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She opened her eyes and batted them, not coquettishly, but in an attempt to get them to focus. She took one look at Carson’s snow leopard and promptly fainted, which was probably the best thing she could do in the situation. Using the rope as a makeshift harness, Carson began hauling her back to his sled of supplies. Between the two, he should be able to redistribute what he needed to get her and his most vital supplies up to the cabin and leave the rest hanging in the tree. He could come back for it later.
The unconscious woman didn’t appear to be damp, but he needed to get her wrapped in some of the thermal blankets he carried with him. And he needed to get her up to the cabin and see how badly she was hurt. There was no easy way to get her down to a doctor, but luckily there was one available by shortwave radio.
What the proverbial fuck? What were the chances that a beautiful bush pilot would crash and require him to play hero?
Then the buzzing in his head suddenly made sense. He supposed those odds increased dramatically when she was your fated mate.
CHAPTER6
AMELIA
The fog; the darkness; the pain.You weren’t supposed to be in pain when you were dead, were you? Wasn’t that part of the reason death was supposed to be peaceful? And dry—she was dry. Shouldn’t she be wet if she’d drowned or had otherwise died in a body of water?
Alaska.If she was in Alaska, shouldn’t she be cold? Because she was warm—nice and toasty warm.
Amelia sniffed the air. She ventured to open one eye. Flanked on either side by windows, the massive fireplace boasted a roaring fire—complete with the scent of seasoned wood burning and the crackling of logs as the flames danced all around them. She could see snow falling, which made sense. She was in Alaska.
Ouch!Thinking hurt. That wasn’t necessarily true. Everything hurt, as if she’d slammed into the side of a mountain, but she hadn’t hit a mountain. She’d hit the lake with too much speed and at too steep an angle. Gingerly, she reached up to touch her head—there was a massive bump, and it was even more painful when she touched it. Her head felt thick and as though an enormous hive of bees had taken up residence—buzzing and boring holes into her brain. If this was death, it sucked.
She forced herself to open the other eye. That did nothing to alleviate any of her suffering. ‘Suffering?’ that was a bit melodramatic. Taking a deeper breath, her lungs felt as if someone had struck a match to them and they too burned with a painful intensity. Maybe ‘suffering’ wasn’t over-the-top. She felt weak, sore, and ill. Everything hurt or did not seem to work quite right.
She looked around the room—it seemed to be a large, open cabin consisting of this main room that had a kitchen, seating/living area as well as a sleeping one. There were three doors—two that seemed to lead outside and the third into what she assumed and hoped was a bathroom. She couldn’t hear anyone milling around in there. She seemed to be completely alone, but how had she made it from the plane to this cabin? Who had been there to help her?
Slowly and carefully, she made it into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Dizziness and nausea made their presence known, and she closed her eyes to see if she could abate both. Not gone, but a little better. Opening her eyes, she used the headboard to steady her balance. Setting her feet on the floor, Amelia made herself rise up from the bed, not moving until she felt stable. Tentatively, she moved her feet and stumbled to the bathroom.
Where the hell was she? How the hell had she arrived here? Was she safe? Didn’t matter. She’d figure all that out later. Right now she needed to get to the bathroom. Nothing made sense; the room was spinning, and everything felt like it was swathed in cotton batting.
Only it wasn’t. Not even halfway to the door of the bathroom, her feet refused to work as her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. She felt a cold rush of arctic air as one of the doors opened and the light it let in was mostly canceled out by the dark shadow of a decidedly male form. Amelia heard him curse as he slammed the door and stomped toward her as she lay prone on the smooth, hardwood floor. She tried to speak to ask him if he could stomp any quieter, as the pounding on the floor was doing nothing to alleviate her headache. Didn’t he know she was dying here—or was she dead already, and this was some kind of purgatory?
The pounding on the floor stopped and she managed to turn her head to see him divesting himself of his snow-crusted clothing and boots. She tried to lift up and couldn’t so began to crawl. It didn’t seem to be a good idea to just lie there and wait for whoever this was to do whatever he planned to do, especially given she was too weak to do anything to stop him.
Two feet in heavy wool socks appeared in front of her eyes. She sniffed—not bad. Feet were usually stinky, but his weren’t. In fact, his entire presence was soothing, which was odd given she hadn’t a clue as to who he was. He leaned over and scooped her up off the floor, carrying her back to the bed in two strides. She protested and he detoured to the bathroom, giving her a bit of privacy. For all it had cost her, it should have taken him more than two steps to get her back under the covers. He left her after he’d made her as comfortable as possible. Amelia laid back and enjoyed snuggling under the covers. The soft bed was much better than the hard floor.
The large, male presence was back. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus enough to really make out more than ‘large, male presence.’ He nudged her over and sat down, helping her to sit up and offering her pills, which she pushed away. He brought his hand to her lips, encouraging her to open her mouth. He was nuts if he thought she was taking anything from him.
“Okay, be stubborn. We’ll do this the hard way,” he rumbled in a deep, melodic voice. He brought his hand up to pinch her nose closed and she reactively opened her mouth. Popping the pills inside, he offered her water with which to swallow them.
Amelia did so, taking another sip and spitting the water at him. “Bastard,” she said weakly.
Instead of getting angry or retaliating in any way, he merely chuckled, which made her feel worse as he obviously didn’t perceive her as any kind of threat. Quietly, like an eel moving through water, recognition and remembrance began to return. The package. Where was the package? She was supposed to have dropped off a package—sent it out the side of her plane with its own little parachute. Had she done that? Where was the package?
She began to struggle in earnest.
“Take it easy. Can you tell me your name?”
“Get off me,” she said pushing at his massive form and having no success whatsoever. “Who are you?”
“I’m Carson, and you are?”
“None of your damn business. Where’s my plane?”
“I suspect by now it’s at the bottom of the lake.”
“No. No. No. It can’t be. The package? The one behind the seat. Where is it?”
“Probably at the bottom of the lake with the rest of your plane and whatever else you had in it.”
“No,” she wailed. “I need that package. If I can get it to the person who was supposed to pick it up, they’ll pay me the balance they owe me, and I can pay off my plane.” She knew she was rambling, but hoped she was at least rambling intelligibly.
