“A cave should do it for one night. We’ll find something better tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? They’ll come for us tomorrow, Paul. Won’t they?”
“Too right. Of course, they will.” He shook his head, the blood pooled in his hair dripping onto the severe planes of his cheek. An instant later, he fell in a tangled heap.
“Paul?” With shaking fingers, she felt his pulse. The head injury worried her. He’d hit his head on the side, directly above his right temple. Another inch lower, and the impact might have killed him. The thought took root in her belly like a sour apple. She would not let him die!
With practiced force, she set his arm. He screamed despite his state of unconsciousness, but hopefully, when he woke, he would have no memory of it.
Giving up on finding any wood for a splint in the barren landscape, she used her teeth to tear her dress. She ripped as much of the fabric from the bottom of the skirt as she could and wrapped Paul’s arm at a forty-five-degree angle. Using the last of her energy, she fastened his arm to his chest, lifting him awkwardly as she went. His chest would be his splint.
Then the sky opened, sending torrents of rain, sharp and stinging, onto the desert floor.
She wished she had time to cry, but she stifled her tears behind the will to survive.
Hooking Paul beneath the shoulders, she pulled him to the rocks. Scanning the lowest portions of the sloping canyon wall, she found an outcropping roughly fifty feet away. Fifty feet! Could she drag him that far?
Concentrate!
She had no choice. She would drag him to the moon if she had to. One step at a time.
By the time she reached the small cavelike formation, she and Paul were soaked to the skin. In a few hours, night would fall. She could only hope they wouldn’t freeze to death before Paul awakened and told her what to do.
She cradled his head in her lap, pressing a corner of her remaining skirt to the gash on his head. Blood stained the soaking fabric, as well as her fingers. Gently, she stroked his cheek. “Paul? Paul, can you hear me?”
He stirred, but still made no attempt to open his eyes.
“Paul!” she shouted, sounding as frightened as she felt. “Wake up, please. Please, wake up!” The mantra came as her flesh began to chill. She was going into shock. Even in her state of panic, she recognized the signs. Hypothermia, shock. Both were deadly.
She didn’t want to leave Paul, but she had no choice. She needed fire. Both for her and for Paul. The plane still burned some distance away, the fuel feeding the flames despite the heavy rain.
She bolted for the only source of fire she had. When she reached the wreckage, she pulled a burning board free of the framework. The blackened wood sloughed soot and wasted pieces beneath her fingers, but held together. The acrid scent of burned fabric, paint, and fuel assailed her. Holding the fuel-soaked board in both hands, she raced back to their shelter. She spent the next twenty minutes gathering anything that would burn. Scrub brush, dripping and wet, sizzled when she tried to light it. She twisted the loose branches into coils of six or seven pieces each, creating miniature logs that she hoped would burn more slowly. Eventually, when she was on the verge of giving up, the fire caught. She loaded more brush onto the birth of flames, praying her desire was enough to keep it burning.
Night fell as the rain stopped. Frightened and, for all intents and purposes, alone, Helen huddled against the wall. Paul’s head had stopped bleeding. A knot formed on the side of his head. A good sign. It meant he wasn’t swelling into his brain.
The sky around their shelter cleared, the stars mocking her with their peaceful twinkling. The desert floor disappeared beneath a sliver of a moon, black encroaching on everything like a cancer.
No one would find them tonight. The plane had burned out hours ago. There was very little moon, just enough to send eerie shadows across the rocks until her imagination created any number of creatures.
The desert had swallowed them whole.
Helen woke with a start. Her first thought was of Paul. She lifted her head from his chest. He was still sleeping, but his pulse was strong and his chest rose and fell in an easy, deep rhythm.
How long had she been asleep? Minutes? Hours? She couldn’t tell. Studying the fire, she estimated perhaps thirty minutes or an hour had passed. Long enough for the fire to burn down to a few low flames and glowing embers. She struggled to her knees and twisted more of the branches she’d collected, then set them strategically across the remains of the fire.
