I hadn’t. What’s left of the jet is in six hundred pieces. The cockpit is intact, but the rest of the body of the plane is torn into chunks of jagged metal, one wing is driven into a rock face, the other is crumpled upside down in the field. Bizarrely, the row of seats I’d been sitting in are sitting upright in the middle of the road, handcuffs swinging from the arm and the cream-colored leather undamaged, even though there’s burning bits and pieces scattered around it.
“Darlin’ look at me.” Ethan’s hands are gliding over me, checking for injuries. He’s got a nasty cut at his hairline with blood coursing down his cheek.
“There goes your modeling career,” I say. I start laughing at the expression on his face and I can’t stop.
“Aye, you’re in shock.” His big, warm hands cup my face. “Listen to me. We’re alive. Are you hurt? Move your legs and arms for me.”
I try to obey him and bite down on a scream. Two of my ribs are rubbing against each other with an ominous, splintery feel. I’d broken a rib during a fall when I was jumping my horse at fifteen, it’s not a feeling you forget.
“My ribs,” I grit out, “right side. I think there’s a couple of broken ones.” When I try to push up off the ground, a vicious bolt of agony sears through my shoulder and this time I do scream.
His touch is featherlight. “Ya dislocated your shoulder. I’m gonna set it, but it will hurt.” Gently lifting my arm, he angles it over my head, bending it at the elbow. Putting his other hand on my shoulder blade, he looks me in the eye. “Take a breath, love. As deep as ya can manage.”
As I suck in some air, he pulls my arm up and sharply pushes in on my shoulder with his other hand. A blue-white flash of light blinds me for a moment and the pain is so acute that I’m speechless, mouth open and gasping like a goldfish out of its bowl.
“Ya did so well, love.” He wraps his jacket around me, holding me carefully while I cry like a baby. “Ya were so good for me.”
For a minute, we just sit there in the middle of the smoldering remains of his fancy jet. He’s warm and I don’t want to move. “What’s the saying,” I ask, wiping my nose with the sleeve of his jacket, “that any landing you can walk away from is a good one?”
Ethan chuckles tiredly, “Aye. That’s right.”
The blood’s stopped coursing down his face but the gash on his forehead still looks bad. “We need to fix that cut,” I touch it gently, “head wounds can bleed forever. I’m sure you have a first aid kit. Or did it disintegrate with the rest of the jet?”
Carefully lifting me, he carries me over to those ridiculous seats and puts me down. “I’ll take a look.”
“Wait, where else are you hurt?” I ask, “Should you be moving around and carrying me places?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been hurt worse in a Saturday night bar fight.”
“Show-off,” I mumble as he looks through the wreckage. My shoulder has dulled to a low throb and if I don’t move much, I can’t feel my ribs rubbing against each other.
Even though I can’t imagine how anything survived a controlled crash landing that tore apart a steel jet, within a few minutes he’s collected a promising pile of supplies; a black tactical bag he’d stored behind the pilot’s seat, part of a first aid kit with bandages and some medical equipment, some bottles of water, blankets, and a jug of amber liquid that I’m guessing is scotch, based on the reverent way he’s holding it.
While he claims he’s not hurt, his sweater’s torn with an ugly red streak across his chest, and one sleeve is ripped off, showing a detailed sleeve of tattoos marred with bloody cuts. He cleans himself up with quick, precise movements that tell me it’s not the first time he’s had to patch his own injuries.
“Here-” I scoot a little closer, “let me fix your forehead, you can’t see it.” He silently hands me the first aid kit. Once I’ve got his cut cleaned up and held together with some butterfly closure strips, I look over his shoulder and nearly pass out. “You’ve-” I cover my mouth; I can’t throw up. Not now.
He twists, trying to look, and winces. “What is it?”
“There’s a… you’ve got a piece of metal sticking out of your back.” I dry heave and I’m so angry at myself for being such a wimp.
“It’s okay, I can get it.” He smiles reassuringly, which makes me feel like an even bigger asshole.
“No! No, I can do it. Turn around.” The metal shard drove down just under his shoulder into the skin. I can see the razor-sharp tip of the other end poking out about six inches down. “How can you not be screaming about this?” I ask, “This looks incredibly painful.”
“Adrenaline. You’d be surprised how long it can take to feel an injury.”
“It sounds like you speak from experience,” I say. “Give me the gauze. Do we have any more rubbing alcohol?”
“Nah, but we have somethin’ better.” He picks up the jug of whiskey and drinks three big gulps before handing it back to me.
“You know, I thought they just did that whole booze thing in the movies,” I babble, trying to work up my nerve. “Just sit very still, please. I’m going to pull it straight up, just the way it went in. Hopefully, I won’t cause any more damage.”
“You’re doin’ fine.”
How can he sound so calm and reassuring? He’s the one with the metal sticking out of his back!
“Okay… okay… okay… here we go. Ready?” Gritting my teeth, I pull on the metal shard and to his credit, he doesn’t move a muscle, even though it must hurt like hell. At first, the skin around it stretches out grotesquely, like it’s going to hang onto the jagged bit of metal, then it slowly slides out, sending another stream of blood down his back.
“Splash the whiskey on the cut and then pack it with the gauze,” he says, maybe gritting his teeth just a bit.
“I’m sorry!” I moan, flinching as I pour the alcohol over the bleeding cuts and quickly press the bandage against it. I’m praying it stops because I don’t think we have any more steri- strips. After plastering piece after piece of gauze over his back, blood stops blooming on the fabric and I sag in relief. “I’m gonna tape this in place, I’ve almost got it.” He takes the whiskey, getting another swallow or two before I pull it away. “Give me that. I should have had some before to steady my nerves but no time like-”
My first swallow burns down my throat like a stream of lava and I drop the jug.
“Careful.” He grabs the booze before it spills over the rocks. “This is the strong stuff.” Shuffling around, he eyes me with amusement. “Ya okay, then?”
“I think my esophagus is melting,” I wheeze.
“Eh, you’ll be fine.” He pats my cheek and stands up with a groan. “It’s gettin’ dark. Temperatures in the Cairngorms drop like a rock when the sun sets. We need a fire.” He looks over at what’s left of the cockpit. “That’s likely our best shelter for the night. We’re lucky the fuel tanks didn’t rupture. Pile all the blankets in there while I gather some wood.”
“Wait!” I’m following him like an anxious duckling. “Won’t somebody be coming soon? You got a message out about the crash, right? What country are we in?”
He grins rakishly, a flash of white teeth in the dark of his beard. “Well, the good news is that we made it to Scotland. The bad news is, we’re in the steepest mountain range and a hundred miles from civilization.”