No. Not rain. They did not need rain. Darcy would take a chill and get feverish. He had to get her to shelter.
He spied a thick evergreen with dense branches that drooped to the ground. She’d be safe under there. Once again he lifted.
“Stop,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you to cover.”
“I can walk.”
He ignored her protests and carried her to the tree, where he set her on the carpet of soft needles. The ground felt dry and would likely stay that way unless the rain picked up intensity. He pulled off his jacket and laid it over her.
“Forgot,” she slurred.
“Stay here,” he commanded, hoping for once she’d obey. “I’m going to retrieve some supplies from the plane.” He needed to find at least one of the vacuum bottles and something to keep Darcy warm.
“I’ll help.” Her voice sounded clear. Odd how the lucidity went in and out.
“No. It’s too dangerous. Leave this to me.”
“Too dangerous for you.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said, touched that she thought of him.
“You’d better be.”
Jack kissed her forehead and sprinted a few steps toward the plane. If he could find the radio transmitter he could get help. Then he remembered where it was, safely tucked in his watertight trunk in the barn.
“No,” he yelled to the silent forest. They were stranded in the wilderness without food, shelter or communications. How could he have been so stupid?
He stumbled toward the wreck. It had grown so dark that he could barely see five feet ahead. He spun in a circle, realizing he didn’t know where the plane was located. He looked to the sky and got an eyeful of rain.
“Don’t leave me,” Darcy said, sounding groggy again.
The words tugged him back. In the darkness of the forest, he saw again the dark streets of Pearlman and Darcy in her family’s parlor, children all around. Everything he ever wanted. Right there. So why was he here?
He knelt and touched Darcy’s forehead. Cool, thank God. “I’m here,” he whispered.
She sighed softly, a sound that warmed Jack to the depths of his soul. It reminded him of childhood, of how he felt when his mother tucked him into bed and listened to him say his prayers. It reminded him of the last time he’d really trusted anyone.
He fought back a rush of emotion. Darcy trusted him with her life. Somehow—he didn’t know how—he had to save her. He could not let her down.
Pain. It pulsed through Darcy’s dreams and summoned her back to the living. She couldn’t tell exactly what hurt. It felt more like everything had been pulled apart and then sewn back the wrong way.
Mixed with the throbbing came the sharp smell of pine. Was it Christmas? But then why did she ache? And why was she lying on the parlor floor? She cracked her eyelids. Odd lights flickered in and out. Christmas.
She tried to turn her head. Ouch. It hurt. Her arms hurt. Her legs hurt. Everything hurt. She gave up the effort.
A branch snapped. That sound she remembered. The crackle of branches snapping around her, the rush of air, the solidity of ground. She’d crashed. They’d crashed. The plane. Jack.
With a groan, she forced open her eyes, and the sudden light knifed through her head. She squinted against the pain, tried to make out the scene. Smoke. Fire.
Fire.
She gasped. Jack had warned about fire. If the gasoline caught fire, the woods would burn. They’d burn.
“Fire,” she rasped, not loud enough to alert a baby, least of all Jack. But nothing in her body seemed to work right. “Fire,” she tried again with all her might. Not much better.
She rolled to her side, though it took enormous energy. From that position, she saw that the fire wasn’t a raging inferno but a simple campfire, not six feet away. Jack must have built it. A twig popped. That was the snapping sound.
What a relief. She rolled back with a sigh, but a terrible memory wormed into her mind.
She’d caused the crash.
She’d forgotten to strain the oil. The sediment had clogged the screens and made the motors stall. No!
No, no, no.
She’d forgotten because she’d been swept out of her mind by their kiss. Jack loved her. But he hadn’t said it, had he? She tried to remember but couldn’t. She started shivering.
Jack. Where was he? In a panic, she called his name.
“Darcy, thank God.” His worried face appeared in the firelight. “You’re all right.”
She wasn’t so certain. “You?”
“Just bumps and bruises.”
At least she hadn’t killed him. A tiny bit of the guilt ebbed away. “How long have I been asleep?” she rasped.
“A couple of hours. Here, drink this.” He shoved a cup into her hand.
She managed to dribble half the coffee down her chin. “Where are we?”
“I was hoping you’d know.”
“That’s not funny.”
“You had the map,” he pointed out.
She groaned and tried to remember. In the plane. Cold. Fog. Couldn’t see. The sound of branches scraping, splintering. The map. She’d marked it as best she could, but navigating in the fog had been difficult. “Canada?”