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“Well,” Cooper said, sitting back on his heels and wiping his perspiring forehead, “it’s not pretty, but I think it will work.”
He looked down at her with a satisfied and optimistic smile. But she didn’t see his smile. She was unconscious.
Chapter Three
She came to, actually surprised that she was alive. At first she thought that darkness had fallen, but she inched her head upward. The small mink pelt slid off her head. It was still daylight—exactly what time was impossible to pinpoint. The sky was gloomily overcast.
With a sense of dread, she waited for the pain from her leg to penetrate her consciousness, but miraculously it didn’t. Dizzy from the brandy she’d consumed, she eased herself into a sitting position. It took every ounce of strength she had left to lift the furs off her leg. For one horrid moment she thought it might not be hurting because Cooper had amputated it after all.
But when she moved aside the largest caribou pelt, she found that her leg was still intact and bandaged in strips of white cotton. No signs of fresh blood. She was by no means ready to run a marathon, but it felt much better.
Sitting up had exhausted her and she fell back amid the furs, pulling them to her chin. Her skin was hot and dry, but she was chilled. She still had a fever. Maybe she should take more aspirin. But where were they? Cooper would know. He—
Where was Cooper?
Her lethargy vanished and she sprang into a sitting position. Frantically her eyes scanned the clearing. Not a trace. He was gone. His rifle was missing, too. The other one lay on the ground within her reach. The fire still had glowing coals and was giving off heat.
But her protector had deserted her.
Forcibly tamping down hysteria, she reasoned that she was jumping to conclusions. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t have nursed her so meticulously only to leave her stranded and helpless in the wilderness.
Would he?
Not unless he was an unfeeling bastard.
Hadn’t she decided that was exactly what Cooper Landry was?
No. He was hard. Tough. Cynical, certainly. But not completely lacking in feelings. If he were, he’d have deserted her yesterday.
So where was he?
He’d left a rifle behind. Why? Maybe that was the extent of his human kindness. He’d tended to her wound, done all he could on that score. He’d provided her with the means to protect herself. Maybe now it was every man for himself. Survival of the fittest.
Well, she would die. If not of fever, then of thirst. She had no water. She had no food. She had no shelter to speak of. In just a little while the supply of firewood, which he’d cut and stacked nearby, would be used up. She’d die of exposure if the weather turned even marginally colder.
Like hell she would!
Suddenly she was furious with him for going off and leaving her. She’d show him; she’d show her father. Rusty Carlson was not an easily expendable, spineless wimp.
She threw off the covers and pulled on her ski jacket. For the time being she’d leave off her left boot because the pair of them were still stashed farther down in the pile of furs, too far for her to reach. Besides, if one foot was bare, the other might just as well be, too. And on top of that, putting on her coat had sapped her energy.
Food and water.
Those essentials were necessary. That’s what she had to find first. But where? At best, her surroundings were intimidating. At worst, terrifying. For three hundred and sixty degrees, all she could see was virgin forest. Beyond the nearby trees—some so tall she couldn’t even see the tops of them—there stretched endless miles of more just like them.
Before she could go in search of water, she had to get to her feet. It seemed like an impossible task, but she gritted her teeth with the determination to do it.
When they discovered her body, it wouldn’t be hunkered under a pile of furs!
Reaching out as far as she could, she closed her hand around a stick of firewood and pulled it toward her. Using it as a prop, she came up on her good knee, keeping the injured one straight out in front of her. Then she paused to catch her breath, which was forming clouds of white vapor in front of her face.
Repeatedly she tried to stand up, but failed. She was as weak as a newborn kitten. And light-headed. Damn Cooper Landry! No wonder he’d urged her to drink so much brandy. He’d wanted her to pass out so she wouldn’t know when he sneaked away like the miserable skunk that he was.
Making a Herculean final effort, she put all her weight on her left foot and stood up on it. The earth tilted precariously. Closing her eyes, she clasped her supporting stick of firewood and held on for dear life. When she felt it was safe to reopen her eyes, she did—and let out a thin squeak of astonishment. Cooper was standing on the other side of the clearing.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.
Dropping what he was carrying, including his rifle, he bore down on her like a sorely provoked angel. Catching her under her arms, he kicked the stick of wood out from under her and lowered her back into her sickbed. He packed the covers around her shivering body.