She should try to stay awake. If the fire went out…
She wouldn’t think about that now. She focused her energy on the fire until the flames built back up into a small inferno. On the outside of their tiny little cave, two bright red circles shone in the night. Something growled.
She rubbed her arms free of a sudden chill. Another set of eyes appeared next to the first, and suddenly a collection of glowing orbs surrounded their camp. She tossed more brush onto the fire, not bothering to twist the limbs. Huge flames shot upward, almost touching the top of the outcropping. The light spread in a large half circle.
Wild dogs.
Some of them crouched low on their front legs, their teeth like razors behind curled black lips. Others paced from one side of the opening to the other, sniffing the air like it was some kind of rare treat. She glanced at Paul. They smelled his blood.
One dog in particular caught her attention, its eyes suddenly reflecting green in the increased light. It studied her, salivating and taking measure of the risks.
Would the fire be enough to keep them away? What if she ran out of kindling? What if the fire went out? Terror sat beside her fear, rooting into her chest with the same intensity of those small, greenish eyes.
The first dog leapt almost at once. Helen screamed, stealing the original torch she’d used to start the fire from the back of the cave where she’d hidden it. The board collided with the animal’s head. It yelped and drew back.
She dipped the fuel-soaked board into the fire. The tip caught.
It would come back. She had no doubts about that. She lit the end of the board and swung the board in a wide arc. Let them come. She would burn each of them straight to hell.
Another dog attacked then, this time leaping for Paul. It nearly reached his exposed leg, but Helen shoved the fire into its face. The scent of burned hair teased her nose. She ignored it, refusing even to rub it away for fear she might take her eyes off the wild animals for one life-stealing second.
For the next quarter hour, at least, she fended off a series of attacks. One of the beasts managed to bite her arm, but the wound was superficial at best.
How much longer until sunrise? How many hours would she be forced to endure?
“Go away!” she screeched, shoving the dying torch at the closest dog. “You filthy, mangy dog. Leave us alone!”
“They’re dingos. Not dogs.” The soft voice came from behind her.
Tears she’d been storing broke free, spilling over her cheeks in streams made even more blazing by the cool night air. “Paul,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re doing fine, love,” he rasped, the final words falling away as he shifted himself to sit up against the back wall of the cave. “Keep holding them off.”
“Lie back down. You mustn’t strain yourself.”
“My head aches like the devil, but other than that, and this worthless arm, I’m in fair shape, I think.” He stretched one leg and withdrew a long, curved knife from a pocket that ran the length of his thigh. Biting the sheath, he pulled the blade free. Silver glinted in the firelight, reflecting on the rusty walls. “Build up the fire and come sit by me. They won’t pass the flames.”
She did as he instructed, using the last of her brush to feed the struggling fire. “Are you sure?”
“Aye. They are the world’s finest opportunists. If they have to work too hard for a meal, they give up and find something else.” He groaned, the pain obviously more than he was willi
ng to let on.
“Where does your head hurt?” she asked.
“All over.” His eyes fastened on hers, the blue shimmering mysteriously in the amber light. “You don’t have to be doctor right now.”
“I’m always a doctor. I took an oath.”
They fell into companionable silence for a moment before his arm draped over her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. “I’m sorry.”
His voice had never been quite so low. Quite so mournful. “For what?” she asked.
“For bringing you here. For being about the worst bloody pilot known to man.” He snarled, then set his head back against the wall. “Honestly, my intention wasn’t to kill you.”
Her heart pounded mercilessly. “What was your intention?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. The only … thing that matters is getting us home, and safe.”
“They’ll come for us soon, I’m sure. They’re waiting for dawn, that’s all.”
Paul shifted beneath her head. He must be in so much pain—more pain than anyone could possibly bear. No wonder he slipped in and out of consciousness.
“No one is coming.”
