Brace For Impact

“Me? Ah, my name is Will Gannon. I got out of the military ten months ago, after getting hurt pretty bad.” He hesitated. “I was shot, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t love seeing that gun pointing at me.”

She looked down as if forgetting she held it. He hadn’t forgotten for a second, given the way she was trembling. He hoped the trigger wasn’t extra sensitive.

“Oh.” She lowered the gun so it lay on her thigh, pointing off toward the southwest. “Sorry.”

“Thank you.” What could he say that would reassure her? “You’re worrying me. I think you’re in shock, and I can tell you’ve been hurt. I have some first-aid supplies in my pack, and I was a medic in the army.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart.” He cleared his throat, recalling the follow-up: and hope to die. Maybe not the best choice of words.

But she nodded. “Okay.”

He took the chance to rise to his feet, pick up his pack and cautiously approach her. This time when he squatted, he was able to tip her face up and to the side so he could see an ugly gash running into her hair.

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

Worse, her hazel eyes were glassy. On the good news front, she was conscious and coherent.

“You mind?” he said, closing his hand around the gun and easing it away from her. A Glock, which meant no safety. Not reassuring given that he’d have to carry it somewhere as he scrambled and fell down into the valley.

That worry could wait.

He kept talking to her as he unzipped the compartment on the outside of the pack that held what medical supplies he carried. First, he pulled out a package of sterile wipes. Once again gripping her chin, he cleaned her face, going through several of the wipes. Antibiotic ointment, gauze pad, tape. Then he asked, “Any other blows to your head?”

“Don’t know.”

He nodded and carefully explored, sliding his fingers beneath her hair and finding a couple of lumps. He’d have been surprised if there weren’t any. Then he dug out a wool knit beanie with a fleece lining, and tugged it onto her head. The afternoon still felt warm to him, but she was shaking partly from cold.

“Were you the pilot?” he asked.

For a minute he thought she hadn’t heard him, or was just shutting down. But then she said, “No.”

“Was he killed?”

“Both dead. I was in the backseat.”

“You’re sure they’re dead?”

A shudder rattled her. Her head bobbed, just a little.

“All right,” he said calmly, “I need to look at your other injuries. Let’s wrap something warm around you so you don’t get chilled.”

While a terrified woman was stripping, he meant. Yep, either that, or he’d be peeling off her clothes.

Chapter Three (#u1b699b38-7b8a-5bd1-bc9e-1665274c8707)

Maddy couldn’t look away from this stranger she had to trust. As out of it as she’d been, she wouldn’t have been able to hold him off for two minutes.

A scar that started at one jutting cheekbone and ran over his temple marred Will Gannon’s long, bony face. He had dark hair, shaggy enough to curl around his neck, and he was either growing a beard or just hadn’t shaved for a few days. His eyes were light, though; gray or gray blue. Crow’s-feet beside them made her wonder how old he was or whether he’d squinted into an awful lot of sunlight. He was tall—really tall, she thought—with the long muscles of a basketball player instead of the bulky, weight lifter kind.

As if his appearance or age mattered. But better to think about him than her situation.

He wanted to inspect all the places where she hurt. Since she hurt all over, was she supposed to take her clothes off?

“Do you...” She cleared her throat. “Do you have some aspirin or something?”

A smile did astonishing things to a face that had scared her at first sight. “I do. But I want to be sure I know about your injuries before I give you anything.”

“Oh.” If only she wasn’t so fuzzy. And cold. “I’m not sure. My shoulder or arm or something. And—” she flapped her good hand toward her torso “—kind of everywhere. Maybe my knee.”

“All right. Can I look in your bag?”

She stared at him, puzzled. Without waiting for permission, he unzipped her duffel, sorted through the contents and pulled out a blanket he partly wrapped around her, his enormous hands careful. Then he untied the shirt she’d been using as a sling, and studied her T-shirt.

“You attached to this?”

“What?” She glanced down. “No.” Too bad if she had been. It made her shudder to imagine dipping it in a sink filled with cold water. The blood would tint the water red, not just pink.

When she looked up, she saw the knife that had appeared in his hand and shrank back.

“Hey.” He waited until her eyes met his. “I need to cut the shirt off you so we don’t have to lift your arms. I swear I won’t hurt you.”

Her teeth chattered a few times before she could get her jaws clamped together, but she nodded and closed her eyes, clutching one edge of the blanket. If he’d meant to kill her, she’d be dead already.

A minute later he said, “Damn.”

Her eyes flew open. “Damn?”

“The humerus is broken. Upper arm,” he said absently. Fingertips slid along her collarbone, pausing at a sizeable bump she could see when she craned her neck. “Pretty sure the clavicle is, too.” He sank back on his heels, obviously thinking. “Let’s pack your arm with snow for a little bit before I put a splint on.”

He had a splint? Did mountain climbers usually carry things like that, or did he because of his medic training?

He had her lift her right arm, nodded in satisfaction, and explored her rib cage, which even she could see was bruised, and suggested that her ribs might be cracked. “I’ll bind them,” he told her. “That should make you more comfortable.”

A shot of morphine might make her more comfortable. Too bad she doubted he could produce anything like that from his pack.

Instead, he came up with two plastic bags, filled them with snow, wrapped each with what appeared to be one of his T-shirts and had her lie down. Then he placed one snow pack on her upper arm and had her hold it. The other he laid across her rib cage.

“I know you’re freezing,” he said apologetically. “These will help if you can hold out for a few minutes.”

She gave a jerky nod.

He got busy untying her boots, pulling them off and easing her jeans down her legs, too.

She ought to feel self-conscious or unnerved, but she didn’t. It was more as if she was standing behind an observation window, watching.