Jack tucked the flashlight against his body again, hoping for some life from the batteries. It wouldn’t be much, not enough to get them back to the camp—and that meant problems. Big problems.
New moon. Hypothermia. No way to start a fire. Odds were, they wouldn’t survive the night. Before morning they would slip quietly into unconsciousness and death if he didn’t figure out a way to start a fire. He wished he’d thought to bring matches.
“I’m going to touch your leg now.”
He felt along her limb to where it was wedged in the V between two four-inch trunks. The toe of her boot had caught under a fallen log, and her ankle was twisted at a bad angle. She should be screaming with pain. The cold must have numbed it. And her.
Without giving her a chance to prepare herself, he yanked her boot from under the log and lifted her leg out. She screamed. Good, still some feeling left.
“Oh, my,” she gasped.
Her teeth weren’t chattering anymore. He didn’t have long. He needed to make a fire now. But how, without matches? Think, Hunter, think.
“I don’t suppose you have a piece of flint on you?” he asked. Together with the steel of the hatchet, he could strike a spark and start a fire.
She didn’t answer right away, and he thought he’d lost her.
“Darcy?” He touched her cheek.
“No, I don’t. Is there a rock nearby?”
How would he know? He couldn’t see more than shadows. “Sorry.” He rubbed his temples. How to start a fire?
She shifted slightly. “We need something that will create a spark, right? Something electrical, perhaps? Like the flashlight?”
“There’s not enough energy in it to create a spark.”
“The lamp?”
“Not hot enough to catch anything on fire.”
“F-filament?”
The filament? Would it get hot enough? Maybe. It was their best and only chance. “We need some dry fiber.”
“C-cotton.”
“Perfect. I still have mine in my pocket.” While the flashlight warmed, he cleared snow from a patch of ground and cut some kindling with the hatchet. Darcy’s hatchet. If they got home alive, he’d have it mounted. “Now the tricky part. Are you still with me, Miss Optimism?”
She giggled softly, and he fished out the flashlight. He had to break the glass off the bulb without damaging the filament, all in the dark. He lightly tapped and the glass came off.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Darcy cautioned.
He inwardly smiled. It felt good to have someone worry and fuss over him. “All right, I need you to blow on the kindling when the cotton ignites.”
She shifted into position.
“Ready?” His finger hesitated on the switch. “We only have one chance.”
“Let’s pray first,” she suggested.
Though he’d never heard of praying for a mechanical device, Jack agreed. Together they held the flashlight cylinder and asked God to give them the fire they needed. That amazing calm returned, and Jack knew that whatever happened, God was with them.
He pressed the switch. At first nothing happened, but then a glow began, faint at first, but then growing as the fibers smoked and caught fire. He blew gently, transferring the flame to the kindling. Darcy blew until the twigs ignited. Within moments, they had fire.
Darcy cheered, clapping her hands. The fire grew and soon illuminated her in a golden glow. Jack’s chest tightened. They would survive. Together. He’d never felt like this for anyone. Now he understood what Sissy meant. Love was definitely worth the risk.
Neither slept that night. Darcy suffered through thawing her fingers and toes, but being with Jack made the burning pain bearable. They fed the fire and melted snow for drinking water in the metal flashlight cylinder. And they talked on and on until morning, clearing up the questions that stood between them.
Jack explained that the engines had died because the carburetors iced, not due to anything she had done. Darcy asked him to forgive her for thinking he’d been drinking at Mrs. Lawrence’s saloon.
“I would have thought the same,” he said, his face solemn in the firelight. “You couldn’t know I vowed never to touch the stuff. You see, my father is a drunkard.” He cringed slightly when he said it, and Darcy knew he feared her reaction.
“So is my Aunt Meg’s husband,” she whispered.
“Aunt Meg?”
“Not the one in Buffalo. Aunt Meg is Papa’s sister. That’s why he supports temperance so strongly.”
“Now I understand why he doesn’t like me.”
She was puzzled. “He doesn’t know you went to Mrs. Lawrence’s.”
“It’s a small town. That sort of news spreads.”
“That doesn’t mean Papa dislikes you. He might seem forbidding, but he’s all bluster and no bite. He’ll like you once he gets to know you. Mum’s in your corner already.”
“She is?” He sounded shocked.
“She thought the way you rescued me from the plane wreck was quite heroic.”
He laughed. “She’s not going to think much of this rescue.”