“Wh—what did you say?” He couldn’t be serious. Of course, they would come. Dale, and Tim, and Bully. Mr. McIntyre. They would all come looking for them as soon as the day broke. They couldn’t be more than ten or twelve hours from town by horse.
“They don’t know where we went or how long I intended for us to stay. Nobody knows we’re missing.”
“That’s … that’s not true. It can’t be true.”
“I’m afraid it is. We’ll have to hike out of here in the morning. We’re not too far from the gathering. If we travel west—” he paused, his entire body trembling. “If we travel west, we should be able to make the Fortescue River by nightfa …”
“Paul?”
“I’m here.”
“Where were you taking me?”
“To the falls, of course. This time, I was going to do it right.” He sighed, his breath ragged.
“What did you want to tell me?” she asked again. Would he fight for her now? Is that what he’d wanted? For her to stay with him instead of going back to America?
He didn’t answer.
“Paul?”
She felt his head loll to one side. Spinning to her knees, she shook his shoulders, ignoring the tiny spark of guilt that came from knowing how badly his arm pained him. “Paul!”
He’d fallen under again. She shouted his name once more and slapped his cheek. Nothing. Sitting back on her ankles, she lowered her head.
As if they could sense her lack of protection, her lack of skill at fending for herself, the dogs attacked. Snarling, one of them leapt over the fire. She’d never seen anything move quite so fast. A blur of yellow fur punctuated with the growl of a wild beast caused her to fall back, landing on her bottom with a sharp twinge. The dingo went for blood, immediately focusing his attack in the area of Paul’s throat, but missed.
Helen launched herself at the crazed animal, pulling at loose flesh and stiff fur until the dog turned its ferocious attention on her. She grabbed Paul’s knife, still in his loose, unaware grip. She sliced at the dog’s throat. It lowered onto its front paws, its shoulder blades like knives behind its back. Sliding backward, it bared its teeth and then, in a movement so quick Helen wasn’t sure she’d seen it, the razorlike teeth grabbed Paul’s leg. The dingo pulled, ripping the fabric of Paul’s britches and drawing blood that turned its teeth a terrifying shade of pink.
“No!”
Power flooded her arms, her legs. She catapulted herself onto the animal’s back.
Twisting under her weight, the dingo tore deeper into Paul’s mauled flesh. Sobbing and barely able to see, she stabbed wildly at the beast’s back. It yelped with an almost humanlike cry and released Paul’s leg.
She rolled off the dingo’s back, holding the knife in front of her as though the animal would know what threat it presented. With a growl, the dingo leapt over the fire and vanished into the night.
Helen didn’t know how long she sat, brandishing the knife, while she shook uncontrollably. She couldn’t think. She knew only fear. When she was certain the dingo wouldn’t return and none of its fellows would attempt to leap over the fire and begin a new attack, she scrambled to Paul’s side. His leg was badly damaged. She tore away the leg of his britches, using the tip of the knife to aid her when the fabric proved too strong. Another piece of her dress served as a bandage. When she’d wrapped it to her satisfaction, constantly looking over her shoulder into the night for the glowing eyes, she brushed the hair out of her face, fisting the strands in both hands.
She couldn’t remember any time she’d ever felt so alone, so frightened. But she wouldn’t give in to darkness intruding on her spirit. She would survive. She had to survive for Paul. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t live without him.
They would both survive. How they would survive was the question.
He was in no condition to hike anywhere. He couldn’t remain conscious for any length of time, a symptom that worried her more than she liked. With the new injury to his leg, he wouldn’t be able to walk very far, anyway. She picked up the knife and the torch and prepared to guard him for the remainder of the night. When daylight arrived, she would do what she had to do, whether she had the strength or not.
The hours wore on in a slow march toward dawn. The dogs—no, dingos—attacked, faltered, and regrouped too many times for her to track. As the fire grew dimmer, the animals became bolder. She took up the torch again, swinging wildly wherever she made out a face or a pair of eyes.
Her arms were like lead. The muscles ached, threatening to abandon her.
Finally, the horizon turned pink. Welcomed light, more beautiful than any she had ever seen, drifted over the desert floor, turning the earth varying shades of rust and blood. One by one, the dingos abandoned what they had presumed would be an easy meal, moving off in search of other prey.
Exhausted, she fell back against the wall, closing her eyes for a brief second. Paul moaned, mumbling incoherently. She pinched the back of his hand and the flesh peaked. She repeated the test on her own flesh. They were becoming dehydrated.
Her stomach rumbled as though jealous.
Already, the temperature had risen several degrees.
Unwilling to rest for even a few moments when Paul’s life—both of their lives—hung in the balance, she scanned the area around the cave. There were no dogs.
On knees that quivered from exhaustion, fear, and thirst, she stumbled into the desert. She found a rock, the size of a loaf of bread, and lifted it. It might as well have weighed a thousand pounds. She dropped it, falling in a worthless heap.
She steadied her breath, then tried again. This time, she brought the rock back to the cave. She found another rock, a little farther than the first, and brought it back. The sun rose, higher and hotter, into a brilliant blue sky. Her dress, still damp from the storm, steamed against her skin, making her itch. She ignored the intense discomfort. Paul was far worse.
By the time she’d erected a wall to protect Paul, the sun had passed its zenith. If she were going to do it, she had to leave now.
Paul said he’d been taking her to the falls.
Based on the direction they’d been traveling, she gauged where the falls would be. From there, she estimated the location of the gathering. How far it lay over the rocky landscape, she could only guess.
Fifty miles? A hundred?
Where were the dingos?
There were snakes in the desert. Lizards the size of a motorcar.
She shuddered.
The chances that Paul would survive for days, alone and injured, were slim. But what were the chances of her keeping him alive? With no supplies, no food. No medicine.
She had to try to find help, no matter how slim the likelihood.
The options were clear. She would either find help, or both of them would die.
19
&
nbsp; Paul woke in a shadow of a dream. His head ached, throbbing against the hardest pillow he’d ever come into contact with. His side hurt, as well. He’d fought Bessie and lost.
No, that wasn’t right. He’d won that bout and pocketed five quid for his trouble.
His features pulled into a frown as he forced his eyes open. A rocky ceiling striated with blue, red, and coppery orange formed behind a smoky haze. Someone had built a fire.
Why?
With effort, he pushed himself to a sitting position. His arm wouldn’t move, but it throbbed and ached suddenly. His head pounded. One leg burned like hell. He felt like he was in a grave, with only a sliver of sunlight beaming though a hastily built rock wall. He kicked the midsection of the wall, and a cascade of moderately sized stones fell in a heap. One of them connected with his shin, and he cursed.
The scene on the other side brought the previous day rushing into his conscious mind. He’d been forced to land. The plane had burned.
Helen.
He kicked the remaining rocks out of the opening and slithered through. Where was Helen? His arm—broken, he decided—had been set and bound. Helen had to have done that, so she’d survived the crash. He struggled to remember, working in the dark until shadows and firelight brought the memory of a scream.
The dingos.
He had been awake last night. Helen had fought a pack of dingos to save his bloody, worthless life.
And they’d talked about hiking out of the desert today. Because he’d been a fool and hadn’t told anyone where they were going.
Bloody hell.
Limping down the slope, he shouted Helen’s name. There was no answer, not even an echo. Finally, he reached the wreckage of his plane, the soot-covered metal frame of the fuselage the only thing that remained. It lay strewn across the dusky sand like a skeleton, a reminder that nothing lived in the desert that didn’t belong there.
Helen had counted on him to protect her, and he’d failed. His throat closed, and horrific visions of what might have happened to her burned his soul. He cast them aside. She wasn’t dead. If she were dead, he’d feel it.
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